I have a request for YEARNING STEVE. Everything you do he just can’t get enough. Touchy. Clingy. Whiney when you’re not near and everyone is lowkey sick of seeing it but he doesn’t care he just wants YOU 😭
good old-fashioned lover boy
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pairing - steve harrington x fem!reader (no use of yn)
genre - fluff, established relationship
warnings - tooth rotting fluff bc i’m in love w steve harrington & im projecting all my feelings into my work, lots of skin-ship, steve harrington yearns, gag-worthy amounts of being in luv, kissing & some making out! steve refers to u as his gf and baby multiple times, word count 3.7k 🧍♀️
authors note - tysm for the req :) i hope this is ok, and ty for letting me yearn with no restraints <33 my ask box is always open for these kinds of things so pls don’t be afraid to ask me to write something
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summary - 3 times steve harrington couldn’t keep his hands off you, and the 1 time everyone called him out on it.
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if anyone were to ask, steve harrington would say his love language was physical touch. really, he couldn’t help his insistent need to reach out and touch you, not that you complained most of the time anyways, because it was just how he expressed his feelings. sometimes words weren’t enough, and steve was raised on the saying that “actions speak louder than words.” so it came to no surprise that he’d always have a hand on you; whether it was his fingers laced with yours, an arm slung over your shoulder or his hand ghosting over the small of your back, steve was always touching you in some degree.
steve could recall nearly every time he’d notice someone glance at the pair of you, or hear an off-handed comment from someone he knew about how you two were glued to the hip, how they almost never saw one of you without the other. he took pride in it, despite the judgemental tone some of them had, because why wouldn’t he want to spend quality time with the love of his life? he never really understood the idea of being without someone for long periods of time, because in his mind: to be loved is to be present.
i.
there was nothing romantic about the cramped employee back room of family video. it was dusty, the air was stale and more often than not you’d walk in and find keith sitting at the desk with a game & watch under the pretence of “admin work”. yet, steve still had the nerve to convince you that he couldn’t be more than five steps away from you, rambling on about how it’d physically hurt him to separate his hand from yours, and that he’s offended you wouldn’t “walk to the ends of the earth with your boyfriend in hand.” to which you just roll your eyes.
“steve, you’re so dramatic sometimes..” he’s moping, complaining that you don’t love him, because if you did, you’d be in the store room with him right now instead of calling him names. “is it a crime to want to be with my girlfriend?” he’s got a hand clutching his heart, murmuring that he’s wounded and the only cure for his broken heart is just behind the door to the back office. “no, but unauthorised entry in an employee only area is..” you’re teasing him now, steve is opening wearing his heart on his sleeve and expressing his unwavering love for you and you’re teasing him.
“baby, you’ve literally been behind doors countless times, and last time i checked..” he’s making a show of looking around, knowing full well the two of you were alone; robin not due to start her shift for another hour or so. “.. there’s no one else here.” it has you rolling your eyes, and steve’s calling checkmate. he’s got you right where he wants, no more excuses lined up on your tongue and you just sigh, giving in easily like you always do. steve’s internally cheering, a smug smile on his face as he interlocks your fingers with his, tugging you towards the secluded area out back, and all you can do is follow.
before you’re even able to question his clingy behaviour, steve is slowly backing you towards the nearest wall, one hand laced with yours and the other is pressed against the cold surface beside you, and it all clicks. “baby, you did not just convince me to come back here just so we can make out..” steve just shrugs, feigning innocence even when his eyes are telling you everything. “mm, don’t know what you’re on about.” he leans in anyway, and you don’t fight back, his lips on yours in a matter of seconds. and as much as you had wanted to poke fun of how needy he was today, you realised you needed this too, needed him close enough to touch, and you think you’re becoming just as bad as him.
it was just supposed to be a few innocent kisses, a few unspoken words in the form of his lips interlocked with yours, and yet, you can’t help but have an arm strung around the back of his neck, your need to have him closer clouding your judgement. steve’s just as bad, both hands on your waist, bringing you in, chest to chest, and you’re both whining about being too far away, despite the lack of space left between you. “you’re a terrible liar.” you call out, and he’s ignoring it in favour of kissing your jaw, following a path down your neck, while you’ve got a hand bunched in his hair, tugging just hard enough to get a sound out of him. he’s grinning up at you now, from the junction of your throat you can feel his teasing smile, and you roll your eyes, pretending you’re not wrapped around his finger right now, like you’re not as equally eager to have him.
he’s sliding a hand underneath your shirt, drawing aimless shapes along your bare skin, lost in the feeling, before there’s the distinct sound of shuffling outside that halts his movements. you both freeze, eyes stuck on the door before flicking back to each other, and you’re looking at him in horror, too afraid at the idea of being caught. “i thought you said it was just us?” you whisper, you curse him out for being reckless, and dragging you along with him, before you push him off you in favour of smoothing out the wrinkles on your clothes. steve’s groaning out in irritation, muttering something along the lines of “last time i checked, it was.” before sticking his head outside to see what the commotion was all about.
“dingus, the fuck are you doing? there’s a customer.” it’s robin, and steve’s eyes shoot up to the clock, she’s early, and he’s wincing because really, out of all days. steve coughs awkwardly, some feeble excuse on his tongue dies when robin takes notice of his disheveled appearance and he can tell she’s grown suspicious, that she’s got questions he doesn’t really want to reveal the answers to. her suspicions quickly turn into disgust when she pieces the picture together, and she’s looking at the door as if she can already guess who’s behind there with him. “think you can see what they want? i’m a bit preoccupied.” and robin is feigning a gag, all while the customer just stands there, judging the both of them before making a comment about the lack of professionalism the youth have these day.
“i’m not even clocked in you idiot!” but it doesn’t matter, because steve’s quick to close the door on her and robin flips him off when she thinks the customer isn’t looking. they were, and it’s just another thing she has to deal with before her shift even begins.
ii.
steve thinks it’s entirely unfair that you’re ignoring him right now. he’s lying between your legs, breath tickling your thighs and practically yearning for your attention. yet you’re more engrossed in whatever it is that nancy is saying to you on the phone, than your amazing, perfect, and very bored boyfriend. sure, you’ve go one hand playing idly with his hair, and it’s enough to have him close his eyes, to enjoy the way you rake your fingers through it softly, but it’s not enough to ease the ache of not being the centre of your attention. if the role were reversed, there wouldn’t even be a phone call, steve would happily ignore all his responsibilities if it meant he got to laze around with you, the most important person in his life.
it’s quiet, and the only sound in the room is nancy’s small voice bleeding through the speaker. she’s gossiping, giggling about something jonathan said and the vibration of your laughter makes steve look up, and he hates that he’s jealous over nothing. he hates that your attention is split between two, especially when it was so rare for the two of you to have a joint day off like this. sure, you both technically worked at the radio station, and you guys did see each other everyday, but rarely did he get to have you to himself like this.
he’s bored, grumbling under his breath and it momentarily grabs your attention, nancy’s speaking, but you’re not particularly listening right now, eyes locked onto your pouting boyfriend, who’s rolling his eyes and moving out of your space. you’re raising an eyebrow, and he’s leaning over you, and a part of you is expecting him to cling on to you, to bridge the sudden space between you. he cranes his body over yours, and breathes out a quick “sorry nance.” before taking the phone out of your hand and hanging up, placing it back on the cradle, and you can hear her sigh before she’s cut off. “steve, i was using that.” and he hums, clearly not listening in favour of wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side and focusing on the movie that played as background noise.
“oh sorry, i didn’t realise.” he’s being sarcastic, and you roll your eyes and hit his chest playfully, melting into his embrace nonetheless, because you were always so weak for your boyfriend despite his questionable intentions. “you’re lucky i love you.” and he can’t fight the smile on his face, he can’t play the role of the upset boyfriend anymore, because you always knew how to have him swoon with just a few words. “yeah? love you too.” there’s a lingering kiss to the edge of your mouth, and you’re turning your head, trying to catch his lips fully but he’s pulling away, teasing you like he always does.
“steve..” the roles feel reversed now, like you’re the one vowing for his attention and you realise just how easy you played into his hands. “you’re annoying.” he nods, ‘engrossed’ in the movie, and your fingers are grazing his jaw, pulling him back into your bubble so you can kiss him properly, so you can give him the attention you both were craving. “oh, hi baby.” steve is playing dumb, and you shake your head, bringing him even closer to the point where you have your legs thrown over his lap, perched on his thighs and blocking the view of the tv. “don’t ’hi baby’ me steve.” and the act drops, hands on your waist and he’s sighing into your mouth, both of you longing for the other.
“missed you.” he’s murmuring against your lips, breath mingling with yours and you can feel the way he pouts like he just can’t believe you would’ve rather spoken to nancy than to have him like this. “i’ve been here all day stevie..” and he’s shaking his head, pulling you closer because it’s different, yeah, you were here physically, but your attention wasn’t. steve just wanted to spend his day lying around idly with his girlfriend with no distractions, no interruptions.
“you were on the phone with nance for ages..” a sigh leaves your lips, cooing at his obvious bitterness and you’re quick to move both hands to the sides of his face, forcing him to look at you and you lean in for a chaste kiss. “it was for like ten minutes, you’re such a big baby..” steve rolls his eyes, but there’s a crack of a smile when he feels you stare at him, eyes shining with that familiar adoration and he doesn’t respond to your very true statement, because he’s aware that he was acting out, but really, who cares when he’s got you like this.
“yeah yeah, now can we please pay attention to your very handsome, doting boyfriend who wants to kiss his beautiful girlfriend right now.” and you just nod, breathing out a laugh and leaning forward once again.
iii.
dustin really wishes he missed this crawl, maybe then he wouldn’t have to deal with you and steve giggling in the front of the van like two lovesick teenagers. steve’s got a hand situated on your thigh, hearts in his eyes as you sit there, full focus on him whilst he explains the significance of the clutch pedal. you had made an offhanded comment on how you wish you learnt how to drive manual, and steve perked up, he felt like a petrolhead, eager to teach you all he knew.
dustin’s fiddling with a rubik’s cube he found lying around in the back, waiting for the signal from the others at the station, knowing it’d take awhile before they could finally hit the road. so he’s sighing, looking anywhere but the two of you, because he can already picture it, the way steve is gloating, priding himself on his extensive knowledge of shifting gears. he doesn’t need to look over to picture the way you’re batting your eyes, humming along to every word steve says, hyperaware of how steve’s hand is inching higher without him even realising it.
dustin wants to gag, you two were so disgustingly into each other that it’s suffocating, it’s got him flicking the antenna of his walkie and mumbling into the speaker, voicing a prayer and a cry for help. he can hear a snicker on the other side of the frequency, it’s robin, and she doesn’t even have the courtesy to act surprised, because it could be worse. “don’t bother henderson, it’s been like this all day.“ and he sighs, because he thought you two would’ve been tired of each other by now, really, he doesn’t understand how you find steve interesting enough to be infatuated by him at all waking hours of the day.
he thinks of steve like an older brother, his best friend, someone he looks up to but even he also knows just how annoying he can be. he admires your loyalty, because dustin might’ve clawed his hair out if he had to deal with steve the same way you do. steve was different before the two of you met, that cool, uncaring facade he carried with him only switched on when you were around and now that you two were together and grossly in love, it was like he was looking at a completely different person.
steve harrington, the same guy who beat the shit out some demodogs, who put up a fight against the russians is now the same steve who’s distracted by your every move, who misses his queues at the squawk because he’s too enamoured by you walking past while they’re on air. the same steve who keeps a polaroid of you two in his wallet, who insists that he can’t hang out with dustin on sunday’s because it’s date night, or because you two are seeing a movie. the same steve that’s looking at you like you’ve hung the stars, even in the cramped seats of the squawk van.
it’s best to ignore you two for now, because dustin knows that steve is too focused on you to even entertain his disappointed looks he keeps throwing at the pair of you. steve can’t help it though, he’s been dreaming for a girl like you, and now that you’re finally his, he wants to make sure that you know how much you mean to him, even at the cost of being teased by the entire party for being at your beck and call.
“..and that’s how you avoid a stall.” you’re nodding, and steve’s got that smug smile he always has when he’s showing off, and you couldn’t find him any more attractive as you do right now. you’re not even remotely interested in manual driving anymore, not when you’re distracted by how he hot he looks when he’s focused on something. you don’t even register the static of laughter in the back, the sound of a snicker coming through the speakers because steve’s looking at you in full earnest, soft smile tugged on his lips and it’s like the world around you goes mute.
“okay lovebirds, please don’t forget i’m here too.” a voice chimes in, and it’s like someone’s snapped their fingers, your attention drifting over from steve to dustin’s folded arms, he twitches when he can see you finally take off your rose tinted glasses and come back down to earth. you hear steve sigh beside you, annoyed that your time together is always cut short, and turns his head to greet his younger friend. “yes henderson?” but he’s distracted by the sound of your laughter, you’re clearing enjoying the exchange between the two and it just peeves dustin off more.
steve really can’t stay annoyed for long, not when you’re there; he has a soft spot for you always, and not even dustin’s glare can spoil his mood. “can’t you two hold it in until after the crawl?” dustin chimes in again, his hands emphasising the telemetry tracker beside him, and you nod, promising the two of you will behave, much to steve’s dismay. “baby..” you hold a hand out to stop steve from speaking out, and he pauses, eyes looking between you and dustin, and you can see the exact moment he gives up.
steve doesn’t remove his hand from your thigh though, instead he laces his fingers with yours and squeezes, because he still craves your touch even when he’s silently moping like this. you smile at him, squeezing back, and it’s then that they finally get the signal to drive, and dustin couldn’t be happier.
iv.
the kids had just graduated, and you soon find yourself situated with the others on the roof of the radio station. the nostalgia hitting and memories flood in of your time together at the squawk, and it feels like no time has changed, despite it being over a year since you all decided to pursue your seperate aspirations. there’s the lingering feeling of sentimentality, seeing your friends after months apart, and knowing it’ll be a long ways away until you’re all reunited again after this. it didn’t help that robin’s final goodbye on the radio had your heart feeling heavy for the past couple hours now, and sitting here, drink in tow, wasn’t doing it any favours.
jonathan and steve are bickering about the premise of jonathan’s film; capitalism, cannibalism? you weren’t really paying attention to the two, your eyes trailing around you, taking in the scenery, the sunset, the memories, and you’re thinking back to the first time you had discovered how to climb up to the roof. robin notices your silence, because she too is reminiscing all the time she took for granted with you guys, you two lock eyes, and there’s a silent agreement that you’d give anything to go back to how things were, minus the end of the world.
it’s then that robin speaks, roping nancy into spilling information about the “hot babes at emerson.” which has nancy rolling her eyes. she had dropped out, and that itself felt like a bombshell, but she had always known that maybe it wasn’t on the cards for her, that she was destined for other things, and you envy it a little. you hadn’t quite figured out what you wanted to do with your time, you felt a bit behind, and it was scary.
steve notices how quiet you’ve gotten, and the familiar feeling of his hand sliding into yours, fingers intertwined, is enough to silence that nagging voice in your head for the time being. you’re squeezing his hand back, grateful for the distraction before you notice the others around you fall quiet, it’s jarring how awkward it feels before robin’s clearing her throat, and she’s the one to address the elephant in the room.
“so is no one going to mention that huge rock on your hand?” and just like that, the air around you feels lighter and you can’t help but laugh at how blunt she’s being, and how shocked the others look when they finally take notice of the ring on your finger. “holy shit!” nancy exclaims, and she’s quick to move out of her chair, smacking steve’s hand out of yours; to which he groans in faux annoyance, in favour of checking the diamond attached to you.
it makes steve’s heart swell, the familiar feeling of pride that situates itself whenever he looks down at the engagement ring he had bought months ago. it’s a reminder of just how lucky he is, how he’s finally found the one, that he’s promised forever with you. “oh yeah, that..” you’re shy when people notice, but you can’t fight the grin that makes it’s way to your face every time, because steve harrington will always be your person, and now you have a physical reminder of that.
“spoiled her on a coach’s salary too.” you smack his shoulder, and steve pouts, knowing you can’t stay mad at him for long. there’s obvious heart eyes when you look up at him, that all too familiar feeling of yearning you don’t think will ever fade. it’s disgustingly cute, atleast that’s what robin says when she breaks the silence, and you can’t help but shy away from the eyes of the others, their gazes soft and it makes you feel extra vulnerable.
“took you long enough” robin’s calling out from beside you, and you furrow your eyebrows, because it still shocks you when you think back to his proposal, steve down on one knee with shining eyes and wobbly smile. he had this speech about how he couldn’t imagine a life without you, it was endearing how nervous he was, how sweaty his hand got whilst it was latched with yours, and you always tear up when you think back to that moment, how easy it was to say yes.
“now, what’re your thoughts about having six little nuggets?” jonathan jokes, and steve shoots him a glare, but you don’t fail to metion how easy it is to imagine a family with steve. “i mean, maybe not six, but definitely atleast two.” and it shuts steve up, you two had only really talked about kids a handful of times, nothing too serious, but he’s looking at you with stars in his eyes, there’s that familiar look of adoration, and you can see jonathan instantly regret bringing it up. “great, you’ve set him off again.” and steve doesn’t even care, because he’ll always be guilty of being in love with you, and god forbid a man is infatuated with his future wife.
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yeah i ain’t even got an excuse for this one i literally blinked and it became this big ass fic.
i sincerely hope you all enjoyed this :) & please lmk if this was ok!!
i think a part of myself will always have room for steve, especially over the last month or so since i started writing. it’s kinda scary releasing something, but seeing people reblog and comment that they like my writing is enough for me to continue !!
Summary: Two months ago you started dating your best friend of five years. It's weird sometimes. But you kind of love it.
CW: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, friends to lovers, fluff, piv smut, oral (r receiving), first time, cursing, pet names, smut portion is NOT proofread because i hate reading my own smut :)
@saradika-graphics for the divider!
inspired, of course, by ftsg - emma andersen :)
For five years, you and Steve were just friends. Strictly platonic.
And not even in a 'wink wink' type of way– you really were just best friends. Mutual harbored feelings aside, you acted like friends. Just good pals.
A semi-drunken kiss, months ago, changed all of that. You're still not sure about Steve; but you weren't really as inebriated as you had claimed to be that night.
Six months of intensely and unnecessarily dramatic pining later and you're staying the night at Steve's place more often than not. He's kissing you and touching you in ways previously off-limits. He's bringing you flowers and cooking you dinner and it's all so weird.
Because you still do all the same things you did when you weren't dating. He still drives you to and from work because you're too scared to get your license. He still makes you drench his popcorn in parmesan cheese before he'll eat it and he still tackles you to the floor when you play spoons with the rest of your friends.
But now you go home together afterward. You get ready for bed in the same bathroom and share each other's bodywash so you can always smell like the other when they're not around. You eat meals together and and climb under the same covers at night.
It's perfect.
It's everything you've spent the last five years doing and more.
And you think you might love him.
Tonight is another one of those perfectly strange moments. You're standing in nothing but his shirt and your underwear, rummaging around the clothes that live in his spare dresser drawer.
Steve's been in the bathroom for ten minutes. He insists on shaving at night before bed– instead of in the morning before leaving the house.
"It gives me the perfect amount of stubble when I wake up in the morning if I do it the night before!" He once explained to you when you'd questioned him about it.
"Baby, have you seen my aftershave?" He now yells from the sink of his ensuite.
Your heart kind of stops. He's never called you that before.
He's literally only ever called you your name. Or nickname adjacent variations of your name. Even after you started dating.
He says it now, in fact, after you don't answer him for a few moments.
"Hey, everything okay?" He asks when he sees your face.
"What did you just call me?" You ask, seemingly struggling to maintain eye contact. You're not totally sure why.
"...baby? Is that...not...?"
"Ew!" Admittedly not exactly the best exclamation to describe how Steve calling you that actually makes you feel, but you're coming up short for anything else.
"'Ew'? Seriously? What's 'ew' about me calling you 'baby'?" Steve questions, his voice rising in volume and pitch in that incredulous way.
"I didn't mean it like ew, I just meant it like. Ew."
"I don't– understand–?"
"It's just. I'm standing here in your room, in your clothes. And its all so domestic and kind of weird and I feel like I can't even talk straight and I think I'm probably in love with you–"
Except for the sound of you clapping your hand over mouth, the room falls completely silent. Steve stands, mouth slightly agape, and doesn't speak.
"You love me?" He asks simply.
"Well– I mean– I've always loved you." You clarify. "I just feel like I love you now... in a different way."
Steve nods slowly.
"We've been friends for years, but now you call me 'baby', apparently, and– and you hold my and kiss me and tell me that I'm pretty. It's all so new. And I love it, but it's odd sometimes. You know?"
