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summary: After the party, avoiding Steve Harrington should have made everything easier. Instead, it made campus feel smaller, your roommate’s new happiness feel louder, and every rumor about him feel personally designed to prove you right. You kept telling yourself you were fine. Steve kept trying not to make things worse.
Neither of you are very successful.
pairing: frat boy au!steve harrington x reader
content warnings: alcohol mentions & consumption, hangovers, severe emotional avoidance, extreme self-sabotage, anxious & avoidant attachment patterns, intense miscommunication, jealousy & insecurity, emotional distress & exhaustion, fear of vulnerability, fear of abandonment, public gossip & misunderstandings, party/mixer environment, sick characters, confrontations, heavy romantic tension, slow burn, angst, pre/situationship angst, lmk if I missed anything!
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 9.8k
a/n: okay so this chapter really puts these two through the meat grinder 😭 I love Robin/Lena and you better too 😌 I hope you guys are ready for the slow burn to get a little extra painful before it gets better, let me know your thoughts on this chapter!!
The next morning should have embarrassed you enough to kill whatever fragile thing had started on the porch.
For a while, you convinced yourself it had.
You spent Saturday in bed with the curtains half-drawn, one sock on, one sock lost somewhere between your sheets and the floor. Your mouth tasted like old sugar and regret. The heat radiator hissed too loudly, and somewhere in the apartment, Lena was humming while making coffee, which meant Robin had either called already or existed in a way worth humming about.
Lena was the one calming constant variable.
You had known Lena since freshman orientation, when she dropped an entire stack of registration forms in front of the dean and then laughed so hard at herself that three people helped her pick them up. She had been impossible not to like after that. Warm without being simple. Pretty in a way she never knew what to do with. Quick to fall into things; classes, friendships, crushes, and then twice as quick to panic once they started looking back at her.
By noon, she had come into your room three times.
The first time, she held out toast.
You stared at it from under your blanket. “Absolutely not.”
She shrugged. “It’s dry.”
“That’s really not a selling point.”
“Steve said toast helps.” You scowled at her words and pulled the blanket over your head.
Lena laughed at you freely. “So he called.”
Your voice grumbled under your warm covers. “Unfortunately.”
“And?”
“And he recommended hydration.”
“That’s all?”
You stayed still beneath the blanket, breathing in warm cotton and the faint smell of your shampoo from your pillowcase.
Lena sat on the edge of your bed then. The mattress dipped, and you hated that she was gentle about it.
“He got you home,” she brought up, clearly more at ease than she'd been about the topic last night.
“I got myself home. He walked nearby.”
“Sure.”
You detested her agreement. “Do not use that tone.”
“What tone?”
That was when you let your head peek out from under the covers, your eyes squinting slightly to readjust in the bright light. “The one where you act like I’m a wet cat you found in an alley.”
She poked your shoulder through the blanket with a pout. “You are a wet cat I found in an alley.”
You kicked at her weakly, and Lena caught your ankle and squeezed once before letting go. Her next words came all too casual. “Robin said he was worried.”
Your whole body went still.
There it was. His worry, passed around like evidence. His concern, made public. His goodness, sitting heavy in your room next to your hangover and your shame. The thought already grated on your day even more.
You pulled the blanket down just enough to glare. “Robin should worry about her own romantic crisis.”
“She is. We’re getting coffee tomorrow.”
You blinked flatly for a moment, and Lena tried to look nonchalant. She failed immediately.
“Coffee,” you repeated hesitantly.
“Just coffee.”
“Coffee with Robin?” The clarification was more for effect than knowledge.
Lena seemed far too interested in your linens now. “Yup.”
“At The Hideout?”
“No, Melvald’s.”
“Melvald’s has terrible coffee.”
A shrug. “She suggested it.”
Your voice turned gentler as you looked at your friends, taking in their obvious energy. “Then she’s either nervous or cheap.”
“Both, probably.”
You let the blanket fall back. Despite yourself, your mouth softened. Lena saw it and smiled too, small and completely terrified.
You were good at this part. Other people’s feelings were easier when they didn’t involve you. You could hold Lena’s panic in both hands, turn it over, and make sense of it. You could tell her what earrings to wear and what not to overthink. You could remind her that Robin’s sarcasm was a pressure valve, not disinterest. You could be useful.
Useful was safe.
So you sat up, ignored the headache spearing behind your eyes, and told Lena not to wear the green sweater because she kept pulling at the sleeves when she was nervous.
She stared at you with a frown on her cherry-tinted lips. “You noticed that?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re scary.”
“I’m helpful.”
“You’re both.”
You accepted that.
For the rest of the weekend, you occupied yourself with Lena.
You helped her choose shirts. You listened to her rehearse three different ways to say hi, all of which sounded exactly like hi. You sat at the kitchen table with your chin in your hand while she spiraled over whether coffee counted as a date if neither person used the word date.
“It counts if both of you spend too long thinking about lip gloss beforehand,” you couldn't help the words from slipping out as you looked at her panic pointedly.
Lena froze with the tube halfway to her mouth. “I hate you.”
Your response came back sang. “No, you don’t.”
“I do right now.”
“You’ll thank me when you’re married to the radio station gremlin.”
Lena’s face went pink but didn't deny it. “Don’t call her that.”
You made a noise and let your mouth tilt sideways. “Oh, we’re defensive now.”
She threw a dish towel at you and pretended like she didn't continue to fuss over her appearance.
It was easy to laugh with her. Easy to feel normal for a few minutes at a time.
Then the phone would ring, or footsteps would pass outside your apartment, or Lena would say Steve’s name in a sentence about Robin, and your stomach would clench before you could stop it.
You didn't call him.
You didn't thank him properly.
And you did not mention the stairs, the water, the jacket, the porch, or the god-awful small confession you had left between you like a dropped glass nobody wanted to clean up.
On Monday morning, you saw him outside the library and crossed the street before he could lift his hand.
That was when avoidance stopped feeling like a choice and started becoming a schedule.
Steve had promised himself he would not chase you.
It lasted almost nine full hours.
By Monday afternoon, he had already walked past your usual table in the dining hall twice, slowed outside the bookstore when he saw a sweater that might have been yours, and stopped himself from calling your apartment so many times Robin threatened to unplug his phone and beat him with the cord.
“You said you’d leave her alone,” Robin reminded him, and the reminder had him groaning.
Steve sat backward in the desk chair in his room, arms folded over the top rail, chin resting there like a sulking child. “I am.”
“You asked me if Lena mentioned her four times.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I asked you.”
Robin stared at him from the floor, where she was surrounded by cassette tapes and half-written notes for her radio shift. “You understand how information travels between people, right?”
“I didn’t call her.”
“Gold star.”
Steve groaned and dropped his forehead against the chair. His fingers twitched against his forearms restlessly. “She crossed the street.”
Robin’s expression shifted; he knew because he didn't look at her, but he felt it anyway. There it was, the sympathy. The carefulness. He hated carefulness when it was aimed at him. It made him want to stand up straighter and pretend he was fine.
“She was probably overwhelmed,” Robin’s voice came low and left no room for panic. Steve made some anyway.
He frowned at the memory. “She didn’t look overwhelmed. She looked like she saw a gas leak.”
“That might be her being overwhelmed.”
Steve lifted his head, and begrudgingly he finally exhaled. “Do you think she regrets it?”
Robin’s mouth pressed together, and it only made his hands scrub over his face harder. Steve looked away before she answered.
That was the thing nobody told you about trying not to be the old version of yourself. It didn't make you new overnight; instead it only made you aware, constantly, of all the ways you could still get it wrong.
In high school, Steve would have taken your distance personally and covered the bruise with attention from someone easier. He knew that about himself. He could see the path clearly enough to really hate it. Some girl would smile at him at a party, and he would lean into it because being wanted was simpler than being understood. He had done it before. He had been good at it.
Now, he did not want easy.
He wanted to know whether you had eaten breakfast. He wanted to know if your headaches had gone away. He wanted to know if you remembered saying you hated toast and if that meant crackers had been the right answer or the wrong one.