"Yeah," he nods more confidently now, "Yeah, I get it."
"So, yes. Ew. But... a good ew," you grin stupidly, your eyes crinkling in the corner.
"Would you think it was 'ew' if I kissed you right now?" Steve asks, stepping closer with an equally dumb smirk on his lips.
"No..." you squirm.
"Good." He says, gently gripping your waist as he pulls you flush against him. Steve kisses you softly, his lips a ghost across your own.
He pulls back to look at you, then moves to your cheek. "Baby," he says against your plush skin before moving to the other cheek, "Baby,"
You laugh fondly, rolling your eyes as his smooching grows more frantic. A steady stream of 'baby's' leaving his mouth between every one he plants on your skin.
"Fuck," you tease, pushing him away, "that's so gross,"
"You love me," he reminds you, leaning into your space again to place open-mouthed kisses on your neck; beneath your ear.
Steve's hands begin to roam. From your shoulders to the small of your back, before brushing over your bottom. His palms find purchase in the apex where your thighs meet your ass.
His mouth finds yours once more, but this kiss is more urgent. With his hands supporting you, he lifts you up, urging your legs to wrap around his waist before carrying you to his modest full-size bed that's hardly big enough for both of you some nights.
You land with an oof and it makes Steve giggle where he planks above you, careful not to crush you with his weight.
The lightness of the moment is replaced by a hunger that overtakes Steve's honeyed eyes before he's ducking down to capture your mouth again. He makes soft noises against your lips that you swallow before they ever reach the air.
One of his knees nudges yours, separating your legs far enough for him to rest between them. "Is this okay?" He asks breathily.
'Yeah. Yeah, it's good,"
Steve settles his weight against your spread thighs, your pelvis' touching. It's a not necessarily a new sensation, but it's new in this context. He's half-hard on top of you. It sends your stomach churning with nervous desire.
He kisses you breathless for a while longer and it's familiar; what's not-so-familiar is the experimental thrust of his hips. You can feel that he's fully erect now, the pressure on your core is surprising and pleasurable all at once.
You gasp and Steve halts. His eyes are wide when he looks at you, "Sorry– was that okay?"
"Okay," he breathes– and does it again. Steve revels in your gasp; the way your back arches just slightly off of the bed and into him.
It all feels a little off-beat. You're still learning each other in this new way. You want to know what makes Steve tick. Steve wants to know what might make you do that pretty gasp again.
"Can I take these off?" He asks, hushed, as his fingers brush the skin under the waistband of your underwear.
You swallow thickly but nod.
"It's okay. If you don't want to." He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear and you know he means it.
"I do," you assure him, "I'm just... nervous,"
"You don't have to be," he smiles down at you, but it wavers. You can tell he's trying to put on a brave face– his 'macho Steve' persona, as you've affectionately branded it.
"Its okay, Steve," you giggle, "you can admit that you're nervous, too,"
"Me?" He scoffs, "Hawkins' Resident Womanizer Steve Harrington? Nervous to have sex with his– stupidly beautiful girlfriend? I doubt it."
You smack his chest and he laughs heartily, snatching your hand and bringing it to his lips.
"Maybe I'm a little nervous," he all but whispers into your knuckles.
"Awfully presumptuous of you to assume I'm having sex with you tonight," you tease.
"Oh, no?" His right hand snakes down your stomach, dipping below your underwear and cupping your heat.
"Oh–"
His voice dips, his mouth hovering just over your ear, "Does your pussy know that, baby? 'Cause you're already soaked."
Hearing Steve talk like this feels visceral. Its like wires being crossed inside your brain. Steve's always been a hit with the girls, but you've never been on the receiving end of the romancing. This Steve feels different than the one you grew up with; than the one you've spent so much time with– doing anything and everything together.
You thought when the time came that it might feel awkward, but now you're beginning to wonder why you haven't done this sooner.
Steve's fingers dip into the arousal pooling in the bottom of your underwear before traveling back to your clit with tantalizing circles.
"That feel good?" He asks. His voice sounds husky but you can tell that he's asking genuinely; still learning what you do and don't like.
"That's– yeah," you sigh, "that's perfect,"
His movements gain more confidence after that. He studies your face as he goes, cataloguing every miniscule reaction and adjusting where he needs to.
And it's so much, but still not enough. "Steve," you exhale, halting his rhythm with your hand on his wrist, "will you... would you go– down on me?" Your voice comes out small, like you're not sure how to ask for it.
Steve seems to take great pleasure in the request, his eyes taking on a mischievous glint, "Yeah? You want my mouth, honey?"
The new pet name makes you shiver, "Please."
"So polite," Steve praises, words muffled from where his mouth is pressed against the skin of your stomach as he trails his mouth lower lower lower– until he's exactly where you need him.
His tongue is hot and hesitant against you. He starts with barely there kitten licks before flattening his tongue entirely– moving with broad strokes from your entrance to your clit and making sure you're comfortable before incorporating his fingers again.
Your hand flies to his hair when he slides the first one inside of you, all the way to his last knuckle, "Fuck, Steve!"
The encouragement and the pull of your fingers threading through his hair elicits a ragged moan from his throat. You've never even imagined Steve making a sound like that. Another wave of arousal washes over you.
He works you over for what feels like hours and you're admittedly shocked to feel your pleasure cresting to a peak. You've never finished from a having sex with a partner before; you feel yourself beginning to tense.
"Steve– I'm close–" you whimper, head thrown back against his expensive down pillows that you know you're dampening with sweat.
"I know, baby, I can tell," he pauses, "it's okay– I've got you,"
His eyes never leave you as you come. He watches ever twitch of your abdomen– every squeeze of your hands twisted in the bedsheet. You can hear him murmuring praises the entire time– good girl, so good, baby, fuck–that's so hot– but it all sounds muffled. Like you're underwater.
You waste no time grabbing him by the jaw as we crawls his way back over your body and pulling him into a searing kiss. He tastes like a heady mix of your cunt and the spearmint toothpaste he was brushing his teeth with an hour ago.
Steve's tenting his boxers when you glance down between your bodies; just past him the sheets discolored with wet patches where he'd been rutting into the mattress.
Your legs hook behind his back and you pull him into you with a force that knocks the wind out of both of you. You're still sensitive from your orgasm.
"Do you want me to use a condom?" He groans as his clothed cock ruts against your bare folds. He can barely speak; feeling the warmth of you seep through the fabric.
"I'm on the pill," you tell him, "you could pull out just in case, but it's up to you,"
He ducks down to kiss you before responding. Steve kisses you like its as essential to him as air or water– a lifeforce that he needs or he'll simply cease to exist.
You take the opportunity to push his boxers off his hips and down his thighs as he licks into your mouth; his tongue tangling with yours.
Steve's cock is heavy and velvety soft in your hand as you pump him slowly. Your mouths part with a click as you bring your palm to his mouth. "Spit."
His previously heavy-lidded eyes grow wider, but he obliges. You bring your hand back down to stroke him again; this time with better lubrication.
"Holy shit–fuck, baby," he whines into your temple. His arms shake where he's still trying to hold himself up.
You feel yourself gaining confidence with every passing minute that the two of you are intimate, and it feels even better to take the reins back a little. You can't help but wonder what he would sound like– what he would look like– completely at your mercy. You decide to table the thought for another time.
"I need you," you whimper into his sweat-damp hair.
"I know, pretty girl," the thick head of his cock nudges your entrance, prompting you to take a deep breath in in preparation for his size.
"Hey– you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable or you want to stop, okay?" He waits for your nod, "Even if you just want to slow down, that's okay, too. I want you to make you feel good."
"I know," you smile up at him through your daze, softly petting the side of his face, "you do make me feel good,"
He kisses the side of your mouth– the gentlest his been with you all evening– as he pushes the rest of the way inside you. By the time he's at the hilt, you feel so full that it's hard to breathe. You can feel him everywhere.
Tears begin to prick the corners of you eyes once he starts to move; a slow rocking of your bodies into the mattress. You aren't sure the cause. Maybe it's how close you feel to him– maybe it's how he's perpetually grinding into your g-spot with every thrust.
"Fuck– I love you," he groans into the crook of your neck where it meets your shoulder. His teeth scrape the sensitive skin there like he might bite you, but he doesn't.
"I love you, baby–"
The shape of the endearment in your mouth awakens something nearly primal in Steve as he begins to fuck you that much faster. The headboard creaks where it repeatedly hits the wall behind you.
Strong biceps wrap around you, lifting you beneath the armpits as Steve hugs you in this horizontal position. You squeeze him back just as fiercly.
You feel your second climax approaching significantly quicker than the first had, but you need more. Pressing your fingers to Steve's mouth, he doesn't question your motive. He opens and closes around them obediently, slicking them for you.
He watches as you snake your hand in between your glistening bodies, "Yeah, there you go," his voice breathy and punctuated by his relentless thrusts, "touch yourself f'me, baby– good girl,"
It's almost too much. It's perfect. "Steve– I'm close–"
"Ah– me, too," he pants, forehead pressed firmly to yours, "come with me–"
Your entire body contracts as you finish and you're certain you've never came so hard in your life. Steve holds off until he's sure you're satisfied before pulling out just in time to spill all across your stomach with a long, low moan.
The last of his strength leaves him shortly thereafter; his trembling body collapsing against you.
Your combined skin is tacky and cool with sweat, but neither of you can bring yourselves to move.
The air in the room is thick with the scent of sex and the only sound comes from the crickets chirping through the open window and your shaking breaths. It feels like hours before Steve breaks the silence.
"You okay? Was that good for you?"
"'Good' would be the understatement of the century,"
"I can't believe we didn't do that sooner,"
"I was just thinking that earlier,"
The hushed conversation somehow feels just as intimate as the sex did.
"We can't fall asleep like this," you remind Steve, who very well may already be sleeping. You're getting Deja Vu from a conversation you once had with Nancy Wheeler.
"Why not?" He slurs. Okay, not sleeping then.
"Because I need to pee or else I'll get a UTI," you pause, thinking, "and your... jizz is all over my stomach."
"Don't call it 'jizz'," Steve admonishes.
It takes longer than you'd ever admit to get you both cleaned up, despite your constant reminders to Steve that– the faster you take care of the mess, the faster you can crawl back into bed.
Steve tells you he loves you approximately seven more times before he finally falls asleep.
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike wheeler x cheerleader!reader
꒰ 🚲 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 mike is certain all cheerleaders are evil until one sticks around long enough to ruin his perfectly cynical worldview.
part two. part three.
FUCK. SCHOOL IS HELL.
literally. hellfire is supposed to be the one thing that’s fun this week, and here he is, stuck at the table only trying to pay attention. the lunchroom is annoying, trays clattering, people yelling about sports, someone scraping a chair across the floor, the smell of mystery meat hanging in the air. he’s sitting at the hellfire club table, eddie animatedly waving his hands about some totally dumb idea for a campaign, dustin laughing way too loud, lucas trying to explain rules he’s already explained three times, and mike is just… done.
and you’re there. sitting across from him, leaning slightly back like you’re in charge of the cafeteria, hair tied up in that stupid perfect ponytail, laughing. of course laughing. at them. all of them. jason and his friends. the football idiots. you’re friends with them, probably likes them, probably laughs at them all the time. definitely rude. probably judging him too, because of course you would.
it’s annoying. of course it’s annoying. you’re popular, you’re liked, you’re beautiful. you’re probably rude. definitely rude. he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t watching you though, but he’s not watching you. he’s just… noticing. totally innocent noticing, like a scientist observing a specimen. a particularly annoying, perfect, probably-spiteful specimen.
he hates how fast his stomach flips when you glance in his direction, like you actually looked at him for a split second and he’s panicking because obviously he can’t just look back, that would be insane. who does that. you’re way out of his league, socially speaking. plus your friends are all massive assholes, and you’re friends with them, therefore you’re a massive asshole.
he’s supposed to be listening to eddie, who’s describing his rogue’s perfect escape from a trap, but he’s not. can’t. every time you talk or laugh he’s stuck internally rolling his eyes. loud, obnoxious laugh. loud enough to make him want to throw his pencil at your head. okay, not really. but almost.
he keeps rationalizing. you’re probably fake nice. you probably rolls your eyes at people when they’re not looking. probably does. maybe you’re laughing at him. definitely laughing at him. and if you’re not laughing at him, you’re definitely laughing at someone worse than him. and if you’re not laughing at anyone, you’re probably bored and he’s boring, so it balances out. not that he cares. no. he’s focused. very focused. on strategies. and pencils. and why lucas is chewing his pen like that?
he’s noticing everything he shouldn’t notice but refusing to admit it: the way your shoulders tilt when you gesture, how you lean toward the jocks just slightly, like you’re giving them the attention they don’t deserve, how you laugh at their dumb jokes. it’s infuriating. you’re nice, sure. maybe nice. but that doesn’t cancel out rude, and you’re definitely rude. friends with jason. laughing at jason. laughing at all of them. fine. he doesn’t care.
but then you laugh at something jason says and your teeth are ridiculously white and now he’s imagining his face when he accidentally looks at you, and oh no, there it is again, stomach doing flips he didn’t think boys could actually feel, ears warming, heart maybe going a tiny bit faster—definitely normal, it’s probably just because hellfire club is stressful. yes. stressful. focus on eddie’s ridiculous ideas about campaign strategies. focus on the notebook that’s probably crumpled under his fist. you didn’t even notice him staring. no one did.
he refuses to admit that it’s been like this every week since school started. none of that matters. he is oblivious. he is strong. he is rational. except now eddie is talking and he can’t concentrate, pencil tapping slowing, stomach doing something stupid again and —-
“mike, you’re zoning.” eddie says, nudging him.
“uh huh.” mike doesn’t even look. you’re laughing again. maybe at jason, definitely at jason. asshole. and okay, maybe he notices how your uniform is slightly rumpled, like you just walked here and didn’t care, like you can afford to not care, and your sneakers are clean and the socks are just right, and your backpack is sitting perfectly beside your chair like it was placed there by someone who knows exactly how to make an impression, which is obviously annoying, and probably deliberate, and maybe you’re aware he’s noticing, because why else would anyone be that good-looking in the middle of a Tuesday? but he’s not looking. hes paying attention to eddie, duh.
“mike.” lucas hisses from the side, elbow jabbing him like that’s supposed to snap him out of it. “stop staring.”
“i’m not staring.” mike replies immediately, way too fast, like the word itself could be a crime.
eddie looks way too amused, tossing a grape from his tray into his mouth. “you’re staring like a creep, wheeler.”
“i’m not.” mike says, defensive in the way that gives him away immediately.
evil, he thinks. absolutely evil.
because if you weren’t, then he’d have to deal with the fact that this has been happening every week. that he knows where you sit. that he tracks your laugh without meaning to. that his brain goes stupid and loud and defensive whenever you’re near, and that is not happening. he doesn’t like you. he’s rational. he’s in control.
he doesn’t look back for a while. long enough that he convinces himself it didn’t matter, long enough that the noise of the lunchroom starts to blur into something tolerable. long enough that eddie and dustin drift into another conversation. the bell rings. chairs scrape back. trays slide. the room shifts all at once. he looks up again without thinking.
you’re standing now, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, saying something to your friends. still smiling, still unaware. or maybe aware. he doesn’t know. he never knows with people like you. that’s part of why he hates it. you walk past the hellfire table without looking at him, close enough that he catches the scent of your shampoo again. clean. not overpowering. unfair. “come on,” lucas says, standing. “we’re gonna be late.”
he follows them out into the hallway, noise swallowing them immediately, lockers slamming, voices bouncing, sneakers squeaking against tile. the world keeps moving like nothing happened, like lunch wasn’t a whole thing.
cheerleaders have always been like this. always. he learned it early. elementary school early. the girls who got picked first for everything, the girls who were loud without getting in trouble, the girls who smiled at teachers and somehow got away with stuff he would’ve been sent to the principal for. then middle school, when everything split cleanly into groups, and the girls who would eventually become cheerleaders already knew it. already stood together. already laughed together. already looked through people instead of at them.
he doesn’t remember a specific moment where he decided cheerleaders were evil. it was more like a gradual understanding, safe in their little social bubble of doom. mike hates safe. safe people don’t lose their best friend to another dimension. safe people don’t watch monsters crawl out of walls. safe people don’t grow up too fast and then get told to calm down about it. safe people get to laugh in cafeterias and walk through hallways like the world has never once tried to eat them alive.
so yeah. cheerleaders are evil, and you fit. of course you do. popular, liked, friends with jason. laughing at lunch like it’s easy. sitting where you want, saying what you want, carrying yourself like nothing bad ever sticks. annoying. deeply annoying. he tells himself this as they walk: you’re not special. you’re a type. a category. eddie is talking again, voice carrying down the hallway, something sarcastic, something about school being a prison. dustin laughs too loud at it, like always. mike hums in response, noncommittal, present enough to pass.
he’s bored. so bored. bored of school. bored of pretending this is normal, bored of a world that keeps insisting on lockers and lunch bells and cheerleaders after everything that’s happened, like monsters didn’t exist.
he doesn’t like you. he knows exactly what kind of person you are. and if his brain keeps circling back to you anyway—well.
that’s just another thing wrong with the world.
which would be fine. manageable. survivable. if the world would just stay wrong in predictable ways. monsters, sure. portals, whatever. government cover-ups? annoying but at least consistent. but no, instead it does this, lets him get halfway down the hall toward the vending machines after school, brain already shifting gears toward campaign logistics, and then—
you.
of course you’re there. of course you’re alone for once. leaning against the lockers by the science wing, backpack on the floor, kneeling like you dropped something and decided the floor was your enemy now. productive, probably. cheerleaders are always productive. or sad. maybe sad. he can’t tell. your face is tilted down, hair falling forward, hands messing with something—papers, maybe. a clipboard. figures.
mike. don’t.
he slows anyway, not on purpose. momentum just… decreases. great. alone cheerleader. he pretends he’s just heading for the vending machine, which he is. definitely. that’s why he’s here. he puts his hand in his pocket and inserts money into the machine. he doesn’t look at you at first, just presses the button. the soda drops halfway and gets stuck, tilted, mocking him. “of course.” he mutters.
you glance up, just a little. surprise flickers across your face, then something else—recognition, probably. annoyance. or relief. hard to tell. you straighten, brush your hands on your shorts. “um,” you say, hesitant. not rude, which is irritating. “sorry—did i—are you waiting for that?”
“no,” mike says automatically. “i mean. yes. but not—whatever. it’s stuck.”
“oh, yeah. that one always does that.” you know the vending machine patterns. of course you do. “if you hit it on the side,” you add, “sometimes it drops.”
mhm. great. you’re also a vending machine expert.
mike exhales through his nose, like that might dislodge the soda by intimidation alone. it doesn’t work. obviously. nothing ever works the first time. he hits the side of the machine anyway, not where you said, because he’s not taking instructions from you.
nothing.
he hits it again, harder. the machine rattles. the soda wobbles. stays stuck. he feels you watching him. now that’s worse. “you have to hit it lower.” you say, still gentle, still polite, like you’re talking to a skittish animal.
“i know.” he says, too fast, even though he absolutely did not know.
he hits it where you pointed. the soda drops. he freezes for half a second, staring at it like it embarrassed him.
“see?”
“yeah,” he mutters, grabbing it immediately, like if he doesn’t you’ll claim credit. “lucky.”
lucky. sure. that’s what that was.
he twists the cap off, takes a sip he doesn’t want. carbonated regret. he should leave now. he should walk away, turn the corner, let eddie yell at him for being late, sit down at the table and pretend his brain hasn’t been doing this stupid static thing all afternoon.
but you don’t move. instead, you bend back down toward the floor, scooping up the papers you dropped earlier. he registers them without meaning to—flyers. bright colors. handwritten letters. something about a fundraiser. a pep rally? a food drive? some kind of school-sanctioned enthusiasm. “your friends ditch you?” the question slips out before he can stop it. immediately, he wants to shove it back in his mouth.
you pause, just for a second. then you shrug. “guess so.”
“thought cheerleaders did everything in packs.” he says, aiming for neutral, landing somewhere closer to rude.
you huff a laugh, small, tired. “we usually do.” you stack the papers, tap them against your knee to straighten them.
“so why aren’t they helping?” he asks, because apparently today is ask questions mike shouldn’t ask day.
you hesitate and look down at the flyers instead of at him. “we had a fight.”
“about…?”
“me.” you say, simple, like it’s not a big deal. that sets something off in his chest that he absolutely does not want to examine.
“right,” he says. “well. people suck.”
it comes out harsher than he means. or maybe exactly as harsh as he means. hard to tell.
you glance up at him then, really look at him, not judging, not amused, just… curious. “yeah,” you agree quietly. “they kind of do.” you stand, adjusting the strap of your bag. your uniform’s slightly wrinkled, like you’ve been sitting on the floor longer than necessary. he looks away immediately. don’t be weird. don’t be weird. “anyway,” you say, forcing a lighter tone that doesn’t quite stick. “enjoy your soda, mike.”
“mm.” he hums, already halfway turned away. automatic response. the same sound he makes when his mom asks if he’s done his homework and he is technically in the same room as it.
he takes one step.
wait. he stops so abruptly his sneaker squeaks against the floor. stupid. loud. announces him like an idiot. you said his name. just—casually, like it belongs in your mouth. like you didn’t just pull it out of thin air. he turns back, frowning before he can stop himself. “how do you—”
he cuts himself off, because asking questions is dangerous. questions lead to answers. answers lead to thinking. you’re still there, waiting, like you’re used to people freezing up around you and you’ve learned to give them a second. “what?”
“how do you know my name.” he says, sharper than necessary, because his brain has already decided this is suspicious.
“oh. uh.”
uh???
“we’re in the same grade,” you say. “and you sit like… three tables over at lunch. with dustin. and eddie. and lucas.” you gesture vaguely, as if that explains everything. it does not explain anything.
“right,” he says flatly. “so you’ve been… what. keeping tabs?”
your eyebrows knit together. “what? no.”
“because that’d be weird.” he adds, immediately, because apparently he’s committed to being unbearable today.
“i hear people say your name.” you admit. “a lot. eddie kind of shouts it.”
traitor.
“doesn’t mean you should remember it.” mike mumbles.
you blink at him, once, then again, like you’re deciding whether this is worth your energy. “okay,” you reply slowly. “sorry for having ears.”
he bristles immediately. “i’m just saying it’s weird.”
“it’s not,” you say. “it’s… school. people talk.”
“about me?” he asks, skeptical, defensive, already convinced this is some kind of setup.
“trust me mike, no one’s gossiping about you.”
“wow,” he adds dryly. “thanks.”
“you’re welcome.”
he can feel himself locking up, shoulders tight, brain flipping through its usual list of explanations. she’s messing with you. this is a joke. this is what popular people do. they poke and see what reacts. “so,” he continues, sharp, “you just go around memorizing everyone’s name?”
you fold your arms. “no. just the loud ones.” eddie. definitely eddie. “and you,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “sit with them.”
“unfortunately.”
you tilt your head. “you don’t like them?”
“that’s not what i said.”
you raise an eyebrow.
“okay,” he corrects. “i like them. i don’t like… this place.” he gestures vaguely at the hallway. the lockers. the banners taped up crookedly. the stupid school colors everywhere.
“same.”
same? “don’t pretend,” he sounds annoyed. “you’re literally part of it.”
“part of what?”
“the… school,” he says, like it’s a disease. “pep rallies. assemblies. chanting. forced enthusiasm.”
“pep rallies are the worst.”
he wasn’t expecting that.
“they’re loud,” you continue. “and sweaty. and they make us stand there forever smiling like idiots while the principal yells into the mic.”
“…yeah,” mike says, cautious. “and the sound system always squeals.”
“exactly.”
his brain scrambles to patch the hole this just punched in his worldview. “still,” he says, regrouping, “you chose to do it.”
you shrug. “yeah. doesn’t mean i have to like every part.”
actually, yes, yes it does, mike decided for you. you can’t do that. “you don’t get a choice,” he says. “once you’re in that crowd, that’s it. hive mind.”
“wow. dramatic.”
“i’m serious.”
“i know,” you say. “that’s the dramatic part.”
he glares at you. you don’t back down. which is annoying. deeply. “you think we’re all the same,” you add, observational. “don’t you.”
“yes,” he says immediately. “because you are.”
“okay,” you nod. “then you’re all the same too.”
“what does that mean.”
“hellfire club,” you say. “dungeon stuff. dice. arguing about rules. hating everyone else.”
he stiffens. “it’s not dungeon stuff. it’s—”
“dungeons & dragons,” you say, smiling slightly. “i know.”
stop knowing things!
“my cousin plays,” you add quickly, like you see the shutdown coming. “he made me watch once.”
his brain stalls. he clears his throat, deciding not to acknowledge that, because that’s too much for him to unpack right now. “still weird you know my name.”
you roll your eyes. “fine. i’ll call you ‘hey you.’”
“don’t.”
“okay, mike.”
don’t.
his name shouldn’t do that. it’s a name. it’s been his his whole life. teachers say it. his mom says it. eddie yells it, apparently. dustin says it when he wants something. it has never—never—made his chest do that weird skip. this is new. therefore bad. his heart does a stupid little lurch, like when you miss a step on the stairs but don’t fall. that. sickening. nope. don’t do that. you’re not allowed.
“you don’t have to keep saying it.” he says, defensive posture engaged.
you blink, then smile a little, like you’re trying not to laugh. “your name?”
“yeah. it’s excessive.”
it’s not excessive. it’s four letters. you’re just weak. pull it together.
you tilt your head, studying him, like you’re trying to figure out how something works by looking at it too closely. stop that. i’m not a puzzle. i’m a person. a normal person who does not react to cheerleaders saying his name. “you’re really committed to hating me.” you observe.
“i don’t hate you.” he lies immediately.
you raise an eyebrow.
“i just,” he corrects, scrambling, “don’t trust you.”
“why?”
because cheerleaders ruined middle school. because they laughed at kids like him. because popularity is a disease. because if you let one in, they eat you alive.
“because,” he says instead, “people like you don’t usually just… talk to me.”
“but i am talking to you.” you point out.
“yeah, and that’s suspicious.”
“what, you think i have an agenda?”
yes.
“maybe.” he says. you step closer without realizing it. or maybe you do. he doesn’t know. he only knows suddenly you’re right there, close enough that he has to look down at you, and he hates that too. hates the angle. hates that his stupid brain immediately catalogues things: your eyes, your mouth, the crease between your brows like you frown when you concentrate. the way you smell. cheerleader pheromones. definitely a thing. he shifts his grip on the soda. the can is cold. “cheerleaders are basically a cult.” he adds.
“we have jackets, not robes.”
“same difference.”
“and you guys don’t?”
he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “we have dice.”
“dangerous.” you say solemnly.
he almost smiles. almost. he catches himself and scowls instead. “dice are serious.”
“i can tell,” you say, nodding gravely. “very intimidating.”
“you’re doing that on purpose.”
“doing what?”
“being… normal,” he gestures vaguely at you. “about it.”
“why wouldn’t i be?”
because you’re a cheerleader. because cheerleaders are supposed to be loud and cruel and dismissive. because middle school taught him that lesson very clearly and he has never, ever revisited it. because if that rule stops working, then a lot of other stuff starts unraveling too. “most people aren’t.” he says instead.
“most people suck.” you counter.
he laughs. you light up just a little when you notice. not exaggerated, not smug, just—pleased. damn it. “see,” you say. “we agree again.”
“don’t get used to it.” he mumbles, frustrated with himself.
“relax,” you say. “i’m not trying to convert you or anything.”
“good.”
“though,” you add, thoughtful, “if i were evil, this would be a great strategy. gain trust. lower defenses.”
“you just admitted it.”
you grin. “or did i?”
oh my god.
he shifts his weight, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing. closer than earlier. close enough that he has to look down at you, which he hates because it makes him feel like he’s looming. or staring. or both. “why are you still here.” he asks, not unkindly, but not friendly either.
you glance at the hallway. empty now, lockers stretching on forever. “i guess i don’t really want to go home yet.”
that surprises him. it shouldn’t, but it does. “why.”
“long day.”
fair. he nods once. “yeah.”
“so,” you say, breaking the silence before it could settle. are all cheerleaders this talkative?? “what do you actually do in hellfire?”
“campaign planning,” he answers automatically. “and arguing.”
“about?”
“rules. strategy. morality.”
you smile. “morality?”
“yeah,” he says. “like… choices. consequences. who deserves what.”
“that’s kind of cool.”
his ears warm. god. really? that did it? “it’s not,” he says quickly. “it’s nerd stuff.”
“mike,” you smile gently, “i am wearing a uniform with my name stitched into it. we all have our things.”
fuck, you’re a little funny. just sometimes. only sometimes. he won’t admit any more than that. he looks at you again without the automatic defenses fully slamming shut. notices how relaxed you seem now, how your shoulders have dropped. she’s pretty, his brain supplies, unhelpfully. like, actually pretty. not just uniform pretty.
“aren’t you supposed to be at your club?” you add, like you’re checking a fact, not poking fun.
he braces. “yeah.”
you nod. “my brother thinks it’s satanic.”
“your brother’s an idiot.”
you blink, then laugh. actually laugh. quick and surprised. “yeah,” you say. “he is.” you pause. “i should go,” you say, lifting the flyers. “good luck with… your game.”
“campaign.” he corrects, because of course he does.
you smile, just a little. “right. campaign.”
you turn like that’s it, like this was a normal hallway interaction and not—whatever this was. the flyers bend a little in your hands. he watches you take one step, then another. okay. fine. good. solved. back to normal.
except his brain doesn’t move on. it stays right there, snagged on the way you said campaign like you were trying. on the laugh. on the fact that he’s still standing here instead of walking in the opposite direction like a sane person. why did i let this go on this long.
he thinks of middle school—of lockers slammed too hard, of jason-type smiles that meant we see you and we don’t like what we see. you’re almost out of reach when it happens. the thing he doesn’t pre-approve. the thing his mouth does before his brain files the paperwork. “you can—” he starts.
you stop. turn back.
oh no.
he clears his throat, already irritated with himself. “you can come. if you want.”
his heart does something idiotic, like it thinks this matters. “come where?” you ask.
“hellfire,” he says. then, defensive, “not—play. just watch. if you want. you don’t have to.”
abort abort abort.
“you’re inviting me?” you question carefully, rightfully suspicious of the boy who seemed convinced you were evil incarnate five minutes ago.
“i’m not inviting you,” he says immediately. “i’m just—informing you that it’s an option.”
“wow. generous.”
“you’ll hate it,” he adds, grasping for ground. “it’s boring. and eddie yells. and there’s arguing. like, a lot.”
“you already said that,” you point out. “it sounded kind of interesting.”
he scowls at the floor. “you won’t get it.”
“try me.”
that does something. he doesn’t like that it does something. “fine,” he says. “but if you laugh—”
“i won’t.”
“or ask stupid questions—”
“probably will.”
“—then i’m revoking the offer.”
“okay.” you fall into step beside him like this is settled. he’s aware of everything now. the sound of your sneakers. the way your arm brushes his for half a second and then doesn’t again.
he opens the door and steps inside first, awkwardly, like he’s not sure why he’s doing this. lucas is already rolling dice, dustin’s counting something, everyone’s focused on whatever they’re doing—but then you’re there, and it’s like someone hit pause. the air shifts, not because you’re here, because you shouldn’t be, and they don’t know why mike brought you. everyone’s eyes flick up, a pause, questions in the raised eyebrows, the leaning forward of heads. mike doesn’t look at them. he doesn’t answer. he’s too busy pretending this is normal, that having a cheerleader in the hellfire club is totally normal.
you, oblivious, set your bag down, smooth out your skirt, and settle into a chair near the back. the papers you were working on before now stacked neatly in front of you, clipboard balancing carefully on your knees. you start taking it all in, curious, not really judging, just watching. mike’s hands tap a pencil, notebook open, dice still scattered in front of him. he’s too aware of you; he’s too aware of the way you lean slightly, the hair brushing the side of your face, the way your eyes track what’s happening on the table without interrupting.
he hates that he notices. hates that his stomach churns when you scribble something down and hum, like the sound is small enough to be innocent but enough to catch his attention. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, then pretends to focus on his dice, on his notebook, on the little notes he’s scribbled about character abilities, strategy, alignment. everything except you.
you lean a little forward as dustin explains a roll, and mike notices you nod, like you understand it, like you’re processing the rules in your head. cheerleaders don’t do this. they don’t sit and think about rules. they don’t watch dice. they don’t care about probability or alignment or morality in a dungeon. except somehow, you do. he hates it and doesn’t know why. he’s hyper-aware of every small gesture. somehow, you’re slipping into the group without breaking anything, without disrupting, just existing, watching, listening, and he’s watching you watch them, and he hates that he’s watching you watch them.
time stretches. mike rolls dice again but can’t completely concentrate. he reminds himself cheerleaders are evil. he reminds himself this was a mistake. he reminds himself you’re probably laughing at him. but somehow, the longer you sit, the longer you stay, the easier it gets to forget that he should hate this. not fully, not consciously, not admitting, but there’s something about the way you follow the dice, nod when someone explains a rule, that makes it almost… tolerable.
finally, eddie announces a break. mike exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. you get up first. “going?” he asks. too curt, defensive. too automatic. why do i even care?
“yeah,” you say, gathering your things. “see you at school?”
he nods. don’t say more. mike stands too, automatically, walks with you out of the club, and somehow it doesn’t feel quite as wrong as it did before. maybe it’s just that you exist, that you were polite and attentive, that you fit into his world in a way that makes sense even though it shouldn’t. “you’re… welcome to come by again.” he blurts suddenly. what are you doing? why did you say that?
he immediately regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. he’s never invited anyone to hellfire before. never. he’s never wanted anyone to see this side of him. he’s not allowed to like anyone enough to bring them here. definitely not a cheerleader. definitely not you.
“yeah, maybe.”
you glance at him, just a fraction, like you’re weighing something, not quite sure if you should ask, not quite sure if you should leave it. he notices the pause. long enough to make him uncomfortable, short enough to make him paranoid. “mike…” you finally say, quiet, careful, like you’re testing the waters. he stiffens automatically.
the “yeah?” he gave came out defensive.
you hesitate. “earlier, when you asked me how i knew your name… i lied.”
he blinks. stops walking for a split second, too stunned to notice. lied? she lied? why? evil. plotting. wrong. “what?” he asks, suspicious. dry. why would she lie? this is a trap. of course it’s a trap. she’s evil. she’s a cheerleader. shut down.
“i didn’t just know because of eddie,” you admit, like it’s dangerous to say it out loud. “i’ve .. always known.”
he stops. his brain sputters. always known? what does that even—why are you saying—wait—what? “what do you mean?” he says, voice sharper than intended, heart starting to hammer.
you glance down, cheeks coloring faintly. bashful. hesitant. “i mean i’ve —- kind of… liked you. for a while. i just… didn’t… say anything.”
he freezes, backpack straps digging into his shoulder, soda crinkling in his hand, mouth open like he’s going to explain something, defend himself, insist that this is a misunderstanding—but there’s nothing. he doesn’t have a defensive line ready for this. i—what—you—hello????
“you… what?” he says finally, incredulous, not believing. not sure if he wants to believe. part of him wants to tell you you’re wrong, that you’re lying, that cheerleaders are evil, that he hates this—but another part? another part is ridiculously, embarrassingly glad.
“yeah,” you admit, looking up just enough to meet his eyes. “i’ve always thought you were… cool, i guess.” your voice is soft, almost like you’re worried he’ll push you away.
he swallows. he wants to say something clever, dry, snarky, but none of it comes out. instead, he just stands there, balancing between panic and something else. why do i like that you like me?
he just stands there. too long. long enough that the silence starts to feel loud, like the hallway itself is waiting for him to say something smart or sharp or at least coherent. nothing comes. his brain is buffering. this was not in any possible outcome tree he’d bothered to map out. his heart is going way too fast, like he just ran laps. “i—” he starts, then stops. clears his throat. tries again. “you don’t—” also bad. abort.
you shift your weight, clearly bracing yourself. not dramatic about it, just steady, like you’re ready for him to say something awful and you’ve already decided you’ll survive it if he does. that’s somehow worse than if you were defensive. or sarcastic. or mean. he knows how to handle mean.
“i just wanted you to know,” you clarify. “that’s all. i know you hate me. i know you think i’m… whatever. i just figured i’d rather say it than keep pretending.”
he frowns automatically. “i don’t hate you.”
the words come out before he can stop them. immediate regret, followed by confusion about why he regrets them. he doesn’t hate you. when did that happen? when did that stop being true?
“you don’t?”
“i mean—” he stalls, because now he has to back it up. “i don’t… hate you. i thought i did. probably. i thought you were—” he gestures uselessly. “you know. like that.”
“evil?” you offer, dry but not offended.
he winces. “yeah.”
you giggle, a small little laugh that’s more relief than humor. “fair.”
that makes something in his chest loosen. he watches you while you talk, not in the way he was trying very hard not to earlier, but openly now, because apparently all his defenses are fried. you’re nervous, but not crumbling. you’re honest without apologizing for it. you don’t hedge every sentence. you just… say what you mean, like it’s allowed.
that’s wild to him.
mike wheeler does not say what he means. he deflects. he turns things into arguments so he doesn’t have to name what they actually are. feelings are messy. feelings get you hurt. feelings make you look stupid. feelings are stupid. he has spent years being very careful about that. you just walked up and handed yours over. “you’re brave.” he notices, and immediately cringes at himself for how stupid it sounds.
you tilt your head. “am i?”
“yeah,” he says, more firmly this time. “i wouldn’t do that.”
he doesn’t know why he’s admitting that. maybe because it’s true. maybe because you already admitted something worse. maybe because the world feels slightly off-kilter and honesty is leaking through the cracks. you shrug, a little shy now. “i’ve had practice.”
you’ve done this before. you know how to say things out loud. you know how to survive the answer either way. he admires that more than he wants to. he rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor, then back at you. “i don’t really know what to say.”
“you don’t have to say anything,” you say quickly. “i’m not—this isn’t—” you stop yourself, take a breath. “i’m not asking for anything. i just didn’t want you thinking i only talked to you for some other reason. or because i was bored. or because i’m fake.”
“i did think that.” he admits.
you smile. “i know.”
that’s the thing. you always seem to know. and instead of using it against him, you just… accept it, like it’s part of the deal. “okay,” he says. “thanks. for… telling me.”
you relax a little, like that was the part you were holding your breath for. “yeah,” you say. “you’re welcome.” you start walking again, and he doesn’t hesitate before falling into step beside you. it feels different now, like something has shifted and neither of you knows what to call it yet. he’s still awkward, still stiff, still very much mike wheeler, incapable of a smooth emotional landing. but there’s something there now, an understanding. the knowledge that someone saw him, liked him, said it out loud, and the world didn’t end.
and he doesn’t hate you.
and now he’s thinking: wait. i don’t hate her. he actually doesn’t. like. at all. how long has it been since he’s felt this particular kind of not-hating? too long, really. and then, just like that, his brain decides to start justifying everything, retroactively rewriting history. maybe cheerleaders aren’t evil. maybe your friends aren’t all scheming idiots. maybe your laugh isn’t some weaponized sonic trap aimed at him specifically.
he glances at you enough to see you’re not looking at him, just staring forward, maybe thinking about something else. he likes that. your attention, or lack thereof, or… whatever. you watched him play D&D. you didn’t need to, but you did. more than anyone else. more than dustin explaining the same rule for the fourth time. more than eddie whining about dice. you actually watched mike, and now he’s thinking: okay. that’s… kind of nice. your attention. you. you’re kind of nice.
he notices your hands, how they swing a little when you walk, he notices the tilt of your head, like you’re quietly measuring the hallway, or counting tiles, or just… being you. maybe you’re kind of cool. maybe you’re not evil. maybe your friends are funny sometimes. maybe your hair just always looks better than it should for a tuesday.
and why does he feel good walking next to you? why does he like that you watched him play? do you notice him more than the others? and why the hell does that feel good? his chest feels lighter than it has in days. the panic has gone, replaced by a confusing, pleasant sort of… awareness.
why does it matter that you watched him? that you didn’t get bored, didn’t look around for someone better, didn’t laugh. you watched him, like what he was doing mattered. like he mattered.
the doors loom ahead, glass smeared with fingerprints, afternoon light bleeding through in dull yellow slabs, and suddenly the walk has an end. mike hates that. he hates endpoints. they force decisions. you slow first, of course you do. you’re better at this. at transitions. you stop just short of the doors and turn, half-smiling, like you’re already bracing for the moment to break.
he realizes, distantly, that he’s supposed to go back. hellfire. the campaign. the table. the dice. the version of himself that makes sense there. and you’re supposed to leave. walk out into the parking lot, back into your world. this is how it works.
his chest tightens at the idea.
he clears his throat, shifts his weight, looks anywhere but your face. the floor. the exit sign. why is this so hard? he’s faced demogorgons. literal monsters. this—this is just a person. a girl. a cheerleader. a girl who likes him. apparently.