He wanted to know if you had meant any of it sober.
That was the worst part.
Because if he asked, he might corner you.
And if he didn’t, he might lose you by being decent too late.
Robin flicked a cassette case at his knee. Her sigh came out exasperated. “Stop making that face.”
“Which face is this one now?”
“The face where you decide to ruin your own life for sport.”
“I don’t have that face.”
“You have several.” Steve could only sigh.
Robin softened, though only slightly. Her kindness always wore elbows. “Look, she’s not Lena.”
His brows scrunched together at the random comparison. “I know that.”
“No, I mean—Lena panics outward. She talks. She asks questions. She calls me and then hangs up and then calls back pretending it was an accident.”
Steve’s brows lifted, and a small smile stretched over his lips at his best friend's detailed account. “She does?”
Robin went red on principle and sharpened her voice. “Not the point.”
His tone turned teasing before it could have been helped. “I don't know, it feels point-adjacent.”
“Steve.”
“Sorry.”
Robin picked at the frayed hem of her jacket. “Your girl seems to panic inwardly.”
The correction came almost embarrassingly solemnly. “She’s not my girl.”
Robin gave him a look so flat he deserved it. He looked down quickly.
“She’ll bolt if she thinks you’re trying to get something from her,” Robin shrugged, then continued. “Even an answer.”
Steve rubbed at his jaw. Every word seemed to do little to ease his tension. “So I do nothing?”
“Maybe you do normal.”
His voice was exasperated now as he looked at her. “I don’t know what normal is here.”
“I don't think anyone could be normal in this situation.” Her words certainly aren't helpful, but they were true.
That was how he ended up trying.
Not grandly. There are no speeches, no waiting outside your classes with flowers like some idiot in a John Hughes movie. Just normal. A nod if he saw you. Space if you looked away. No chasing across the quad. No calling your apartment again. No asking Lena for updates, even when Robin came back from coffee looking dazed enough to walk into a doorframe.
He tried. He really did.
But trying not to look for you did not stop him from seeing you everywhere.
You became very good at almost missing Steve.
Not actually missing him, since that would have required less precision. You got good at the lesser injury: seeing him from a distance, noticing him before he noticed you, and making yourself disappear.
Campus helped at first. There were alternate routes to almost everything if you were willing to be inconvenient. You cut behind the old science building even though the sidewalk flooded after rain. You started getting coffee fifteen minutes earlier. You took the side stairs in the library. You sat in the back of your American Lit lecture, even though you hated the draft from the window and the girl in front of you chewed gum with her mouth open.
The girl’s name was Tessa Morgan.
You knew her because she knew everyone. Or wanted to. Tessa had feathered blonde hair, glossy pink nails, and a laugh she released in careful little bursts after looking around to make sure there was an audience for it. She wore perfume strong enough to survive lecture halls and cigarette smoke. She was not cruel, exactly. That would have made your feelings cleaner. She was friendly in the way girls became when they had learned friendliness was a kind of currency.
On Wednesday, she sat sideways in her chair before class, talking to two girls behind her.
“I’m serious,” she spoke animatedly, lowering her voice just enough to make sure it carried. “He picked me up from work. In the Beemer.”
Your pen stopped moving with a disturbing quickness. It did little to freeze the moment. One of the girls gasped beside her. “Steve?”
Tessa smiled down at her notebook, pretending to be modest. Or maybe, she truly was. You had a feeling that you couldn't be an unbiased narrator in the moment. “Who else has that car?”
Your stomach dropped with such sharpness that you thought, for one stupid second, you might actually be sick.
The room continued around you. Coats rustling. Fluorescent lights buzzing against your eyes. Someone tapping a pencil against a desk in sets of three. Outside, bare branches scraped against the window whenever the wind pushed them hard enough.
“He’s so sweet when he wants to be,” Tessa continued on like you weren't actively prepared to feel repulsed by the words on impact.
You stared at the blank margin of your notes.
Sweet.
The word sat in your throat like spoiled milk.