“so,” he says, and immediately hates how thin it sounds. he coughs and tries again. “uh. i have to—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, toward the club room. hellfire. destiny or whatever.
“yeah.” you say, understanding. not disappointed.
he nods, swallows, then, before his brain can intervene—before logic can tackle him to the ground— “would you maybe want to… hang out sometime?” it comes out rushed, like he’s tripping over his own words. “not—like—i mean, not a big thing. just—” he grimaces.
you blink, surprised, and then your smile spreads, slow and genuine, like you’re trying not to spook him. “yeah,” you agree. “i’d like that.”
“okay,” he says too quickly. then softer, like he’s testing it out. “okay.”
there’s a pause. the kind that feels like it could stretch if neither of you moves. but the doors are still there. reality still exists. you adjust your bag strap. “good luck with your… campaign.” you say, teasing but kind.
he huffs. “thanks.”
you hesitate, then lift a hand in a small wave. “bye, mike.”
his name again. still hits. still makes his chest do that stupid fluttering thing. “bye,” he says. then, because apparently he’s braver now—or dumber—“you.”
you push the door open and step into the light, and mike stands there for a second longer than necessary, watching the door swing shut behind you. his chest still feels light. his head feels full. when he finally turns back toward hellfire, he knows one thing with absolute, terrifying clarity:
he’s going to think about this the entire campaign.
Pairings: Eddie x Ex-ChildhoodBestfriend!Reader, Eddie x Popular!Cheerleader!Reader
Summary: You and Eddie Munson used to be inseparable as kids—best friends who did everything together. But high school changed things between the two of you. You climbed up the Hawkins High social hierarchy and became a cheerleader, started hanging around the "right" people, lived up to everyone's expectations. He became the freak of Hawkins, the drug dealer, the guy most people weren’t exactly itching to be around. Naturally, you drifted apart from one another. One night, however, when he finds you heartbroken at a party and brings you back to his trailer, unspoken sentiments bubble up to the surface and the two of you finally confront the truth about your feelings.
Word Count: 13k
Notes: angst/comfort, fluff, smut 18+, mentions of eddie being bullied, mentions of insecurities?, societal pressure, reader gets cheated on (not by eddie), reader is lowkey the villain in their backstory but it all ends well I swear, you WILL feel extremely bad for eddie :(( , mention of a past physical altercation (reader slaps someone lol), SO MUCH YEARNING. it’s yearning central over here, oral (f receiving, brief m receiving), protected p in v, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby)
A/N ⚠︎: this took SO long and I really hope the amount of effort was worth it. WE’RE AT 200 FOLLOWERS YIPPIE!!! thank you guys <333 I hope you enjoy! mwah♡
The bass coming from inside the house is loud enough for Eddie to be able to feel it vibrating through the soles of his worn Reeboks. He counts the crumpled dollar bills in his hand. This is his last sale of the night—some senior whose name he didn't quite catch and who seemed to be in a rush—either too eager to get back inside the party and engage in some more small talk or possibly afraid of being caught buying drugs from Hawkins’ resident freak. Fine by Eddie. The faster he can get out of here, the better.
House parties aren’t his scene. They've never been his scene. Honestly, they might be somewhere in his top five list of personal hells. Too many people, too much noise, too many reminders that he exists on the very fringes of Hawkins High's social ecosystem. He’s here for business, plain and simple. Make his rounds, sell his product, get the hell out before someone decides to make his night more difficult than it has to be.
He shoves the wad of cash into his back pocket, the senior already hurrying back inside with a very unappreciative 'thanks'. Then Eddie heads down the sidewalk, away from the pulsing lights and drunken laughter spilling out of Tyler McKinney's massive picket-fence house. His van is parked a few blocks away. He’s learned a long time ago not to park too close to these things. Plausible deniability and all that.
The October air is crisp, just shy of cold, and Eddie's breath puffs out in small clouds as he walks. The sounds of the party fade behind him, replaced by the quiet suburban night—distant dogs barking, the rustle of leaves, the occasional lone car passing by down the main road.
He’s already looking forward to the rest of his night now that the peskier affairs are all taken care of. He might sample a fair share of his own product, practice that one tricky guitar riff he’s been trying to get the hang of… he probably couldn’t think of a more relaxing way to spend his time if he tried. And after a long night of "business", Eddie really just wants to relax.
He’s almost arrived at his van when he sees it. At first, it’s just a silhouette on a bench near the sidewalk, hunched over, small and alone. But as he gets closer, the streetlight begins to illuminate a very familiar side profile that makes his heart do something complicated in his chest.
You.
Of course it’s you.
Eddie slows his pace almost instantly at the realization, uncertainty warring with concern. You’re crying. He can see your shoulders shaking, can hear the quiet, hitching breaths escaping your throat even from a few feet away. Every instinct screams at him to just keep walking.
You run in completely different circles now. Have been for years. But you used to be good friends—really good friends, actually. Best friends, if Eddie's being honest.
You went to the same kindergarten. Eddie still remembers how you two met for the first time and he doesn't think he'll ever forget.
Some of the kids were playing house together in the classroom while Eddie watched from the sidelines, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his worn shirt that was a few sizes too big on him. He observed their easy, seamless interactions—how much fun they seemed to be having, how naturally they fell into their roles. The mom, the dad, the older and younger kids. Everyone had a part to play and knew how to play it.
Eddie, intrigued and desperately wanting to fit in, gathered up all the courage in his tiny five-year-old body and approached the group. His voice was small when he asked if he could play too, if there were any family members left that he could be.
The other kids gave him a look—not quite mean, but not exactly welcoming either. It was the kind of look Eddie would become intimately familiar with over the course of his life. One that assured him he wasn’t quite welcome in someone’s space.
"All the roles are taken," one of the kids informed him matter-of-factly. They didn’t seem to feel terribly bad about it. "Maybe next time."
Eddie's face fell, but he tried again. "I could be the dog?" he offered hopefully, big brown doe eyes sparkling with a dim, hopeful glint. "Every family needs a dog."
But everyone had already turned back to their game, dismissing him without another word. So Eddie just stood there, watching them play, feeling that familiar ache of being on the outside looking in. He knew he wasn't really like the other kids. It wasn’t a very easy concept to grasp for a regular five year old, but Eddie also wasn’t exactly like every other regular kid his age. His home life was rough. He was too loud, too expressive, too hyper and too bad at following the rules. But knowing all of that didn't make the rejection hurt any less. He gave up after that, quietly sulking by the very edge of where all the fun was happening.
That's when you stepped out of the group.
You'd been playing the youngest child, Eddie remembers—wearing a bright yellow dress. You walked right up to him with a big fat smile on your face that made the hopeful glint in his eyes reappear.
"We can play if you want!" you offered all cheery, like you were much happier at the prospect of playing with him, a kid you didn’t know, instead of all your close friends. "Do you want to go swing?"
Eddie was dumbfounded, unable to quite believe that someone was choosing to play with him, let alone that they were the one to come up to him first. But he was also really excited and practically vibrating with joy.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yes," you confirmed, already heading toward the playground. "Come on! I can swing really high. I bet I can go higher than you."
"No way!" Eddie protested, following you eagerly.
And so you went swinging together, laughing and challenging each other to go higher and higher, and by the time the teacher called everyone back inside, Eddie had found a new friend.
From that day on, you two were inseparable. You did everything together—shared your snacks at lunch, partnered up for every recess, defended each other from the meaner kids. You were one of the few kids who didn't care that Eddie's clothes were too big or that he sometimes smelled like cigarettes from his dad's smoke. You laughed at all his jokes, listened to all his hyper tangents and made-up stories about dragons and adventures. You made him feel like hanging out with him was actually fun. And you absolutely thought it was.
Following that, elementary school was pretty easy. You were just kids, after all. Nobody really cared about who hung out with who.
Middle school was a notch harder, though you stuck together. Sure, you started getting prettier, catching the attention of some of the popular kids who wanted you to sit with them at lunch. And yeah, Eddie, on the other hand, got even weirder, louder, more defiant, and more willing to embrace the "freak" label that was already starting to stick to him like glue. Regardless, you stayed by his side through it all. And he stayed by yours.
Eddie particularly remembers one day in eighth grade. You were walking together in the hallway between classes when Matthew Hayes—captain of the middle school basketball team and already a certified asshole at thirteen—stepped in front of you both.
"Hey," Matthew said, looking at you with that suave, try-hard smile that made Eddie's skin crawl. At the time, Matthew was probably one of the biggest pricks he thought he’d ever had the displeasure of knowing.
"You're coming to my birthday party this weekend, right?" He continued, ignoring Eddie right beside you, seemingly pretty damn sure of himself and convinced that you were gonna say yes.
You shifted your books in your arms awkwardly, polite but uninterested. You didn’t even know the guy that well anyway, so you thought it probably wouldn’t be much of a bummer if you ditched his birthday. "I’m sorry. I don't think so. Eddie and I were going to—"
"Wait, you're actually friends with this loser?" Matthew cut you off and laughed, gesturing at Eddie like he was something pesky stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Come on. You're way too pretty to be hanging around with Munson the Freak. I mean, everyone knows his dad's in jail and his uncle's trailer trash."
Eddie felt his face burn with shame and anger, his hands clenching into fists. He'd heard worse before—was already used to worse, honestly—but it still stung. Maybe it stung particularly bad that time because you were right there to witness it, and he didn’t want you to think less of him. He was about to tell Matthew to fuck off, detention be damned, when you were already moving. Your shoes clacked a short few steps in Matthew’s direction.
The slap that followed echoed down the entire hallway. Matthew stumbled back, hand flying to his already reddening cheek, eyes wide with shock. The conversations around you died instantly and everyone turned to stare at the scene before them with bewilderment.
"Don't ever talk about him like that again," you said, voice shaky but firm. "Eddie's worth a hundred of you, and if you can't see that, then you're even dumber than your stupid face already makes you look."
Matthew looked between you and Eddie, jaw clenched, face twisted with humiliation and rage. "You're going to regret that, you bitch." He scowled and his voice dripped with venom. But you didn’t look the slightest bit intimidated.
"No, I'm not," you finalized matter-of-factly, grabbing Eddie's hand and marching away with your head held high, leaving Matthew and his stunned friends in your wake.
Of course, you got in massive trouble for that stunt. Principal's office, call home to your parents, detention for a week, the whole nine yards. Your mom was furious. Not at Matthew for what he'd said. She wouldn’t hear you out about any of that. She was furious at you for causing a scene and for jeopardizing your reputation—for "acting out". Still, you never once apologized. Not to Matthew, not to your parents, not to anyone except Eddie for what was said about him.
"He deserved it," you told Eddie later, sitting next to him on the curb outside school while you waited for your mom to pick you up. "And I'd do it again."
Eddie looked at you. He looked at the stubborn clench of your jaw, the lingering rage still sparkling in your eyes, and felt something shift in his heart. Something more intense than friendship, though he didn’t really have the words or courage to admit it to himself, let alone to you, back then.
"You're kind of badass, you know that?" he said, awed.
You grinned in return. "Yeah. I know."
That moment felt important, like proof that nothing could come between you. That you'd always choose each other, no matter what anyone else thought or said. Eddie really wanted that. He was fairly certain you did too.
But then high school happened.
Suddenly, the social hierarchies that had been forming in middle school became concrete and immovable. You tried out for the cheer squad on a whim and ended up making it, which put you in proximity to the popular crowd—the pretty girls, the jocks, the kids whose parents had money and influence. They welcomed you with open arms, eager to claim someone as smart and pretty as you as their own. You liked making new friends and it’s not like you could’ve kept your position in the cheer squad without getting along with the rest of the team, so you didn’t mind joining their clique.
At first, you tried to balance both worlds, because you really didn’t wanna lose Eddie. You'd sit with him at lunch sometimes, wave to him in the hallways, defend him when your new friends made snarky comments about him. But the pressure from your new peers was starting to become relentless. It was fairly subtle at first: a raised eyebrow here, a pointed comment there, but steadily grew stronger and more frequent.
Why do you still hang out with him? You do know what everyone says about him, right? You're going to ruin your reputation. You're better than that.
And slowly, so slowly Eddie almost didn't notice it happening, you started pulling away. The lunch table visits became less frequent, then eventually stopped altogether. The hallway waves became more hurried. Your defenses of him became quieter, then went silent.
Your parents were thrilled with your new friend group and your new image. They started talking about your future—college, career, finding a nice boy from a good family. The hard truth the world pressured you into swallowing was that there was no room in a vision like that for someone like Eddie Munson.
And you were so young and impressionable, desperate to please everyone, and so afraid of being different and not appealing to as many people as possible. Once the popular crowd had taken you in, it felt wrong to try to leave. It was easier to drift away because of that. It was easier to pretend that your friendship had happened to two entirely different people.
Eddie hated it. He understood, in a way. Had even seen it coming at one point, really. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that when things seemed too good to be true—in this case, your bond—they usually really were. But partially understanding didn't make it hurt any less.
By sophomore year, you barely spoke with each other. You'd pass each other in the hallways—you with your cheer uniform and your perfect friends, Eddie with his leather jacket and his outcast status—and exchange the briefest of acknowledgments. A small smile or a tiny nod. Just enough to acknowledge that you'd once meant something to each other, but not enough to bridge the chasm-sized disconnect that had grown between you.
He told himself that he was fine with it. That people outgrew each other, that it was natural, that he didn't need you anyway and maybe he took you for someone you never really were. Maybe deep down it was always gonna turn out like this and you were always gonna grow apart. He told himself that you were just kids. You didn’t quite understand the implications of being best friends with someone like him at the time because you were young and naive, but now that those were clear and you finally realized that being associated with him would grant your reputation a massive hit, you saw a chance to bail and took it. It really, really hurt. But he couldn’t exactly blame you for it.
He had other friends, obviously. He had his bandmates and Hellfire—a decent amount of people who understood him and made his life a little easier. They had the same interests, likes and dislikes and probably matched his personality more than you ever did. But none of them really ever managed to fix or replace that void he felt in his heart whenever he saw you walk past him in the halls. Late at night, alone in his room, he'd think about kindergarten and middle school and the way you used to smile at him like he was someone worth being nice to, and he'd wonder if you ever thought about it too.
A loud sniffle snaps Eddie out of his thoughts. Suddenly, he finds himself back in the situation at hand and he’s standing just out of your peripheral vision like an awkward idiot, unsure of how to really proceed.
You probably don’t want Eddie "the Freak" Munson seeing you like this. He shouldn’t get himself involved. He really should just walk past you and pretend he never saw anything.
But then again, it’s you. And no matter how much time has passed since you last spoke and you've drifted into your world of pep rallies and popularity while he's sunken deeper into his reputation as Hawkins' resident drug-dealing metalhead, he's never been very good at not paying attention to you. And he’d be a prick if he just ignored you while you’re clearly hurting.
He approaches slowly, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket while the other grips his now empty lunchbox, trying to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible.
"Hey," he says softly once he’s close enough. "Uh— you okay?"
You startle, head snapping up, and Eddie's chest tightens instinctively at the sight of your tear-stained face. Your mascara has run in dark tracks down your cheeks, your eyes are red and puffy, and you look so absolutely miserable that it makes his throat tight.
"Oh," Your voice is rough, thick with tears and surprise. You wipe quickly at your face, trying and failing to compose yourself. "Eddie. What are you—I didn't think you'd be here."
"I'm not. I mean, I was, but I'm leaving." He gestures vaguely back toward the party. "Just had some, uh... business to take care of."
You nod, understanding immediately what kind of business he means. You don’t look judgmental of it, though—just tired. So, so tired and sad.
"Are you okay?" he asks again, even though you clearly aren’t. He’s lost. He doesn’t know what else to say. For a moment, the awkward tone in his voice really makes him regret not having just walked past you.
"I'm fine," you say automatically, but your voice cracks on the word and fresh tears well up in your eyes. You tilt your head downwards and try to wipe away at the dampness before it drips. "Sorry, I'm—God, this is really embarrassing."
"Hey, no." Eddie moves a little closer. He doesn’t feel quite confident enough to sit down next you on the bench just yet. "It's not embarrassing. What happened?"
You remain quiet for a long moment, clearly debating whether to tell him or not. Eddie waits, his gaze warm and never rushing, even though the cold night air is seeping through his ripped jeans.
Finally, you let out a shaky breath. "I caught Brad making out with Ashley Cunningham. Upstairs. In Tyler's parents' bedroom."
Brad Morrison. Captain of the basketball team, all-American golden boy and not-so-secret-preppy-asshole—your boyfriend for the last six months. Eddie saw you two together in the hallways a lot. Him with his arm around your shoulders, you with your perfect smile. You two were practically the image of Hawkins High's ideal couple.
He hated every second of it. Not because he had any right to, of course. You hadn’t been his friend in years. But that didn’t stop the bitter twist in his gut every time he saw Morrison's hands on you. He wondered if you were happy, if Morrison treated you right, if you ever, amidst it all, thought about the two kids who used to be inseparable back before everyone else told you that you couldn't be.
Guess he has his answer now about the "treating you right" part.
"Jesus," Eddie breathes, a little taken aback by your admission, but definitely not surprised. He avoids your gaze awkwardly, looking at the bushes surrounding the bench instead. "I'm sorry. That's... that's really shitty."
"Yeah." You laugh, but it’s watery, sad and the least bit amused. "The worst part is I'm not even that surprised? Like, I knew he was an asshole. Everyone knows he's an asshole. But he's the right kind of asshole, you know? The kind everyone approves of." You wipe at your eyes again, smearing your mascara further. You sniffle again when you realize how ridiculous you must be sounding. "God, I'm sorry. You don't want to hear about any of this."
"No, I do." Eddie insists softly, finally gathering up the courage to sit down on the bench beside you—close but not too close, maintaining a respectful distance. "I mean, if you want to talk about it. I'm a pretty good listener. When I'm not talking too much, which is, you know, most of the time, but—"
You laugh, a small but real chuckle this time, and Eddie feels a small spark of victory in his chest. He likes that sound.
"Yeah," you say, looking at him with something warm in your eyes and a wobbly grin on your face. "I know."
The words come out of you in a fond, almost reverent manner, and Eddie has to avoid your gaze again. He only hums faintly in return. He can’t even believe it, but he’s nervous. You make him nervous in the best and worst ways.
You two sit in silence for a moment, the distant thump of the party bass from a good few blocks away providing a strange rhythm to the otherwise quiet night. You’re clearly not ready to spill your emotions just yet, so he doesn’t push.
The silence is admittedly a little awkward, because what do you say to someone who used to be your best friend in the entire world and now barely acknowledges you in the hallways? There’s also something unspoken sitting in it. Like both of you aren’t talking about something you absolutely should talk about.
"Hey, uh—it’s getting cold out here. Maybe you should be getting home?" Eddie asks eventually. His tone is careful. He doesn’t want to imply that he’s getting bored of being here with you. He just doesn’t wanna overstay his welcome on this bench, especially when he’s uncertain of how to really offer any comfort other than a measly 'I’m sorry'. That and the fact he just feels incredibly awkward still.
Your brows furrow slightly and a sad look makes its way back on your face. He watches carefully. "I... I came here with Brad. I don’t have a ride home anymore."
"Right," Eddie acknowledges empathetically. He should’ve guessed. "Okay. Well, I can give you a ride home if you want. Your house isn't far, right? Still on Maple?"
"Yeah, but..." You bite your lip, looking genuinely distressed. "My family's out of town this weekend. They went to visit my aunt in Indianapolis. And—and I don't have my keys with me because I was supposed to stay at Brad's tonight after the party, and now..." You trail off, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill in genuine stress over the situation you’ve gotten yourself into.
Eddie's brain is working overtime, trying to figure out a solution that won’t make this weird or uncomfortable. You clearly can’t go home. You probably have friends at the party you could stay with. But given the state you’re in, he’s guessing you don’t exactly want to go back in there and face the world, let alone potentially your cheating ex.
"You could crash at my place," he offers cautiously after a brief moment of silence, watching your reaction. "I know it's probably not your first choice, and you can totally say no, but Wayne's working the night shift so you'd have the couch to yourself. Or—shit, no—my room, I mean. I mean you can have my room, I can take the couch. Whatever makes you comfortable. I just—" He runs a hand through his hair nervously. "I’m guessing you probably don’t wanna go back in there to those assholes." He gestures vaguely toward the direction of the distant music.
You’re looking at him with an expression he can’t quite read. Surprise, definitely gratitude, and something tender he desperately hopes he’s not just deluding himself into seeing.
"Are you sure?" you ask quietly, surveilling his eyes for any sort of reluctance. "I don't wanna… impose."