You had no right to feel anything. You repeated that uselessly while Tessa described how Steve had waited outside the hardware store after her shift because her car wouldn’t start. You repeated it when she said he drove her back to the dorms. You repeated it when one girl asked if they kissed and Tessa laughed instead of answering.
The grip became useless with how tight you held it.
You were the one who had crossed the street.
You were the one who had told him not to make it something.
And you were the one who had made every exit obvious enough for even Steve Harrington to finally take one.
Still, your body reacted like betrayal had happened without your permission. You pressed your pen too hard into the page until the tip tore through the paper.
When class started, you took notes without understanding a word.
Afterward, Tessa caught up beside you in the hallway. You were sure life just enjoyed making ironic jokes.
“You’re in Professor Allen’s section too, right?” she asked brightly and you stayed still for a moments lull.
You looked at her, and up close, she had a tiny smudge of mascara beneath one eye. It was utterly human. Annoyingly human.
“Yeah,” you nodded your head because what else could you do?
“I always see you writing everything down. You’re so good! I get distracted.”
“I noticed.”
She blinked, then laughed, unsure whether to take offense. You weren't sure what you'd wanted either. “Anyway, do you have last week’s notes? I missed part of the lecture.”
Because Steve Harrington drove you home, you thought.
Out loud, you settled for, “I can bring them Friday.”
“Oh my God, thank you.” She touched your arm lightly. The action had your face scrunching slightly in its unearned familiarity. “You’re a lifesaver.”
You looked at her hand until she removed it. She smiled again, a little less confidently, then headed down the hall.
You stood there with your books held against your chest and hated yourself more than you hated her.
The feeling came with more familiarity than her touch.
That night, Lena came home from studying with Robin and found you cleaning the kitchen.
Not casually. And certainly not normally. There really couldn't be anything normal considered for the situation. The counters had been wiped twice, the stove burners were soaking, and you were on your knees scrubbing a stain near the baseboards that had probably been there since 1974.
Lena paused in the doorway, with one hand gripping her keys. Her expression came confused as she came nearer. “Should I be scared?”
Your voice came flat. “Nope.”
“You’re cleaning grout.”
“It’s dirty.”
“We rent.” True, you only kept scrubbing.
She put her bag down carefully in the kitchen island near the fruit bowl. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She wasn't convinced, and you felt stupid to expect her to have been. “Okay…”
You heard her move around the kitchen, opening the fridge, closing it, and taking out the orange juice. She did not try to push immediately. That was the annoying part of loving someone who knew you well. They had learned where not to press first.
After a minute, she cleared her throat in a way that already set you on edge, “Robin asked about you.”
Your hand stilled and the feeling that flashed through you must have crossed your face because her voice came quickly once more.
“Not in a scary way,” Lena added. “Just asked if you were okay.”
“Tell her to ask Steve.” The words came out before you could stop them. They were stupid and childish, and you hated that on principle. Lena went quiet and you resumed scrubbing, harder than necessary.
“Oh,” she said.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said oh.”
“It was a small ‘oh’!”
“It had meaning.”
“Most sounds do.” You dropped the sponge into the bucket and sat back on your heels. The kitchen smelled like bleach and old linoleum. Your knees ached from the floor.
Lena leaned against the counter, glass of orange juice in hand, watching you with careful eyes.
You hated careful eyes.
“I heard he’s seeing Tessa Morgan,” you decided to say, your voice was lower now and unnaturally small.
Lena’s brow furrowed and she sipped at her glass. “Who told you that?”
“Tessa Morgan, basically.”
Her face scrunched up at the words. “What does basically mean?”
“It means she talked about him picking her up from work in class.”
Lena’s face shifted through confusion, realization, and then something like annoyance. “That doesn’t mean they’re seeing each other.”
You scoffed because her words seemed fruitless. “Girls don’t talk about Steve Harrington driving them home unless they want people to think there’s something to talk about.”
“Maybe she wants people to think that.”
“That’s not better.”
“It’s not worse.”
You gave her a look and she only sighed and set down her glass. “You could ask him.”
You laughed once, then paused when you realized she in fact, wasn't kidding. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
You sputtered at her implication. “Because I’m not insane.”
“No, you’re just scrubbing invisible dirt because a girl with frosted lipstick mentioned his car. Totally fine. ”
You stood too fast and got lightheaded. Faint corners of black twisted at your edges before clearing back up. “I am fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“No, you're not. You’re doing the annoying thing where you decide wanting something is humiliating and then punish yourself for it.” The room went still even more because Lena looked like she regretted saying it, but not enough to take it back.
You swallowed.
“Congratulations,” you rolled your eyes at her. “Robin taught you therapy words.”
“That wasn’t Robin.”
“No?”
“No,” Lena shook her head softly. “That was me living with you.”
You looked away first because that was too accurate of a response.
The kitchen light buzzed overhead. Outside, rain tapped against the window above the sink. Somewhere in the apartment below, a television played too loudly, canned laughter rising through the floorboards.
Lena came closer, but not too close.
“I’m not saying you have to do anything,” her tone told you the opposite, but you let out go. “I’m not even saying Steve deserves anything. I just don’t think pretending you don’t care is making you care less.”
Your throat tightened and you could only reach for the bucket once more in the still.
Lena let you.
Steve didn't pick Tessa Morgan up because he wanted a date.
He picked her up because she worked closing shifts with a guy from his fraternity, and her car had coughed twice in the parking lot before dying with the dramatic finality of a machine that had given up on life. Steve had been there buying duct tape and light bulbs because the house was falling apart in several preventable ways and no one else seemed particularly worried. Tessa had looked near tears, and the parking lot had been dark, and he had a car.
So, he drove her home.
That was all.
He knew it would become less than nothing in his mind and more than something in someone else’s mouth. He really should have known better. Hawkins had trained him better than that. Campus gossip was only town gossip with better shoes.
By Thursday, two girls had asked him whether he and Tessa were “a thing.”
By Thursday night, Robin found him in the kitchen of the fraternity house stabbing a fork into cold leftover pasta with unnecessary force.
“You heard?” she asked with a tone that told him hell was coming quickly after.
Steve looked up. “Heard what?”
“That Tessa Morgan is apparently bearing your children.”
He dropped the fork and coughed up a storm. “Jesus, Robin!”
“Ah, so you did hear.”
Steve's brows shot up and repeated his actions. “I gave her a ride home.”
“Obviously.”
His face scrunched up at the word. “Obviously?”
Robin opened the fridge, sniffed a carton of milk, made a face, and put it back. He winced alongside her because he knew the grocery list also seemed to be the last thing on everyone's mind unless it was for a party. “You’re being a wounded golden retriever again. That usually means you performed basic decency and got accused of seduction.”
Steve leaned back against the counter. His words came true but sighed. “People think what they want.”
Robin looked at him pointedly and he looked away on impact.
The kitchen was a complete disaster. Beer cans on the counter. A sticky note on the fridge reading BUY PAPER TOWELS OR DIE. Someone had left a jacket over a chair, and the sleeves dragged on the floor. The house smelled of reheated sauce, cigarette smoke, and the old wood beneath everything.
“She probably heard,” Robin noted casually and Steve could only rub his hands over his face in true defeat.
There was no need to ask who.
“I didn’t do anything,” he let his palm rest over his eyes for a moment before he spoke.
Robin’s words came with an understanding nod. “I know.”
“No, I mean—” Steve stopped, frustrated. “I didn’t call her. I didn’t corner her. I tried to leave space. She crossed the street, Rob.”
Robin’s expression softened in that brutal way again.
“Yeah, I know,” the way she said it had him scrub a hand over his hair again.
“What am I supposed to do? Follow her around telling her every rumor isn’t true? That’s exactly the thing she probably doesn’t want.”
“Probably not.”
Steve leaned back now, hands crossed against his chest, and glared at the kitchen island. “So I do nothing.”
“You are very bad at doing nothing.”
“I’m learning.” poorly, he was aware of that at least.
“You’re pacing while eating pasta.”
Steve looked down and threw his head up in resignation. He was pacing.