Eddie shakes his head. "You're not imposing. I'm offering. Come on," he encourages, already standing back up with a slight grunt. He feels a newfound wave of confidence after you don’t immediately reject his offer. "It’s nothing fancy—I mean, you know that already. But better than staying out here all night, right?"
You study his face for another long moment, then nod and smile. "Yeah. Yeah—thank you, Eddie."
"Don't mention it."
The drive to the trailer park is quiet. Eddie half-expected it to be as awkward as the silence on the bench, honestly. But much to his surprise, it isn’t. Not really. You sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window, occasionally wiping at the lingering dampness under your eyes. Eddie focuses on driving and gives you space to just be.
He's turned a cassette tape into the deck, and Judas Priest’s "Dreamer Deceiver" plays quietly through his blown speakers. Not exactly cheerful music, but you haven’t asked him to turn it off yet, so he takes that as a good sign.
"I remember this song," your soft voice sounds out over the low music suddenly, startling him a little. "You were obsessed with it in, like, eighth grade."
Eddie glances over at you, surprised. He hadn’t expected you to recall a past memory of him, let alone with such a gentle, reverent tone in your voice. It catches him off guard. "You remember that?" he asks incredulously, eyes focusing back on the road ahead, his mind completely elsewhere.
"Of course I remember." You’re looking at him now, your profile illuminated by the headlights. There’s a small smile on your face despite the dried tear tracks on your cheeks. "You made me listen to it like a hundred times. Said it was going to change my life."
"Did it?"
"No," you admit, and Eddie grins sheepishly. "But I listened anyway. Because you were so excited about it." Your tone turns quieter, like you’re confessing something you’ve never told anyone before. Something warm, nostalgic and simultaneously painful blooms in Eddie's chest.
"I didn't think you'd remember stuff like that," he says, trying his hardest to focus on the road in front of him and not the way his heart stutters in his chest at your admission.
"I remember a lot of things." Your voice is soft, almost sad now. "Like that time you taught me how to play chords on your guitar," you reminisce, quiet for a moment after that. But then the memories catch up. "Or when we built that fort in my backyard out of sheets and lawn chairs. And when you convinced me to skip school with you to go to that record store in Indy."
Eddie’s surprise molds into something more fond and nostalgic. "We got in so much trouble for that," he recalls, grinning at the memory, smile lines carved around the corners of his mouth.
"So much trouble," you agree, chuckling. "My mom grounded me for two weeks. But it was worth it. That was a good day."
"Yeah," Eddie says, feeling something heavy settling in his stomach. "It was."
The two of you fall quiet again as Eddie pulls into the trailer park, navigating the familiar dirt roads to his and Wayne's trailer at the end. The lights are off, which means Wayne is definitely at work, and Eddie's old van looks even more beat-up than usual parked under the flickering front door lamp.
"Home sweet home," Eddie says in his familiar theatrical tone, trying for levity as he kills the engine. "Like I said, it's not much, but—"
"Eddie." You turn in your seat to face him fully. "You don't have to apologize for anything. Thank you for this. Really. You didn't have to help me at all."
"Yeah, I did," Eddie says honestly. "I couldn't just leave you there."
Something flickers across your face—that same expression you gave him earlier when he offered you to spend the night. Then you’re flashing him an appreciative grin, opening the passenger door and stepping out into the night, and the unreadable expression passes as quickly as it came.
Inside, Eddie flicks on the dim trailer lights and immediately starts apologizing for the mess even though it really isn’t that bad. Some of Wayne's mugs are in the sink, Eddie’s campaign notes are scattered across the small coffee table, and a few magazines and books are piled on the couch.
"Seriously, it's fine," you say, looking around with what seems like genuine interest and distant familiarity rather than judgment. "It's really cozy."
"That's a nice way of saying small."
"I said cozy," you insist honestly, though you flash him a small grin over your shoulder. You turn your attention over to the bookshelf by the entrance, trailing your fingers along the spines. You recognize some of the books from years ago—thick fantasy novels he’s read about a million times now.
Eddie watches you. When he realizes he is, he moves into the kitchen instead. "You want something to drink? I think we have Coke, or water, or... actually, I think that's it. We're not great at keeping the fridge stocked."
"Water's good.”
Eddie grabs two glasses, fills them with tap water, and hands one to you. You accept it gratefully, taking a long sip, and Eddie tries not to stare at the way your throat moves as you swallow.
You set the glass down on the coffee table as he’s sipping on his and sit down on the old couch, tucking your legs underneath you. Your skirt rides up slightly in the process and Eddie very deliberately looks away, focusing on literally anything else in the room.
"You can sit," you say, patting the cushion next to you with an amused grin. "It’s your couch."
Eddie does as you say, maintaining what he thinks is a respectful distance. The couch is old and sunken in the middle, though, which means you both kind of slide toward the center. Your knee bumps against his.
"Sorry," he mutters awkwardly, starting to shift away.
"It's okay." You don’t move your knee. You seem to be loosening up a little in his space, growing a little more accustomed after all this time. "This is nice. Just sitting. Not having to pretend to be having a good time."
"Yeah, McKinney’s parties are real ragers," Eddie says dryly, looking down at the now empty glass in his grip. "Nothing says fun like watching drunk jocks play beer pong badly."
You snort in agreement. "You've never even seen Brad try to play beer pong before. It's embarrassing."
His expression sours slightly at the mention of Brad, but his eyes seem to soften when the snarky insult leaves your mouth. "Not missing much then."
"No," you agree again quietly. "Not really."
Eddie picks at a loose thread on the rip in his jeans, going silent and trying to find the right words for what he wants to say next. "Can I ask you something? And you can totally tell me to fuck off if it's too personal."
"Okay," you answer, sitting up a little straighter in anticipation.
"Why were you with him?" Eddie looks at you now, genuinely curious. "Brad. Like, you knew what he was like. Everyone knows what he's like. So why?"
You’re quiet for a long moment, staring down at your hands in your lap. When you finally speak, your voice is small.
"I guess because it's what I'm supposed to do."
"What?"
"Y’know, date guys like Brad. Be friends with girls like Chrissy and Melissa and the rest of the cheer squad. Get good grades, look pretty, smile at the right people, go to the right parties." You look up at him, and there’s something unbearably raw and honest in your eyes now. "That's what's expected of me. It’s what my parents want, what my friends want, what everyone around me wants. I'm supposed to be perfect. The perfect daughter, the perfect student… the perfect girlfriend to the perfect guy." You say the last part with clear disdain, like it’s the aspect that bothers you the most.
"That sounds exhausting," Eddie mutters earnestly.
"It is," you reply. "It's so exhausting, Eddie. And the worst part is I don't even know who I really am anymore under all of it. I don't know what I actually like versus what I'm supposed to like. I don't know who my real friends are versus who's just around because I'm on the cheer squad and dating the basketball captain."
Eddie's heart aches. He can’t relate to what you’re saying at all and never will. A few years ago, he might’ve called these first-world problems. However, he can’t help but believe the exhaustion in your voice. You sound genuinely tired. He wants to say something profound, something that will make it all better, but what comes out is:
"I know who you are."
You look at him, surprised. "What?"
"I know who you are," he repeats. "I mean, what you used to be like. Before… y’know, all of that. Like, you used to spend hours building these… elaborate backstories for your stuffed animals. You cried when we watched E.T. even though you'd seen it like five times already. You were the girl who always shared her lunch with me in elementary school when I forgot mine." He’s on a roll now, years of stored-up memories spilling out all at once. "You defended me against those eighth-grade assholes who tried to flush my D&D dice down the toilet and—and you always told me I was going to be a famous musician someday and actually meant it."
You’re looking at him like he just stabbed you in the stomach. Your lips part, your eyes shining with fresh tears. You can’t help the bittersweet smile your lips curl into. "You remember all that?" It’s your turn to ask now.
"Of course I remember. That stuff matters. It’s real." He gestures vaguely toward the window, in the general direction of the rest of Hawkins. "All that other stuff… the perfect grades, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect image—that's just... that's all bullshit. That's not you." His tone is low and impossibly soft.
You stare down at your lap, opening your mouth to say something, but all words seem to fail you at the moment. The wave of nostalgia hits you all at once and acts as a sour reminder of all you’ve lost. Of the real, genuine friendship you ditched for bullshit that won’t even matter in the long run. You never wanted to lose Eddie. You never wanted to hurt him, you could never wish him pain. But you got so caught up in the shining promise of popularity that you ended up hurting him anyway. You feel so incredibly stupid.
"I miss it," you say suddenly, fiercely. "I miss you. I miss being friends with you. I miss not having to worry about what people think or who's watching or whether I'm acting the right way. I miss when things were simple."
"Me too," Eddie admits, his voice rough. "I miss you too. Like, all the time. I see you in the hallways and I want to talk to you, but I figure you probably don't want the freak bothering you in front of your friends."
"Don't call yourself that," you say sharply, sternly. "You're not a freak, Eddie. You're really not. You’re just... you're you. You're honest and creative and always so expressive and you don't give a shit about what anyone thinks, and I've always—" You stop abruptly, looking away, breath hitching in your throat.
"Always what?" Eddie's heart pounds in his chest.
"I've always admired that about you," you finish quietly. "Even when we stopped being friends. I always thought... God, I wish I could be that brave."
"You think I'm brave?" Eddie laughs, but it comes out shaky. "I'm terrified like ninety percent of the time."
"Really? Of what?"
Right now, of this. Of you and how much he’s never stopped caring about you, even after everything that’s happened.
But what he says is: "I dunno. Of ending up alone, I guess. Of never getting out of this town and being exactly who everyone thinks I am and nothing more."
You turn to face him fully now, pulling your knees up to your chest. "You're going to get out, Eddie. You're talented as shit. And you’re smart, even though you pretend not to be. You're going to do something amazing someday."
"Yeah? What about you?"
"Me?" You look taken aback by the question.
"Yeah, you. What do you want? Not what your parents want or your friends want. What do you actually want?"
You’re quiet for a long moment, really thinking about it. "I wanna move away," you confess finally. "Study something cool. I wanna go to a college far away from here where nobody knows me and I can just start over. Be whoever I want to be and not have to live for others anymore." You pick at a thread on the couch cushion. Eddie realizes that that’s coincidentally also exactly what he wants for himself—to move far, far away from Hawkins and start fresh—and he tries not to mentally harp on the fact that your future plans seem to match up.
"I want to date someone who actually cares about me and who sees me as more than just…arm candy. I wanna date someone who—who makes me laugh and doesn't make me feel like I have to be perfect all the time."
Eddie's throat goes tight. "That doesn't sound like too much to ask for."
"No? Tell that to my parents. They're already planning my future for me. Indiana State, probably. Close enough to visit every weekend. Marry someone 'appropriate.' Have, like, six kids." Your voice is bitter. "No room for what I actually want."
"That's bullshit," Eddie says bluntly. "It's your life. You should get to live it how you want."
"Yeah." You nod subtly. "You’re already pretty much doing that now, aren’t you?" You point out, smiling a little.
He hesitates a little. "Yup," he replies. "And look where it got me. Twenty years old and still in high school, living in a trailer and dealing pot." Eddie leans hard against the back of the couch. "Really living the dream." He snorts, but it’s self-deprecating.
"You're…happy though," you say, brows furrowed. "Aren't you? Like, actually happy. Not pretend happy."
Eddie considers this. Is he happy? His life is objectively a mess by most standards. Most people don’t exactly aspire to be in the position he’s in, and if he were someone else, he probably wouldn’t either. But he has his music, his friends, his interests, his freedom to be exactly who he is without apology or remorse. He is happy in that regard.
"I guess," he admits honestly. "Most of the time, yeah. I'm happy. Could be better, could be worse, but... I'm me. And I guess I'm okay with that."
"I want that," you retort softly. "I wanna be okay with just... being me."
"You can be," Eddie says. "I mean, it's not easy. People are going to have opinions. Your parents… they might be disappointed. Your friends might bail. But at the end of the day, you're the one who has to live with your choices. Might as well make 'em count."
You’re looking at him with such intensity now that Eddie feels pinned in place. Like hearing him say those words frees you from years of forcing yourself to conform. "When did you get so wise?"
"I'm not wise. I'm just stubborn and I don’t care what people think anymore." He grins.
You smile in return, and God, Eddie loves that expression a lot. He’s missed it more than he'll probably ever let himself acknowledge.
"I'm sorry," you say suddenly, because you feel that you’re due for a shit ton of apologies towards the boy beside you.
"For what?" He knows for what.
"For what?" you echo, incredulous. "For all of it. For ditching you. For… for choosing my reputation over you because I was worried about what others would think." Your voice cracks and you sound the most distraught you have all night. Which is a lot, considering the fact that you just got cheated on. "All of that was more than insanely shitty of me. You were my best friend, Eddie. You were—you are—amazing. You really are. You’re funny and you’re nice and you do your own thing despite what everyone else thinks. I’m just… I’m a coward. I was trying to fit in with the crowd and I threw everything we had away because I was scared and dumb and stupid and I thought that being popular mattered more than being happy, but I was wrong. I don’t think I could’ve been more wrong. You deserve someone who’s always there for you and who wouldn’t have done any of that bullshit I did. And—and I know that nothing I say now will ever make up for even a fraction of it and I’m not asking you to understand, let alone forgive me, but I just need you to know. I need you to know that I’m so, so sorry, Eddie."
Eddie doesn’t interrupt you once. He’s dumbfounded, really, eyes wide as he takes everything in. Yeah, what you did sucked. He won’t deny that or the fact that you hurt him. And he probably won’t every forget any of it, but he can hear the emotion and honesty oozing out of your words and all of a sudden, he feels that his only option is to forgive you.
"Hey, no." Eddie reaches out without thinking about it, taking your hand in his ring-clad, warm one. "We were kids. People change, they drift apart. It happens."
"Yeah, but not like that. I don't want us to drift apart anymore," you say fiercely while a tear drips down your cheek, gripping his hand tighter, also without thinking about it. "I really miss you. I know I don’t have the right to, but I do. I miss everything about you. You’ve always been there for me. You’re, like, the only person who knows the real me instead of the version of myself I perform for everyone else. You’re the realest person in this whole shithole town."
Eddie's heart is doing gymnastics in his chest. "I miss you too. Like, constantly. It's actually kind of pathetic how much I think about you." He admits, a sheepish grin on his face.
"Really?" You’re smiling now, even through the waterworks.
"Yeah. I see you in the hallways and it's like... I don't know, it's like I remember how we used to be and for a few seconds, the whole world gets a little brighter? Which is corny as hell, but it's true." He’s rambling now, nervous energy spilling out. "When I see you with Morrison or your cheer friends or whatever, there's this part of me that's happy because you look happy, but there's also this part that's just... sad. Because I remember when I was the one who made you smile like that. And I know I shouldn’t be feeling that way anymore. You're not mine—" he quickly corrects himself. "—my friend, and you haven't been for years, but I can't help it. I've never been able to help it when it comes to you."
You’re staring at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. Eddie realizes he's definitely just said too much, crossed about fifteen different lines, and there’s no taking it back now.
"Sorry," he mutters with embarrassment, starting to pull his hand away. "That was—I shouldn't have—"
You tighten your grip, not allowing him to retreat, and keep his hand in place. "Eddie."
"Yeah?"
"I think about you too. Like, so much." You’re leaning closer now, and Eddie's brain is short-circuiting. "Seeing you in the hallways gives me this… urge to just stop and talk to you. I’ll be stuck at some boring party with Brad and his friends, and all I can think about is how much funnier everything would be if you were there instead. But I don’t have the right to think about any of that because we haven't been friends in years and whose fault is that? Mine. It's my fault."
"It's not—"
"It is. I chose wrong, Eddie. I keep choosing wrong. Consistently. Wrong friends, wrong boyfriends, wrong everything. Because none of them are..." You trail off, and the silence between you is suddenly charged.
"Aren't what?" His voice comes out barely above a whisper.
"None of them are you."
The world narrows to just this: your hand in his and your eyes on his. Eddie can see every detail of your face and he takes them in amidst the quiet of the trailer—the smudged mascara, the earnestness in your gaze, the way you’re biting your bottom lip nervously.
He should say something. Do something. But he’s frozen. He’s terrified that, if he moves, the spell will break and you'll realize what you’re saying. Or, more specifically, who you’re saying it to. But you don’t pull away. Not in the slightest. Instead, you lean in, slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull back, to laugh all of it off as the emotional aftermath of a shitty night. Eddie doesn’t pull back.
Your lips meet his tentatively. He should be surprised. He should be fully taken-aback due to the unexpectedness of the situation. But he’s mostly just completely and utterly relieved. He kisses you back with years of pent-up wanting and missing you.
It’s gentle at first. Your free hand comes up to cup his cheek, and Eddie makes a sound he should probably be embarrassed about, his own hand sliding into your hair carefully, like he’s scared of hurting you with the gentlest of touches.
You taste like salt from your tears and something intoxicatingly sweet underneath, and Eddie thinks dimly that he could die right now and be perfectly happy about it.
When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard. You stay close, noses barely nudging, and he can feel your smile less than an inch away from his lips.
"Was that okay?" you whisper.
"Are you kidding?" His tone is incredulous. "That was—yeah. That was extremely okay."
You laugh, soft and breathy, and kiss him again. This time it’s deeper, more certain, and Eddie feels like every nerve ending in his body was on fire. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he gives in willingly, wrapping his arms around your waist. His grip is still painfully gentle.
Time stops meaning anything. Time seems like it’s never meant anything at all. There’s just you and him and the years of distance and want evaporating with every touch and soft sound you make against his mouth.
When you finally break apart for air again, you stay in his arms, tucked against his chest, and Eddie holds you like you’re something precious. You are, to be honest. You’re a treasure he’s lost and found again and is never letting go of.
"I don't wanna go back," you say quietly against his shoulder after a while of silence. "To pretending. To being someone I'm not."
"Then don't," Eddie says simply. "Stay here. With me. Fuck what everyone else thinks."
You pull back to look at him, and there’s hope in your eyes. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple. Not easy, but simple." Eddie brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling less hesitant to touch you now. "You get to choose what you want. Who you want. Everything everyone else says is just noise. It doesn’t matter." Eddie's heart is pounding so hard he’s sure you can hear it. "And if you choose me, I'd say you're making a terrible decision, but I'm too selfish to talk you out of it."
You chuckle, pressing your face into his neck and shaking your head. "You're not a terrible decision, Eddie."
"I sell drugs in the school parking lot and I’m on my third senior year. I'm probably the literal definition of a terrible decision."
"No," you say, pulling back to look at him again. Your eyes are bright, clear, more certain than he's seen them all night. Or ever, maybe. "I don't care. I'm so tired of doing what I'm supposed to do. I want to do what makes me happy. And you..." You cup his face in both hands. "You make me happy. You always have."
Eddie can’t help himself. He kisses you again because he can’t not, because you’re looking at him like he hung the moon and he needs you to know that you’re so much brighter than any star.
"Stay," he murmurs pleadingly against your lips once you pull away. "I know I just said that I was a terrible decision but stay. Not just tonight. Please. I know it's scary and complicated and everyone's going to have an opinion about it, but I swear to God I will spend every single day making you happy."
"Eddie—"
"I'm in love with you," he says, the words tumbling out before he can even think of stopping them. "I have been for years. Maybe since we were kids, I don't know. I tried to move on, but I can't because you’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted. And if you walk out that door tomorrow—or even right now—and decide that this was just a moment, just the aftermath of a shitty night, that would suck but I'd understand. I just need you to know. I love you. It’s you, it's always been you, and I don't think that's ever going to change."
You really can’t help yourself. You’re crying again, but you’re smiling too—the biggest, most genuine smile he's probably ever seen on your face.
"I love you too," you whisper. "Fuck, Eddie, I love you too. I have for so long. I’ve always just been too scared to admit it."
"And now?"
"Now I'm still scared," you admit, laughing shakily. "But I'm more scared of messing up and losing you again. I really, really don’t want that."
The warm glow of the trailer’s dim lights highlights your features. Your arms are around his neck, crickets chirp outside the trailer walls, and Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever felt more at home.
You kiss him again. Soft at first, but it deepens, shifting into something more urgent. It reflects years of wanting, of holding back, of pretending not to feel what you felt—all of it comes pouring out in the way your fingers tighten in his hair and the way Eddie's hands grip your waist like you might dissolve into thin air if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
"Eddie," you breathe against his mouth, and the sound of his name in your voice like that—all desperate and wanting—makes something in him snap.
He kisses you harder, pulling you closer until you’re practically in his lap. You go willingly, shifting to straddle him properly, your skirt riding up as you settle against him. Eddie's hands slid up your sides, feeling the warmth of your skin through the thin fabric of your top, and you gasp into his mouth.