He quickly stopped as if that proved his stability.
Robin leaned against the counter beside him. “For what it’s worth, Lena says she’s been weird.”
Steve turned with wide eyes, immediately leaning over at the new information. “Lena said that?”
Robin winced and it was a sight Steve knew all too well. “I wasn’t supposed to say.”
“Robin.”
She gave a conflicted noise, averting her eyeline from his before giving in. “Not details. Just—cleaning, I guess. Quiet. Meaner than usual, but in a sad way.”
Steve’s chest tightened unexpectedly. The words landed all wrong on his heart immediately.
He hated that. Not the mean part. The sad part.
“What did Lena say about Tessa?” he asked, quicker now since he'd gotten some part of the ruined information.
Robin gave him a look and Steve held up both hands in apology. “Sorry.”
“You’re doing it.”
His voice came low and defeated. “I know.”
“You can’t get Lena to translate her for you.”
“I know.”
“And I can’t translate Lena translating her for me.”
“I know Robin”
Robin studied him for a long second. Then she finally said, “There’s a mixer Saturday.”
Steve groaned and shook his head just as quick as he heard. “No.”
“I didn’t invite you to a mixer.”
He scoffed and gave her a look, his hand coming up in a gesture. “It’s my house. I’m already implicated.”
“Lena wants to go.”
He narrowed his eyes, “you mean you want Lena to go.”
“Two things can be true.”
“And she’ll bring—”
“Maybe.”
Steve’s heart did something embarrassing.
Robin pointed at him and made a loud noise of defeat. “Do not make that face.”
“I didn’t!”
He did. “You did. Put it away.”
He looked down at the cold pasta when Robin sighed. “If she comes, don’t corner her.”
Steve’s next words came out lower, but no less truthful. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Don’t make a speech.”
“Wasn’t planning one.”
“Don’t overcorrect and act like she’s invisible.”
Steve paused because he knew exactly what she meant, and immediately hated it.
Robin nodded slowly, her hair swinging back against her ears. “There it is.”
The fork was in his hand again, poking at the plate helplessly. He hadn't taken another bite, his appetite had hit an all time low. “I really hate this.”
“Yeah,” Robin sighed with one hand pushing back at her bangs. “It sucks liking people who don’t come with instructions.”
Saturday arrived with cold rain and Lena standing in your doorway holding two shirts against her chest.
“Which one says casual but available?”
You looked up from your textbook with a furrow in your brows and curiosity in your tone. “Available for what?”
“Conversation. Romance. Emotional ruin.”
You scoffed but answered nonetheless. “The blue one.”
She looked down at it in her hold. “Really?”
“The black one says you’re trying to look like you didn’t try, which means you tried too hard. The blue one says you own a mirror but didn’t negotiate with it.”
Lena stared at you and it made you regret the overexplanation. “That was both helpful and upsetting.”
You could only shrug. “You’re welcome?”
She lingered, but your attention had already gone away. You looked back at your book without reading. And when her voice hit your ears once more, your eyes shut instinctively.
“There’s a mixer tonight,” Lena cleared her throat in a way that told you she was trying to be subtle and ended up being anything but.
“I know.”
“Robin asked if I was going.”
“I would hope so.”
“You could come.”
“Hell no.”
“You said that fast.”
You made a face. “I meant it fast.”
Lena fully stepped into the room then. Your bedroom was dim despite the desk lamp, the window streaked with rain. The air smelled faintly of coffee gone cold and the cinnamon gum you had been chewing to keep from biting your nails.
“You haven’t gone out all week,” she immediately dropped her hesitancy and frustration took over.
You pointed at her in correction. “I went to class.”
“That doesn’t count.”
One of your eyebrows ticked up in a way you knew irritated her. “It counted for attendance.”
She sat at the end of your bed, and finally she sighed. “You don’t have to talk to him.”
The words had you incredulous. “That’s not true.”
“It can be.”
“No,” you scoffed, sharper than you meant and regretted it immediately. “It can’t. Because even not talking to him becomes a thing. Looking away becomes a thing. Standing near him becomes a thing. Everyone makes everything a thing.”