"Is this okay?" he manages to ask, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His hands freeze right over your ribs, right below—
"Yes," you say immediately. "Yes. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He listens. He kisses you like a drowning man gasping for air, like he’s trying to make up for every moment of the past few years in a single night. Your hands are everywhere—in his hair, on his shoulders, sliding under his jacket to feel the warmth of him through his shirt. Every touch feels purposeful and like you’re trying to memorize him by feel alone.
When his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your top, you make a sound that goes straight through him. You arch into his touch, and Eddie groans.
"Oh, Jesus. You're killing me," he says roughly. He means it.
You chuckle, and then you’re kissing him again, rolling your hips against his in a way that makes Eddie see stars. He can feel every inch of you pressed against him—the softness of your thighs bracketing his, the way your chest rises and falls with each breath, the heat of you even through layers of clothing. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
Your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to trace the lines of his stomach, and Eddie shivers despite the warmth flooding his body. No one’s ever touched him like this before—with such tenderness and simultaneously desperate need. It’s like you can’t get close enough, like you wanna crawl inside his skin and live there forever.
"Can I—" you start, tugging at his shirt, and Eddie nods frantically before you have to elaborate.
He helps you pull it over his head, tossing it somewhere beside the couch, and then your hands are on his bare skin and Eddie forgets how to think. You trace the lines of his ribs. Your gaze trails upwards to a new, unfamiliar patch of ink right over his heart—something that looks like a snarling demon’s head.
"This new?" you ask softly, fingers tracing the slightly crooked design. You’ve seen him shirtless before at various public pool outings, but the marking seems entirely unfamiliar to you. "Never seen it before."
"Yeah," Eddie replies, his voice rough. "Got it, like, a year ago." He gauges your judgement of the design.
"I like it." You lean down, pressing a kiss to the tattoo, then to his collarbone, then up the side of his neck in a trail that makes Eddie's hands tighten on your hips.
"Your turn," he insists before you can kiss further, and you pull back to look at him, pupils blown wide.
"Yeah?"
"Only if you want," he adds quickly, backtracking self–consciously. "We don't have to—we can stop—"
You silence him with another breathless, intense kiss, then reach for the hem of your top. Eddie's hands cover yours.
"Let me?" he offers.
You nod in reply, raising your arms, and Eddie carefully peels the top up and off, revealing smooth skin and a white lacy bra that, despite its striking simplicity, somehow makes his mouth run dry. You’re so achingly beautiful that it actually hurts to look at you. His eyes wander along the curve of your waist and the way your chest seems to rise and fall with every panting breath.
"Hi," you say, looking at him and smiling a little nervously. You feel self-aware under his gaze.
"Hi," Eddie echoes, chuckling. You‘re so cute. "You're so—God, you're so beautiful."
You shake your head sheepishly and bite back a beaming smile, thinking he’s only trying to butter you up. "Eddie—"
"No, I mean it. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Have been since we were kids. I used to think it wasn't fair, you know? That someone could be that pretty and that smart and that funny. Like you got all the good qualities and the rest of us just had to deal with it."
You can feel your face heating up increasingly and all you can do is laugh, though it comes out a little shaky. "Stop..." You don‘t want him to stop. You could listen to him flattering you forever.
"Never." He pulls you back down into a kiss, skin against skin now, and the feeling of it makes both of you gasp into each other‘s mouths. Eddie's hands roam your back, feeling the realness of you in his arms after years of not daring to even dream about this exact moment.
You kiss him deeply, slowly, like his trailer is a capsule and you have all the time in the world. Your hips roll against the now obvious stiffening bulge in his jeans and Eddie groans into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the flesh of your thighs.
"Eddie," you breathe when he pulls back and leans up to kiss sloppily down your throat, on a mission to find the exact spot that makes you shiver. "Eddie, I want—"
"What?" He pulls away to look at you, wanting to hear you say it. "What do you want, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart. You gulp at the pet name. You could absolutely get used to hearing that come out of his mouth. "You," you admit. "I really want you. Please."
Eddie's heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs. He shifts, carefully lifting you with him as he stands up from the couch. You wrap your legs around his waist automatically, giggling against his neck as he carries you down the short hallway to his bedroom with surprisingly sturdy arms.
"Very smooth, Munson," you tease.
"I have my moments," he grins, shouldering open his bedroom door. He’s suddenly very aware of the mess that is his room—clothes strewn across the floor, dice scattered on the nightstand, sheets crumpled up and bed unmade—but you don’t seem to care whatsoever, so he forces himself not to either.
He lays you down on his bed gently and you look up at him with a painful amount of trust, love and want. This is real, he realizes. This is actually happening.
You reach for him and he leans in, covering your body with his, kissing you slow and thorough and pouring every ounce of passion he has into it. Your legs wrap around his waist again, pulling him even closer. He feels a spark in his chest at the taste of your mouth and the softness of your skin and the little sounds you make when he kisses that spot just below your ear.
His hands, calloused from years of strumming guitars, tremble as they reach up to frame your face for a moment, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. He can feel the damp tracks of earlier tears. The sight of you half-naked in his bed, surrounded by band posters, scattered cassette tapes and an ashtray overflowing with butts on the nightstand is a real, physical manifestation of every daydream he’s ever stifled in his mind.
He kisses you again, even deeper. His lips travel from your mouth, down the column of your throat, feeling the frantic pulse there. Eddie’s taking his sweet, sweet time, his hands sliding down, fingers sneaking underneath your arched back to reach for the clasp of your bra. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, searching your sparkling eyes for any sliver of hesitance. When he only finds certainty, his fingers fiddle with the clasp. He struggles for a few moments, tongue poking out in concentration, before finally clicking it open.
Then he pulls the straps down your shoulders and frees you of it fully, tossing it aside to join the chaos on his floor. The sight of you, bared to him in the dim light from his bedside lamp, literally steals the air from his lungs. He just stares, drinking you in, his expression one of reverent awe.
"You’re so pretty," he praises again because he finds himself simply unable not to.
You look away shyly, feeling both utterly exposed and appreciated under his gaze. "Thanks."
Eddie smiles. Slowly, he lowers his head, his mouth finding the swell of your breast, his tongue tracing a slow, worshipful circle before closing his lips around your nipple. A low groan vibrates in his chest. His other hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping the fabric of your skirt. He bunches it in his fist, dragging it upward, his knuckles brushing against the skin of your inner thigh teasingly.
His mouth is hot and insistent on your skin, his teeth grazing your nipple with a thrilling edge that makes your back arch off the bed. A choked-out gasp escapes you, your fingers tangling in the wild curls at the nape of his neck, holding him there desperately.
"Oh, shit—Eddie…"
He releases your peaked bud with a soft, smacking sound, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours. They’re blown wide, almost black with want, but there’s so much vulnerability swimming in them. He kisses a burning, worshipful trail up your sternum, back to your mouth, and swallows the sound you make when he nips at your bottom lip.
He pulls away again and his hands, trembling slightly, finally focus on the waistband of your skirt. His rings are cold against your heated skin when he slides the fabric down your legs, casting it aside like the measly blockage it is. He moves with a sudden, desperate grace, trailing kisses down the center of your stomach, his tongue flickering against the sensitive skin of your hip bone, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.
He rids you of those as well and shifts, kneeling between your thighs and draping your legs over his shoulders. He finds you glistening wet with arousal. The cool air of the trailer kisses your exposed skin for only a second before his mouth replaces it. He leans down, his dark curls spilling over your lap, shielding the rest of the world away. When he first tastes you, a mix of a groan and a sigh vibrates in his throat.
"Fuck," he breathes against you, the curse going straight through your core. His hands spread your thighs wider, palms pressing firm against trembling muscles. His tongue swipes a slow, experimental stripe through your folds, and the taste explodes across his senses. A ragged groan tears from his throat as he does it again, deeper this time, nose bumping against your aching clit.
You squirm on the mattress at that, fingers tangling in his wild curls. He moans against you, the sound sending fresh tremors through your body. "Eddie—"
"Shh. Let me," he murmurs into your pussy, lips finally sealing around your clit to suck gently. His ring-clad fingers dig into your hips, holding you as still as he wants you while his tongue flicks rapid circles. Every twitch of your muscles feeds him.
His eyes flick up to watch you, lashes low as your thighs quiver around his ears. The sight unravels him completely—Hawkins High’s prettiest cheerleader and his former best friend whom he‘s been in love with forever, drunk on his mouth. He doubles down, dragging his tongue through your soaking wet folds deliberately, speeding his movements up a little. Every nerve in his body screams to devour. But he‘ll be patient, he‘ll allow you to bask in the feeling.
"That’s it," he rasps, pulling back just enough to watch his own spit glisten on you. His breath fans over your swollen flesh. "Oh, Jesus Christ. Look at you," The word scrapes raw from his chest. He sounds genuinely awed. He seals his mouth over your clit again, his tongue fluttering rapid-fire against the sensitive bud until your back bows off the mattress.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, almost yanking with overwhelm. He groans—half pain, half triumph—and presses two fingers against your entrance.
"O–Oh! Please—" you whimper, and the sound goes straight to his cock, straining against his jeans. He pushes his digits in slowly, knuckles twisting as he curls them upward and rubs, his mouth never leaving your clit. Every thrust of his fingers matches the rhythm of his tongue, stretching you just shy of enough.
He feels it the second you tip—there‘s a flutter around his fingers and a loud hitch in your breathing. Eddie pins your hips down with his forearm, refusing to let you buck away, and swallows every pulse of your climax like communion. Only when you go boneless and fully pliant against the mattress does he ease off, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your inner thigh. His fingers slip out of you with a lewd squelch.
"So good, baby. You taste so good," he praises, dragging the back of his hand across his slicked mouth. He kneels between your trembling legs, hands trembling as he reaches for his belt buckle impatiently.
Before he can undo the belt completely, your hand quickly covers his, stilling the frantic motion. His eyes snap to yours, wide and startled. For a moment, he‘s terrified that he‘s gotten too ahead of himself. His breath catches as your fingers gently push his aside. Both to his surprise and major relief, you take over the task of undoing the worn leather.
The metal teeth of his zipper sound unnaturally loud in the quiet trailer. He’s holding his breath, watching you with a mixture of awe and disbelief. When you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and boxers, pushing them down over his hips just enough to free him, he flinches slightly, a soft, choked sound escaping him. He‘s still kneeling on the mattress while you bow forward, his scent filling your senses completely.
"Sweetheart, you don‘t gotta—"
His protest is weak, half-hearted. He’s fully hard, his cock flushed and straining against his stomach. You can see the rapid pulse in his throat, the way his knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the mattress.
You press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his navel. He jerks as if he’s just been shocked.
"You deserve this," you whisper against his skin, your breath ghosting over him. "Just let me."
He lets out a shuddering exhale, his head falling back as he squeezes his eyes shut. "Shit," he breathes, the word full of surrender. He shifts on the mattress and guides you along gently until you switch positions—his back against the headboard, you kneeling in between his legs.
You don’t take him into your mouth all at once. You start with the tip, a slow, tentative lick that has his entire body tensing already. A low groan rumbles in his chest. You swirl your tongue around the head, tasting his musk, before taking him deeper, inch by careful inch. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking in time with the shallow bobs of your head. You look and feel like a goddamn dream. There‘s no other way to describe it.
His hand reaches up, hovering near your hair as if afraid to touch and take control. "Christ..." he groans. His hips give an involuntary, tiny thrust, and he immediately stills them, a pained sound in the back of his throat. "Shit—sorry, sorry—"
You only hum encouragingly in response, the vibration against his dick making him curse again. His fingers finally sink into your hair. Not to guide you, but to simply hold on. You can feel the tension coiling in him, the way his muscles tremble with effort. You work him with your mouth and hand, learning his rhythm and the places that make his breath catch. Just as he feels himself begin to teeter on that edge, he pushes you off of him carefully. He‘s gasping and his dick is throbbing to an almost painful extent. As much as he loves the wet heat of your mouth, he really needs to finally be inside of you.
Without another word, he pulls you up until your lips meet again in a messy, desperate clash of teeth. He groans into your mouth, his hands coming up to cradle your face, and his thumbs stroke your cheeks in a way that is gentle enough to contrast with the frenzy in his kiss. Your shared taste is the most intoxicating thing he’s ever known.
He doesn’t speak anymore. Words have failed him. Instead, he moves with a sudden, decisive urgency, rolling you gently onto your back amidst the rumpled sheets. His jeans and briefs are kicked the rest of the way off, landing somewhere on the floor with a soft thud. He leans away from you and opens up the top drawer of his nightstand, fishing out a packaged condom lurking in there. You try not to work yourself up over the prospect of him having had other girls in this exact same position before.
He tears the wrapper open with his teeth, slipping it on his shaft. He settles between your thighs properly then, his weight a welcome anchor. The hard, heated length of him presses against your soaked entrance, and you both gasp at the contact.
He braces himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours. His hair forms a dark curtain around you, and his expression is one of raw reverence.
"Look at me," he whispers, his voice rough as gravel. "Please. I need to see you."
You do as he says and look straight into his eyes, an immediate grin making its way onto your face. He looks incredibly gorgeous like this, the pale moonlight bathing his features in a bluish hue.
You’re about to comment on how pretty he is, but then he’s already pushing forward, stealing the air from both your lungs. The feeling is overwhelming, a perfect, stretching fullness that makes your eyes flutter shut for a second before you force them open, locking back onto his gaze. He’s watching you with an intensity that borders on painful, cataloging every flicker of sensation that crosses your perfect face.
He bottoms out, hips flush against yours, and goes still, trembling with the effort. A bead of sweat traces a path from his temple down to his jaw. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against yours.
He whispers your name in a ragged sigh. He dips his head, pressing his forehead to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. "You feel... shit, you feel so good. Like heaven." He‘s not even exaggerating. The way your velvety walls clamp down on him has him cursing under his breath before he‘s even started moving properly.
He begins rolling his hips. It’s not a frantic, pounding rhythm, not yet. Instead, it’s deep, rolling thrusts that grind against every sensitive sweet spot inside of you. Each stroke is deliberate. The only sounds in the room are the faint creak of the mattress and your shared, panting breaths.
His mouth finds yours again in a searing kiss, then trails down your jaw to your neck, where he sucks a mark into your skin that both of you know will bruise. He wants it to. He wants to see physical proof of you choosing him marked onto your skin. One of his hands slides down to grip your hip, his fingers digging in possessively, while the other tangles in your hair.
The trailer's thin walls do little to muffle the sound of the old springs groaning under the weight of years of repressed wanting. Slowly but surely, Eddie‘s movements shift from that reverent, slow grind into something more desperate. Every time his hips slam home against yours, there’s a fleshy, heavy sound that echoes in the small room and drowns out the distant crickets as well as the blurring memories of Tyler McKinney’s bullshit party.
He pulls his head back, his dark curls matted with sweat against his forehead, and he just stares at you. His eyes are wide, glassy with a mix of pleasure and pure, unadulterated shock around the fact that this is actually happening.
He rasps out your name. "F–Fuck, you’re... you’re so fucking perfect. I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind." He’s not just talking about the physical sensation, though the way your slick pussy grips him with every pulse is enough to make his vision blur. He’s talking about the fact that it’s you. The girl he‘s always loved and whose proximity he stopped thinking he‘d be in ever again anymore. And now you‘re underneath him in his bed, being pounded like your life depends on it.
His hands slide from your hips, rings cold against your skin as he pins your wrists above your head. He’s not being rough to be mean; he’s being rough because he needs to feel you and know that this isn't some fucked–up hallucination his brain is making up. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin right where your pulse is hammering. He keeps leaving dark blossoms of color because he truly doesn‘t give a shit about the possible later fallout. He thrusts deeper, harder, his body tense with the unadulterated want of staying inside you forever.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he pants, his pace quickening until the bed is practically dancing with your movements. His body is trembling, his muscles corded and straining as he tries to maintain some semblance of control. But the way you’re looking up at him with your glassy, unfocused eyes is breaking him bit by bit. "Oh, shit— talk to me, sweetheart. Please, fuckin'–." He’s pleading. He just really needs to hear your voice.
Your jaw slacks. You can feel your orgasm coming on. That and a creeping, gnawing guilt for how you’ve hurt him with your decisions. You can physically sense the weight of every time you chose a preppy asshole over your best friend pressing down on you. It all comes crashing down along alongside the pleasure and it’s an overwhelming, suffocating tide of emotion that forces the air from your lungs in a high-pitched sob. You reach up, your fingers digging into the sweat-slicked skin of his shoulders, pulling him down until his ear is pressed against your lips.
"I love you, Eddie," you chant, the words tumbling out of you in a frantic, vocal flood that matches the pulse of your body tightening around him. "I love you. I love you... I’m sorry, I’m sorry—" The apology is a raw, strained thing that cuts through the haze of the moment. You’re crying now for likely the millionth time tonight. You repeat the words over and over, desperate for him to hear the genuine, undeniable regret coarsing through you. You’ve been such a coward, hurting him when he’s always been there for you. And the fact that he’s here, towering over you, holding you and making you feel things you‘ve never even dreamt of feeling before, makes the tears flow even quicker.
Eddie lets out a groan that serves as a visceral reaction to your words. Hearing you apologize—hearing the girl who was the only bright spot in his miserable childhood say she loves him while she’s coming apart under him—is simply too much. He doesn't want your apologies; he wants you. You‘re all he‘s ever wanted.
He redoubles his efforts, his thrusts becoming heavy and punishingly deep like he‘s trying to physically drive the guilt out of you, his teeth sinking into his own bottom lip to keep from sobbing himself.
"Don't—shit, don't say you're sorry," he gasps, his voice cracking as he catches your face in his hands, his rings biting into your skin. "Just stay. Just—ah—stay with me." He’s right on the edge now, his body vibrating with the force of his own impending peak.
He can see you unraveling, the apologies catching in your throat and your eyes searching his for a forgiveness he already gave you the second he saw you crying on that bench. He needs to push you over that final precipice. He needs to drown out your regret with a pleasure so absolute that you won't be able to remember anything except how fucking good he‘s making you feel.
He shifts his weight, one arm braced beside your head to keep from crushing you, while his other hand slides down through where your joined bodies connect. His calloused fingers find your clit, sensitive and swollen from your earlier orgasm, and begin to work it ruthlessly.
"Cum for me," he pleads, his voice a whiny vibration that shivers down your spine. "Give it to me. Need’a feel you cum around me—God, please. Cum with me, sweetheart."
You’re continously repeating his name now, your apologies melting into a frantic, breathless litany of "Eddie, Eddie, please." The combination of his weight on top of you, the depth of his length inside of you and the relentless friction of his fingers over your most sensitive spot is the final straw.
You arch your back, your fingers clenching so hard into the muscles of his shoulders that your nails leave crescent indents into his skin. The release hits you unlike anything ever has before. It’s a blinding explosion of sensation that radiates from your core and, even if only momentarily, washes away the lingering sting of those years of silence. You’re shaking, your walls spasming around him in tight, rhythmic pulses that feel like they're trying to pull him even deeper. Eddie watches it all and doesn‘t blink once, his eyes wide and glassy, relishing in the sight of you completely undone by him.
That tight, desperate clenching of your body shatters his own fragile restraint. He thrusts and buries himself as deep as he can possibly go, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his own climax rips through him. It’s a stellar, exhaustive release, every ounce of his longing and frustration and love pouring out of him and into you. He’s gasping for air, his body heavy and trembling as he collapses against you, careful to shift his weight to his elbows as to not crush you but needing the contact, needing the reassurance that you’re still there, beneath him, real and breathing and finally, finally where you were always supposed to be.
The following silence is thick, interrupted only by the sound of two sets of lungs trying to remember how to work. Eddie doesn't move for a long time, hiding his face in the curve of your neck. He feels the cooling dampness of your tears and sweat, and then he pulls back just enough to look at you. His expression is familiarly soft. He reaches up, his fingers brushing a stray hair from your forehead. Your hair is a mess, your makeup completely smudged from earlier tears and kisses, and you've never looked more perfect to him.
You have a shit ton of things to talk about. You have to figure out how you‘re going to be moving forward—whether or not anyone will know about you, whether or not you’re fully ready to escape the confines of peoples’ expectations and the sparkling reputation you’ve constructed around yourself yet. What you do know, though, is that you‘ve learned from your mistakes, and you want Eddie by your side through it all. You‘re sick of having to pretend otherwise.
You know it had to be him. Despite everything, it was always going to be him.
୨୧˚- pairing ; King! Steve Harrington x shy virgin! reader. afab! reader, no use of y/n. wc 7.4k
୨୧˚- warnings ; smut, 18+ mdni, porn with plot, kissing, inexperienced reader, experienced steve, slight bullying (not really), steve is kind of an asshole at first, pussy eating, gentle steve, slight fluff, lmk if i forgot any
: ̗̀➛ listening to ; just like heaven — the cure
Steve Harrington, Hawkins Golden Boy, ‘King Steve,’ Captain of the basketball team, whatever else his admirers called him— he was the complete an utter opposite of you. Where he’s outgoing, making loud jokes with the popular kids in study hall, you’re sitting alone in the back of class with your nose in a book. It never occurred to you, however, that maybe he noticed you just as often as you’d noticed him.
So, here you sit, in the back of Mrs. O’donnell’s class on a rainy afternoon in Hawkins. You had successfully made it to your senior year without having too many problems, you were a shadow, if that— invisible in your own skin. You didn’t have a problem with it, though. In fact, you liked being alone. Left to your own imagination, you had more fun than you could guess anyone had at a Steve Harrington house party. While they were underage drinking and smoking and only god knows what else, you fought dragons and explored ancient ruins in the quiet of your room. It was peaceful inside your head, until it wasn’t.
The rain patters softly against the classroom window, a nice, calming backdrop for your reading. That was, until he came barging in, soaking up all the quiet like it came easy for him. You were sure it did, but never could understand just how some people were born with the natural talent of social interaction. For you, that kind of life seemed like a nightmare, plucked straight from your worst fears— having people around you all the time, doting on you, talking your ear off like you’ll even remember them after graduation.
Your head snaps up as he struts through the classroom, damp from the rain, hair messy but somehow still perfectly styled, laughing with his friends about something you couldn’t even hear from the back of the classroom. You can practically see the girls in the front row melt at the mere sight of ‘King Steve’, and it makes your nose crinkle, the same way it always had. He was a pompous ass who just happened to look good doing it.
You turn your gaze back to your book, attempting to drown out your teacher and the annoying chattering from the popular group sitting near the front of the classroom. It was hard to focus with Steve Harrington sitting there, with the way all the girls and even some of the guys whispered about him and the stupid things he and his friends would do, but you managed. Until a balled up piece of paper hits you on the top of your head, that is. You glance up, looking for the culprit, and find Steve grinning at you like the Cheshire Cat.
As your eyes meet his from across the room, Tommy H. has to bring a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, they were making fun of you. You had seen it done to other students like yourself, but you were never really the center of their cruel jokes. Sure, they looked at you funny if they ever noticed you were there, but this was different— they were all looking at you now. You wished nothing more than to shrink down into your seat and become invisible again.
Steve leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the seat behind him like he owns the classroom—which, let’s be honest, he kinda does. That stupidly perfect grin is still plastered across his face as Tommy elbows him and snickers.
He doesn’t look away.
Even when Mrs. O’Donnell shoots them a glare for being disruptive again, Steve just winks at her and gives a little salute before casually tearing another piece of paper from his notebook.
Your heart thumps weirdly loud in your ears now. You’re not used to attention, especially not his. The new crumpled ball arcs through the air and lands softly on your desk with a quiet thump. You stare down at the little balled-up notebook paper, as if it might explode if you move suddenly. Eventually, your gaze drifts back to Steve, who threw the paper at you. He mouths two words, “Open it.”
You glance back down at the paper, sitting still in the middle of your desk like a taunt, several sets of eyes still fixed on you. Finally, you let out a huff, somewhere between annoyance and confusion, and begin to unravel it. It takes you no more than a few seconds, the lined paper crinkling with each gentle pull to open it up—completely blank. You hear the laughter from Tommy, Tammy, and whoever else you can’t remember the names of. You can still feel your heart beating in your ears, louder and more persistent as you try your hardest to school your expression. You wouldn’t let Steve Harrington and his stupid friends hurt you this much—they didn’t matter, they never did.
You spend the rest of the class trying your best to ignore them, keeping your eyes glued to your desk throughout the study period, hoping and praying that they’ll give up and leave you alone. Thankfully, they do, but there’s one set of eyes that never seems to stop trying to meet yours—Steve’s.
That afternoon, you had largely forgotten about the earlier incident, choosing to move on rather than dwell on your insecurities. As you walk, someone suddenly grabs your arm, pulling you into a mostly empty hall. You’re forcefully pulled into a hard chest, crashing into the culprit before you can pull back, meeting familiar brown eyes.
Steve steadies you by holding onto your arms, his gaze filled with an unusual sense of care. His voice, softer than you’ve ever heard it, carries genuine concern. “Are you okay?” he asks, loosening his grip on you.
“What are you— what?”
Steve’s expression flickers—something between worry and that same stupidly charming guilt he gets when he knows he messed up.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, running a hand through his damp hair. “I just… I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He doesn’t let go right away. His hands slide from your arms down to gently cup your wrists like you’re something fragile, like he might break you.
You stare at him, utterly confused. This isn't the loud, obnoxious Steve Harrington who laughs too loud in class and flirts with half the cheer squad without thinking twice.
This is… quiet Steve? Careful Steve?
The hallway is empty except for a janitor pushing a cart down the far end, and even then, they turn away after one glance at the King of Hawkins holding some random girl against the lockers.
His eyes search yours, the warm brown ones everyone loses their minds over. Steve exhales, slow and careful, like he’s choosing his words wisely for once in his life.
“I saw your face,” he says finally. “When the paper hit you. You looked… pissed.”
A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not mocking. It’s almost fond. Like he finds something about your anger kind of cute.
“I just… I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” His voice drops lower, quieter, almost shy. “I wasn’t trying to be a jerk.”
He shifts slightly, one shoulder leaning against the lockers beside you now instead of crowding you completely. He reaches up and gently brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead with two fingers. Your breath hitches before you can stop it.
“What were you trying to do?” Your voice comes out shakier than you wanted, more unstable.
Steve’s eyes soften at the sound of your voice, nervous, quiet, nothing like the confident girls he usually talks to. He swallows hard.
“I was trying… to get your attention,” he admits, no bravado now. Just honesty.
A beat passes.
Then another.
The janitor’s cart squeaks down the hall and disappears around a corner. The school feels hushed suddenly, like it's holding its breath too.
He licks his lips, nervous habit, and looks down for a second before meeting your eyes again.
“You never talk to anyone,” he says quietly. “You’re always in class alone with that book or walking by yourself between periods.” His head tilts slightly. “I’ve noticed you.”
Your stomach flips, not from fear this time, but something else entirely unfamiliar— being seen.
“You have?”
Steve nods, slow and serious—like this is the most important thing he’s said all day.
“Yeah,” he says. “For weeks.”
He leans in just a little, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with rain-soaked jacket.
“I mean… I see you,” he clarifies, voice warm now. “You’re always quiet, yeah, but you’ve got this look on your face sometimes when you read? Like… like something amazing’s happening in your head.”
A small smile forms, one of those rare ones that doesn’t show off for anyone else. One meant only for you.
“And I keep thinking… man, she probably thinks I’m an idiot.” He chuckles quietly at himself. “Which, I am, but not about this. Not about wanting to talk to you.”
Steve takes a tiny step closer, close enough that his shadow wraps around you both.
“So… I threw the paper,” he says with a half-smile. “Stupid move, probably. But I didn’t know how else to talk to you.”
He rubs the back of his neck, nervous Steve again, and for once, Hawkins High’s golden boy looks unsure. As if he actually cares if you’re mad at him.
“I just… wanted to say hi.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “Do you hate me now?”
“No,” you reply quietly, barely above a whisper.
Steve’s whole face lights up, like someone just flipped a switch and turned on the sun. The tension in his shoulders melts away, and that bright, easy grin spreads across his face, the one that makes girls sigh at one glance their way.
“Oh thank god,” he breathes out with a soft laugh. “I thought for sure you were gonna call me an asshole.”
He leans back slightly now, more relaxed. Still close, but not crowding. Just there with you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward, it feels weirdly peaceful? Like maybe this is what normal conversations feel like when they’re not loud or performative or fake. He reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out another piece of folded notebook paper.
“You are an asshole.” Even insulting him, his face splits in half with the widest smile you think you’ve ever seen. Not only were you speaking up now, you were teasing him, and you even allowed a tiny smile to curve the edges of your lips. Steve laughs, a real, full laugh that echoes a little in the empty hallway. It’s loud and warm and so Steve, but it doesn’t feel obnoxious this time. It feels happy.
“Okay,” he says, still grinning like an idiot, “fair.”
He holds up the folded note between two fingers, then slowly extends his hand toward you again. This one isn't crumpled or thrown. This is an offering. An olive branch? A flirtation?
Who knows with Steve Harrington, but he's looking at you like you're something special now. Like your quiet sarcasm is a gift instead of something to mock.
His eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second, just long enough for your heart to stutter, before meeting yours again with soft curiosity. You take the note, fingers gently brushing his as you do.
The second your fingers touch, Steve freezes. It’s just a brush, skin on skin for less than half a second, but his breath hitches like it was lightning.
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t make some dumb joke to cover the reaction. Just stares at you, eyes wide and suddenly so beautiful in the dim hallway light. Your fingers curl around the note as you take it, and he swallows hard, throat bobbing under that stupidly perfect jawline of his.
For someone who’s always so loud and confident, Steve Harrington is terrifyingly quiet right now. There’s no cockiness or laughter with Tommy or Tammy backing him up. Only him looking at you like he's never seen anyone quite like this before—which maybe he hadn’t?
You unfold the note slowly, carefully, like it might contain something fragile. Inside, in messy but still neater than you’d expected handwriting, “Will you go out with me?"
No jokes or sarcasm. No "just kidding" written underneath.
Just that.
Simple. Direct. Heart-on-the-sleeve Steve Harrington for once in his life.
He’s not looking at you anymore, suddenly very interested in a spot on the floor near your shoes, as if he can’t bear to see your reaction yet, or maybe because he’s terrified of rejection from someone who actually matters to him.
You frown a bit at the words, this had to be too good to be true. There was no way in Hell Steve Harrington was seriously asking you out. “Are you messing with me?”
His heart stops at how dejected you sound, like that’s the only logical option for what’s happening here. Steve’s head snaps up the second he hears your voice. And when he sees your face, the frown, the doubt, that quiet hurt in your eyes, something like panic flashes across his.
“No,” he says instantly. “God, no.”
He reaches out without thinking and cups both sides of your face gently with his hands, warm palms against cool skin, and makes you look right at him.
“I’m not messing with you,” Steve says firmly. No teasing tone. No sarcasm. Just raw sincerity from a guy who doesn’t usually do serious well.
His thumbs brush lightly over your cheeks as if checking if this is real too. You glance around at either end of the hall, like you’re waiting for Tommy H. or one of his other friends to jump out and laugh at you, the weird girl who actually thought Steve Harrington of all people liked her, even for a moment.
Steve follows your gaze, left, then right, scanning the empty hallway. He sees it too. The doubt. The waiting for a punchline.
And his expression darkens, not with anger at you, but with something protective.
Before you can pull away or overthink it any longer, Steve leans in and kisses you.
It’s soft and gentle, not like anything like his usual ones, the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything back right away, just gives itself quietly and sweetly on your lips.
No audience.
No laughter.
It’s only him and this moment, and the way his hands stay cradling your face like you’re precious to him already.
Your eyes widen, body tensing when your brain finally catches up to what’s happening. Your hands move to his shoulders, to push him away or to hold onto him tighter, you’re not sure.
Steve feels the tension in your shoulders, the split-second hesitation, and he pulls back immediately, just enough to break the kiss, but he doesn’t let go. His hands slide down from your face to rest on your arms, thumbs gently stroking like a silent ‘I'm here.’
His eyes search yours, wide, worried now. Not hurt, but afraid he messed up.
For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. Then, because you didn't push him away, because you're still holding onto his shoulders, a tiny hope flickers across Steve's face.
“What— what was that for?”
Steve’s lips part, and for once, the guy who always has a comeback, a joke, some smooth line, he’s speechless.
He blinks at you, swallowing thickly. Then, in the softest voice you’ve ever heard from him, “I kissed you… because I really like you.”
He’s not using his usual smirk, not laughing at you and you realize then, maybe he’s being honest— pure honesty, a kind of vulnerability you hadn’t expected from him that makes your stomach flip all over again. It’s terrifying when it dawns on you, you don’t think he’s joking.
He licks his lips, adding quietly, “And… I was hoping that maybe… if we kissed first? You wouldn’t think it was a joke.”
A beat passes.
And suddenly Steve Harrington, the guy who dated cheerleaders and went to every party in Hawkins, looks terrified of being rejected by you.
“Oh.”
Steve stares at you, waiting for more than just ‘oh.’
His chest rises and falls quickly, nervous. Like he’s bracing for a blow.
You can see the gears turning behind his eyes: Did she hate it? Was I too fast? Did I ruin everything before it even started?
The hallway is so quiet now. Even the distant chatter from classrooms down the hall feels muffled.
And then slowly your hands, still resting on his shoulders, relax. Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his damp jacket. You don’t push him away or seem angry, which causes a thankful huff of a breath to fall from his lips. All there is for a moment is silence and maybe something else starting to grow beneath it.
“You can do it again,” you say so softly he would miss it if he weren’t still so close. “I mean, if you want to.”
Steve hears it.
Of course he hears it, because his whole world has narrowed to the space between your lips and his, to the quiet hush of your voice saying you can do it again. For a second, he doesn’t move. Like he’s making sure you meant that. Making sure this isn't a dream. A slow, tender smile spreads across his face. Not cocky. Not show-offy. Just happy.
Without another word, he leans in again and kisses you for real this time, soft at first, then slightly bolder when you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean further into him.
This kiss is warmer. Smoother.
Steve tilts his head just slightly, learning the shape of your mouth, how you feel against him, and one hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. The other stays on your shoulder, anchoring you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. It’s not passionate or messy, it's sweet, careful. He wants to get this perfect, needs to. And when a quiet little sigh escapes you, unintentional but undeniably real, the sound makes Steve melt inside.
Steve deepens the kiss just a little, still gentle, still respectful, but now with more confidence. Like your soft sigh was permission to explore. His lips move against yours slowly, carefully. He doesn’t rush it like he might’ve done with other girls in the past. This is different. This is you. And Steve Harrington right now, is completely gone for you.
One of his hands slips down from your neck to rest on your waist, pulling you slightly closer, not trapping you, but inviting. Giving space if needed, taking space if allowed.
The hallway clock ticks loudly somewhere above you, the only sound besides your breathing and the quiet press of lips meeting again and again.
The bell rings out, loud and shrill, making you separate from him. You gently push him back, not enough to make him lose balance, but enough for him to get the hint and back up on his own. Any second now, the hall would be flooded with students, he wouldn’t want to be seen with you, especially not in such a compromising position.
Steve stumbles back half a step, more from surprise than force, as the bell continues to shriek through the halls. For a split second, his face falls. That soft, kissy glow gone now, replaced by reality— the end of class, students everywhere in less than 30 seconds. And yeah, maybe he’s worried about what people will say. Not because he cares if they see him with you, but because you’re quiet, reserved, and Steve knows how high school works. The gossip machine crushes anything that doesn’t fit their stupid norms and fast.
He quickly adjusts his jacket and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes dart toward the classroom doors where kids are already starting to pour out into hallways nearby, laughing, shouting over each other as usual.
Steve glances back at you, just for a second, and in that look, there’s something unspoken.
I don’t want to go.
But he can’t just stand here. Not with the halls filling, not if Tommy sees him lingering by you after kissing you like that. So instead of saying anything dumb, Steve does something simple. He grabs your hand, quick, quiet, and squeezes it once. A secret pulse of connection before reality crashes in.
Then he steps back completely, slipping into the stream of students emerging from classrooms down the hall, but not before flashing you one last small smile over his shoulder, the kind only you get to see right now. You stand there, frozen for a moment, hand still slightly warm from where his had touched yours.
The hallway is loud now, bodies everywhere. Lockers slamming. Groups of kids laughing and shoving past each other, but all you can focus on is the ghost of Steve’s kiss and the way he looked at you, like you were something special. Maybe you were.
Not just some quiet girl in the back of the class, but the one he kissed, the one that, for whatever reason, he was interested in.
Your cheeks burn as someone bumps into your shoulder, a jock with a gym bag who doesn’t even say sorry, and reality fully crashes back in— school life continues. No matter that your entire world just shifted five minutes ago in an empty hallway with the King Steve Harrington.
Later that night, while sitting in your room, your mind still occupied by the memory of Steve’s lips on yours, you hear something creaking outside your window. Moving to check what it was cautiously, you start to hear your heart racing in your ears. You pull back the curtains gently, bracing yourself for whatever may be lurking beyond them, and come face to face with none other than— “Steve?”
Steve is supporting his weight on your trellis, trying his hardest not to topple to the ground. He’s in a hoodie and jeans, no letterman jacket, just regular clothes. The second you pull the curtain back and say his name, he freezes, wide brown eyes lock onto yours through the glass. No smirk, no joke, just pure, wide-eyed hope, and maybe a little fear that you won’t let him in.
You open the window, allowing him to climb in. He does, but not before knocking over a stack of books on your desk with him, wincing at the thud they make when they crash to the floor. His eyes lock back onto yours after a moment, sensing the confusion etched onto your features. With furrowed brows, you cross your arms over your chest, “What are you doing here? And how do you even know where I live?”
Steve immediately crouches to start gathering the fallen books, “sorry, sorry,” mumbling under his breath.
“Your address,” he says, voice low and sheepish, slightly out of breath from the climb to your window. “I looked you up, in uh, in the white pages. That’s probably creepy, huh? Now that I’m saying it, it’s definitely creepy.”
He winces as he piles the books back onto your desk, The Hobbit, A Wizard of Earthsea, Dragonflight, and then straightens up.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Steve admits quietly. “But I had to.”
His eyes flicker over your face, the way you’re glaring at him with crossed arms and suspicion, and something in his chest tightens.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about today,” he says. “About kissing you. About how… how it felt like the first real thing I’ve done in forever.”
He swallows hard, suddenly looking less like Hawkins High’s golden boy and more like a guy who actually has feelings. Steve takes a small step toward you, careful, like you’re a spooked animal.
“And I didn’t want to wait,” he adds. “I kept thinking… what if she changes her mind? What if she regrets it? What if she thinks I was just messing around?”
His voice drops even lower, almost fragile now.
“I had to see you. Tonight.”
He reaches out slowly, not grabbing, not demanding, but just lifts his hand like an offer: can I hold your hand? Can we talk about this without the whole school watching? The streetlight outside casts soft light through your window onto his face.
“Well, now you see me.”
Steve exhales—half laugh, half relief, but it’s shaky. Like he wasn’t sure you’d let him in at all.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I do.”
He stares at you for a long moment, taking in the quiet of your room— fairy lights strung around the ceiling, shelves full of books with spines cracked from rereading, a desk covered in notes and doodles.
It looks like you, peaceful, thoughtful, maybe a bit understated, nothing like his loud house parties or basketball locker room chaos. And then his eyes land back on yours, dark with something nervous and hopeful all mixed together.
“So, did you just come to talk or…?”
Steve’s breath hitches. Did you just imply what he thinks you did? His eyes dart to your lips, then back up, quickly, like he got caught doing something forbidden. A faint pink tinges his cheeks. Steve Harrington is blushing.
He licks his lips again, then takes one slow step closer. Without a word, because maybe words would ruin it, he leans in and kisses you.
This time, it’s different from the hallway kiss, softer at first, but bolder too. Like he's been thinking about this all night and now that he's here, he doesn't want to waste a second.
The kiss deepens when you bring a hand up around the back of his neck, tugging gently on the hair there.
Steve makes a quiet, breathy sound against your lips— oh— at the feel of your fingers in his hair.
It’s soft. Messy. His favorite part of himself to mess with when he's nervous. And now you're touching it? That tiny tug, that gentle pull, it sends a shiver down his spine, and suddenly Steve kisses you like he’s been starving for this all day.
He cups your face with one hand, tilting it slightly as the kiss gets deeper, warmer, hungrier but still sweet, not reckless or sloppy like makeout sessions might be at parties. This is meaningful. Like every second matters because it's you.
His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer gently, until there's no space left between either of you.
He slowly backs you up into your bed, lips still locked in a passionate kiss. When the backs of your knees bump the side of your mattress, Steve gently lays you down underneath him.
Steve follows you down with careful balance, one hand braced beside your head—never putting weight on you, never rushing.
Your pink bedsheets smell like vanilla and laundry detergent. He takes a second to breathe it in, like he’s memorizing the moment.
Then his lips trail from yours, placing a soft kiss to your jaw, then lower, nipping gently at the curve of your throat before pressing an open-mouthed kiss right over your pulse point. It’s warm, wet, slightly ticklish, but in the best way possible.
And when he feels how fast your heart is racing under his mouth? Steve smiles against your skin, just a tiny curve of pride, and does it again, slower this time, savoring every shiver that runs through you beneath him.
Steve’s lips linger on your throat, kissing, nipping softly, before he trails lower, his breath warm against the delicate skin of your collarbone.
He’s being so careful. Like you’re something precious. Not rushing, not assuming anything, but when you tilt your head back slightly, a silent invitation, a quiet surrender, he takes it as permission to keep going.
Another kiss just above the dip of your shoulder, then one more beneath it, right where fabric meets skin and warmth pools between you two.
His hands stay gentle: one cradling the side of your face while the other rests lightly on his hip beside yours, not pushing for anything beyond this slow exploration yet, but wanting. Wanting so much more than a kiss in the hallway could ever could give him.
Steve’s breathing is uneven now, shallow, a little quick. He lifts his head slightly, just enough to look down at you beneath him. Your eyes are half-lidded. Your cheeks are flushed pink, the same shade as your sheets, your lips slightly swollen from kissing. Steve looks like a boy who just discovered heaven and doesn’t want to leave it ever again.
Without saying anything, he leans back in, and this time, his kiss lands softly on the corner of your mouth, slowly moving across to press one right in the middle of your lips, tender, sweet, full of everything unspoken between you two since that afternoon. Steve’s hands slide beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie, hesitant at first, fingertips barely grazing warm skin. They’re careful, respectful. Not grabbing or squeezing, just learning you.
His palms are warm against your sides, thumbs brushing over the curve of your waist as he leans into another kiss, deeper this time, more confident now that he feels you melting under him, not pulling away, not flinching.
A quiet sound escapes him, something between a hum and a sigh, as his touch grows bolder and his fingers trace small circles on your stomach underneath the thin layer of cotton. Steve’s touch grows bolder, gentle but sure now.
He lifts the edge of your hoodie slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss right above your belly button. A tiny, sweet gesture that makes his heart race. Your breath catches, eyes slightly widened as you stare down at his brown ones. Steve looks up at you from under his lashes, eyes dark with affection, maybe a little awe.
He sees the way you're watching him. The quiet surprise in your expression. The fact that you’re letting this happen, letting him be close like this, and it makes his chest swell.
Without breaking eye contact, he slowly pulls your hoodie higher, just enough to expose more of your stomach, and leans down again. This time, he kisses bare skin, right above the waistband of your shorts, a soft press of lips warm against cool flesh before gently nuzzling there for a second.
“Steve—“ The sound of his name on your lips, soft, uncertain, maybe even a little breathless, makes Steve freeze.
He lifts his head instantly. Not because he’s scared or embarrassed, but because you said his name, and it sounds so good coming from you. His eyes search yours again, warm brown pools full of concern and care now instead of just desire.
“Yeah?” he murmurs back, voice low and gentle, rougher than usual from kissing you so much. His focus is fully on you, ready to stop anything if that’s what you need right now.
“I’ve never—“ you blush, suddenly feeling small under his gaze. “Done anything… like this, you know?”
Steve’s expression shifts instantly, not with surprise or judgement, just a quiet understanding. So much softness floods his face that it almost hurts to look at. He doesn’t say anything for a second, just gently cups your cheek, thumb brushing over the warm pink of your blush like he wants to soothe you.
Then, quietly, “It’s okay.”
No teasing smirk. No “really? Never?” He just means it, it's okay. You don't have to be nervous around him, not about this, not ever if you're with him like this again later on. And then Steve does something sweet, he leans in and kisses your forehead. A slow, tender press of lips, gentle as a lullaby.
Your next words surprise him, “But I want to.”
Steve’s breath stops.
For a second, he just stares at you, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, pulse jumping. For once, the guy who always knows what to do with girls, or at least thinks he does, is completely still. Speechless. Then slowly, so carefully, a soft smile spreads across his face, not cocky or smug like usual, but pure happiness mixed with awe.
“Just… be gentle, okay?”
Steve nods, fast, like he’s taking a sacred vow. His expression is so serious, so reverent, that it doesn’t even look like the same Steve Harrington who jokes around with Tommy or flirts with everyone at parties. This version is all soft eyes and quiet devotion. Like you just handed him something fragile and precious, and he will not mess this up.
“Yeah,” he whispers, voice barely above a breath. “I’ll be gentle.”
He leans down slowly, so slow, and kisses you again— feather-light on your lips this time, patient and sweet and caring. Like every touch from here on out has to mean something because it's your first time wanting this, wanting him.
Steve’s hands hover at the edge of your waistband, fingers brushing the soft fabric, hesitant.
He kisses a slow trail down your stomach, one kiss just above your belly button, another lower, each press of his lips deliberate, tender. Like he's worshipping you without words. His breath is warm through the thin fabric of your shorts as he pauses for a second, waiting, making sure you're still okay, still wanting this.
Then, with careful fingers, so unlike his usual boldness, Steve gently hooks one finger into the elastic of your waistband and tugs, just slightly, not pulling it off yet, just testing the waters. A silent question in touch, can I go further?
You nod, breath catching in your throat as you watch with rapt attention. Steve sees your nod, hears the way your breath stutters, that tiny, nervous sound, the way you’re watching him, wide-eyed, heart pounding—it makes his own chest tighten with something huge. Responsibility. He swallows hard, lifting the fabric of your waistband just a little more and presses a kiss right to the soft skin beneath it, right above your womb, a patch of warm skin that’s never been kissed like this before.
Another pause. Another glance up at you, checking in without saying anything, making sure every inch is okay for you to go further.
Steve’s hands move with delicate precision—lifting the fabric of your shorts just enough to expose more of your skin, inch by soft inch.
He kisses each new patch as it appears: a soft press right above your hipbone, then another lower, along the curve where fabric meets flesh. His lips are warm. Gentle. Each kiss is slow, like he's memorizing you, not rushing toward anything but savoring this moment.
When his fingers finally slip under the waistband completely and hook around it properly, he waits again, eyes lifting to meet yours one last time, a silent question hanging in the air between you two.
Steve’s movements are slow, reverent, like he knows this is something sacred for you.
He pulls your shorts down over your hips, then lower, past your knees, gently off one foot, then the other. The fabric drops to the floor beside the bed with a soft sound.
Then he kisses his way up, starting at the back of your knee, soft presses of his lips, a light nip, gentle enough not to sting, another kiss on warm skin as his hands glide along your thighs. With quiet care, Steve parts them just slightly, not pushing too far yet, but making space so that if you want this, he can be close.
Steve settles between your legs, his body warm and solid, knees on either side of your hips, hands resting lightly on the bed beside you. For a moment, he just looks at you.
Not with hunger or impatience, but wonder. Like he can’t believe this is real. That you’re letting him be here like this, trusting him like this.
Then slowly, he leans down and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, soft as breath at first, then another slightly higher, each one careful, deliberate. His lips trail upward in feather-light kisses, not rushing toward anything specific yet, but building something quiet and tender between you two: trust, connection. A new kind of intimacy neither of you has shared together before tonight.
Steve’s breath hitches. He sees it, the faint dampness through the thin cotton of your panties. For him.
A rush of warmth floods his chest, not just pride, but something deeper— awe, affection, a quiet kind of wonder that you are reacting like this because of him.
His throat goes dry. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just stares, heart pounding in his ears louder than anything else in the world right now.
His eyes darken slightly as he stares at the spot, so soft, so private, and without a word, Steve leans down, pressing a slow kiss right over the cotton-covered heat between your thighs. His nose nudges your clit as he leaves soft kisses over the fabric, enough to make you shiver. Steve lingers there, lips moving gently over the fabric, testing.
Each kiss is warm, muffled by cotton but so intentional. Like he’s learning you through this thin barrier first, how you respond to pressure, where it feels best when he kisses, how your breath changes above him. His hands slide up your sides again, reassuring, as his mouth presses a little more firmly now, a slow drag of lips right over the center of that damp spot, waiting to see if you’ll arch into him or pull back.
Steve’s tongue flicks out, once, a teasing, wet swipe right over the damp fabric. It’s light, experimental. Not demanding, tasting. The cotton is cool from the air but warm where your body heat meets it and he can feel you through the thin material, softness, warmth, and that quiet pulse of arousal.
Another lick follows, slower this time, a long drag across the center of your panties as his nose brushes against you. He does it again with more confidence now, that same slow glide of his tongue over soaked cotton, like he's learning what feels good to you by instinct alone.
Steve feels your fingers tangle in his hair, tight, but not rough, and a quiet sound escapes him, half sigh, half moan. It sends a thrill through him.
He loves the feel of it—your hands gripping his messy brown strands like you’re anchoring yourself to him, or maybe guiding without words. And he leans into it, letting you hold on as he keeps licking slow circles over the fabric with warm, wet strokes of his tongue. Each one more deliberate than the last, the rhythm building slightly now that he knows you're responding. Your breath is getting faster, chest rising faster than before.
Steve feels the tension in your hands—the way your fingers curl tighter when he does something especially good, and it makes him bolder.
He presses his mouth more firmly against you now, lips parting slightly to kiss deeply over the damp cotton, then without warning, he gently sucks on your clit, just enough pressure to send a jolt through you, a quiet, wet suction that pulls at fabric and skin beneath. His tongue moves with it, circling slowly while he keeps gentle suction going, testing how much sensation this builds for you. And all the while, your hands are still fisted in his hair.
You let out a sharp gasp as he continues his ministrations, causing his eyes to meet yours, a small smirk playing at his lips. “You like that, huh?”
And when he sees your face, the flush, the wide eyes, the way your chest rose on that gasp, he feels something warm and proud bloom in his chest.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against you, voice low and velvety from being so close to where you’re most sensitive. Steve repeats it— another slow kiss, another gentle suction through the fabric, followed by a teasing nip of teeth over cotton-covered heat.
He brings a finger up towards your clothed heat, running it gently through fabric-covered folds, pushing in as much as he can through the barrier. “You’re so pretty.”
Steve’s voice is quiet, reverent, as he says it. It’s not a flirty line. Not something he’d say to impress someone. It’s genuine. Like the truth just spilled out because his heart couldn’t hold it in anymore.
His finger continues moving, soft, slow circles over the fabric-covered heat between your legs, pressing gently but never too hard. Testing. Learning how you respond through the thin layer. The way you arch slightly into his touch, the little hitches in your breath, they make him feel powerful, not like he's controlling anything, but like you're trusting him completely.
Steve’s mouth is on fire with focus, lips, tongue, soft suction, all working in rhythm over the damp fabric. He’s not thinking about himself. Not really. Sure, his jeans are uncomfortably tight. Sure, there's a dull throb low in his stomach, the kind that comes from wanting someone so badly it aches, but right now, you’re all that matters.
And he wants to make you feel good first.
A wave of arousal hits him and his hips jerk involuntarily against the mattress, the tiny shift of pressure barely helping to ease the tension, but he hardly registers it, too lost in kissing you like this— deliberate licks followed by gentle nips, then another warm kiss right on your clit through cotton. Every sound you make feeds him more confidence than any girl ever has before tonight.
Steve loses himself in the rhythm, kiss, lick, suck, the fabric getting damp from his mouth and your arousal mixing.
He’s breathing through it, shallow inhales when he pulls back for a second to catch air before diving right back in like he can’t stay away. Each time you gasp, each time your fingers tighten just so in his hair, it makes him bolder. Makes him want to push further, but still gently. Still patiently. His hips press down again into the mattress, subtle this time, not chasing relief just yet, just adjusting.
Steve pulls back just enough to whisper, lips still wet, voice rough with emotion and arousal. “You close, sweetheart?”
The pet name slips out, unplanned, unfiltered. Sweetheart. So unlike the loud, joking Steve Harrington everyone knows.
He looks up at you— your flushed face, your clenched thighs around his shoulders, the way your breath is coming in short little hitches, and he can tell, you’re right on the edge. His eyes are dark with affection, and something hotter, continuing his movements until you barrel over the edge.
Steve feels it, the moment you shatter. Your thighs lock around him like a vise, your back arching slightly off the bed as a quiet, breathy sound escapes you, maybe not even a full moan, but something just as powerful— pure release.
Your hands yank at his hair, not hard enough to hurt, but with desperate tension, as the wave crashes through you.
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop. Just keeps gently sucking and kissing through the fabric, softening now as he feels every tremble in your body, every pulse of pleasure rippling under his lips. Steve watches everything, the way your lashes flutter shut, the soft part of your lips. How peaceful, and overwhelmed, you look right after coming undone for him.
You catch your breath for a moment before meeting this gaze, still between your thighs. “Can I… should I, you know, help you now?”
Steve’s breath catches. “Help me?”
He blinks, surprised, touched, maybe a little overwhelmed that you’d even offer. That after all that intimacy, you’re thinking about him. For a second, he just stares at you, lips still slightly wet from kissing through your panties. His face is warm, not just from arousal now, but from the sweetness of it— you wanting to return something to him.
He shakes his head, moving upwards to hover over you again. His fingers trace gently over your jaw, “No, sweetheart. Tonight was just about you, okay?”
Steve leans down and kisses you, soft, slow, sweet, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. He rests his forehead against yours afterward, breathing the same air as you, close enough to feel every tiny shift in your body.
“I’m good,” he murmurs with a small smile, the kind that’s pure affection. “Honestly? Seeing you like that… hearing those sounds? That was more than enough.”
“Next time then?”
Steve’s heart stops before starting again, harder, faster, like a drum in his chest. Next time?
A slow, dazed smile spreads across his face, big and genuine and so full of joy that it almost doesn’t look like the same Steve Harrington who walked into your room nervous twenty minutes ago.
“Yeah,” he says softly, voice thick with emotion. “Definitely next time.”
And then he kisses you again, not passionately or urgently like before, but sweetly. A promise sealed in lips— this isn’t just a one-time thing for him.
a small blurb set between season 4 and 5 where the party slowly begins to realize that you and Steve might be more than friends
"stop looking at me like that," you balled up the dirty cleaning rag and tossed it at his chest. with a shake of your head, you finished tidying the kitchen after getting put on dishes duty with Steve. it was your "punishment" after losing two rounds of UNO to the kids.
he released a breathless laugh as he caught the rag and placed it in the hamper with the other linens, "like what?"
moving towards the dish rack, you began to pat the dishes dry with a new towel and pass them off to Steve. it was easier for the taller man to get them all put away in their proper spot, "the way you just.. sigh and gaze at me. like you've got some secret you need to spill to me."
a nervous chuckle sounded off between the two of you. you handed off a stack of cups to him next, "robin asked me today if you finally did something. now, i don't know what gave her that impression but this... starry-eyed, hopeful look amidst the apocalypse is clearly giving everyone the wrong impression."
Steve briefly paused to mull over your words before he finished off the cups, "the wrong impression?"
"well, yes," you shrugged as if it were obvious.
He grabbed the collection of dinner plates from you, "you think that look is giving the wrong impression? what impression is it giving?"
you huffed as you attempted to find your way around the words, you didn't want to just say it and risk the tension becoming awkward. yet at the same time, if neither of you cleared the air soon, one of the kids or your friends would force it out of you.
"like you're... infatuated with me?"
"infatuated," Steve chuckled and sighed, "I didn't realize teaming up with you at the end of the world would mean we're still avoiding the elephant in the room."
"I didn't know there was an elephant in the room," you tried to play it cool. maybe he would sweep it under the rug again.
Steve's honeyed gaze flicked over your figure leaning against the kitchen counter. he closed the space in two easy strides and gently ducked closer, "I think you do..."
with a shuddering breath, you took a cautious step closer, "people will say we're in love."
"I think Joyce might kill you if you quote Oklahoma again," he lightly teased. one of Steve's large hands settled against your waist as his head dipped down, "but if we're gonna survive this, i'm making sure we both make it out on the other side."
you cocked your head to the side and gave him a gentle grin. with a simple hum, it was easy to agree, "that's alright with me."
let me know if you're interested in me expanding this thought or if you have any requests!
modern!rockstar!steve harrington (totally not djo def not👀) x instagram baddie!fem!reader ; 1k words
masterlist
i can’t explain this yall it just happened enjoy some short filth inspired by my djame impala excitement and love for djo
modern!rockstar!steve, who gets lonely on tour.
his hand is a poor imitation for the real thing. he steals moments alone on the tour bus, and it gets the job done, but he craves more. especially when he finds your instagram, and it becomes his favorite thing to jerk off to.
pictures of you in a bikini on the beach—the third photo is his favorite, because you were there with all your friends but in that one you’re standing alone, perfect ass on display. the ones from your last birthday party, where you were in that club wearing that tight dress that left just enough to his (depraved) imagination.
it always made him cum embarrassingly fast. god, it had been a while.
so when the tour brought him to los angeles, where he knew you lived, how could he not shoot his shot? he half expected you to ignore him. you had millions more followers than he did—not that he cared about that—and he knew your dms had to be full of men begging for a chance.
when your response came up on his screen during sound check, his heart stopped.
before he knew it, he was performing, his eyes darting to the side of the stage more times than he intended just to see your reactions as you watched him. the clips and speculation would go wild online later—who was he looking at? who was there?—but that didn’t matter to him
“fuck, look at you,” steve rasped when he had you spread out on the bed in his hotel suite after the show, bare and perfect and better than anything he’d dreamed of alone with his throbbing cock in his hand.
you smiled up at him, so pretty and too sweet for what he was about to do to you. his cock was rock hard, dripping with precum already as he pressed against your cunt, so soaked for him, just for him. when you’d told him you were on birth control and he could fuck you raw, he’d nearly cum on the spot.
he grabbed your thighs with those big hands you’d been watching all night, and pushed them up against your body, spreading you wide for him. the groan he let out at the sight was pornographic, making you clench around nothing. you wanted him inside you now—you’d heard the rumors, and they were true. steve was huge.
he nudged his thick tip at your hole, where you were so desperate for him, and then—
“oh, fuck,” he nearly whimpered as he sunk into you, inch by thick inch. he hadn’t realized how badly he needed the real thing until he was burying his cock into your perfect cunt. tight, wet, hot, and squeezing him so perfectly he wasn’t sure how long he’d last. but he was not going to embarrass himself now.
“god, steve,” you whined, writhing under him as you adjusted to the way he stretched you out. he only gave you a second before he was pulling back, then fucking into you like he couldn’t stand not to for another second. you gasped and moaned and cried out for him, your sounds making his hips buck uncontrollably, taking you harder.
“i—holy shit,” steve groaned, hips rutting against you so hard the bed was shaking against the wall. the heat in his gaze as he looked down at you nearly took your breath away, his cheeks flushed, messy hair stuck to his forehead. his fingers tightened against your thighs when he looked down, watching himself sink into you over and over. “jesus fuck. your pussy—oh—god, you’re so good, baby, could fuck you for hours, oh fuck yeah squeeze me like that again—“
he fucked you like a man starved, like he’d been craving this with his whole body for longer than you could even comprehend. he bent over you to capture your lips in a filthy kiss, pressing your legs tighter against you, nearly bending you in half as he licked into your mouth, bit your bottom lip, groaned against you.
you couldn’t even warn him before you came. it hit you when he sat up, adjusting the angle of his hips and using his grip on your body to drag you down against his cock so hard you were seeing stars.
“yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he coaxed breathlessly, his eyes rolling back as he felt you tighten around him, milking his cock for everything he had. “god, yeah, cum for me just like that, so good baby, so good, fuck, fuck—!”
he was so close, right behind you, you could tell. he watched your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts while he used your body to chase his high, the one he’d been craving for so long, and you were gonna give it to him.
“gonna cum in you,” he rambled, his mind going hazy from the pleasure. “gonna give it to you baby, gonna give it all, gonna fill you up so fuckin’ deep—“
he let out a choked moan, his hips losing their rhythm as he lost himself in you. “fuck, yeah, fuck, oh fuck, gonna cum, gonna make me cum, shit—“
it was your name on his lips when his cock jerked inside the tight confines of your perfect cunt, spilling every drop of his cum into you, pulsing deep and filling you just like he’d promised. it was the release he’d needed so badly, like he’d dreamed of, only better. he rode it out until it finally subsided, feeling like he could have come forever.
when he pulled out, he collapsed next to you. his hand resting on your waist as you both came down, neither of you in a rush to put any distance between you, or to get back to your individual hectic lives. there was something sweet about the way he looked at you now, like he couldn’t quite believe it was you here with him now.
“so…” he finally said, after he had the chance to catch his breath. “can i get your number?”