Lena was quiet, which only drove the silence to be more exposing. You pressed your fingers against the page until the paper bent.
After a moment, she tried again, “Tessa might be there.”
Your laugh came out flat, and you rolled your eyes at the page you'd been attempting to read for the past 5 minutes. “Oh great pitch.”
“I’m not saying that to hurt you.”
Your exhale came out entirely exasperated alongside your words. “Then why even say it?”
Lena only shrugged at your flat look. “Because if you stay here picturing it, it might be worse than seeing whatever it actually is.”
You looked at her and she kept your gaze.
You hated when she was right in a way that offered no comfort.
“I don’t want to care,” your tongue poked out to lick at the corner of your mouth.
Lena’s face softened and you regretted speaking. She reached out and touched your ankle through the blanket. “I know.”
The tenderness made you want to snap at her, but you were tired of being cruel to the people close enough to let you. So, you only looked back at your textbook and just repeated, “Blue shirt.”
Lena stood after a moment.
At the door, she paused in a way that made you want to burrow deeper into your bed. “I’ll wait twenty minutes before leaving.”
The words came out quickly. “I’m not coming.”
“Okay.”
She left the door open.
You lasted about seventeen minutes.
The mixer was less chaotic than the party and somehow even more uncomfortable.
The fraternity house had been cleaned just enough to reveal how badly it needed cleaning. Someone had mopped the entryway, but the lemon chemical smell fought with old beer in the corners. Lamps wore scarves over their shades for softer light. Music played from the living room stereo at a volume that allowed conversation but still made people lean in closer than necessary. There were bowls of chips on the tables, a stack of plastic cups, a deck of cards abandoned mid-game.
You regretted coming before Lena finished knocking.
Thankfully, Robin had been the one who opened the door.
For one second, she looked only at Lena. It was so obvious you smiled and then forced it back in because it felt intrusive to the moment.
Then Robin’s blue eyes finally flicked to you and widened. The surprise was evident. “Oh. Hey. Hi. You came.”
You lifted one hand in a weak wave, then immediately retracted it with a displeased scrunch of your face. “Observant.”
Robin nodded too many times. It only made you regret everything all the more. “Cool—Good. Not cool like surprising. I mean cool like fine. Normal. Very normal.”
Lena bit her lip at the formation of the girl's words and you looked between them. Your lips pressed against each other and you felt the weird tension just as quickly as it was dished out. “Well, this is painful.”
Robin pointed inside quickly, as if your verbalization of the situation broke her out of the stupor she was in. “Do you want—there’s punch. It might be nonalcoholic. I mean, I think there are two bowls. One is definitely suspicious.”
“Lead with that last part next time,” you exhaled with a numb nod.
You followed them inside because turning around now would have been theatrical, and you really did not have the energy to make your exit interesting.
At first, it was fine.
Not pleasant. Fine.
You really needed the clarification.
You stayed near the bookshelf in the living room, the one full of outdated encyclopedias, a broken camera, and somebody’s abandoned economics textbook. Lena and Robin stood a few feet away, talking in the halting rhythm of people trying not to scare each other off. You made yourself useful by pretending not to listen.
Steve was not in the room.
That helped.
And then, he was.
He came in from the kitchen carrying a trash bag in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other, talking over his shoulder to someone behind him. His hair was damp from the rain, darker at the edges. He wore a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, denim jeans, and white socks visible above old sneakers. He looked too domestic for a fraternity house, which was unfair and completely unnecessary.
He saw you.
Everything in his face paused.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to catch, but you caught it, because your body had become traitorous about him.
He didn't come over.
He only nodded once.
Your chest hurt with an instinctive response that repulsed you.
You looked away first.
“That was mature,” Lena murmured and your glare pressed at her from your side.
“I’ll leave.”
“I said mature!”
Another hurried whisper. “I heard the judgment.”
“You hear what you want.”
Robin glanced between you and Steve, then seemed to decide she valued her ignorance and turned back to Lena.
For half an hour, Steve kept his distance.
You hated how much you noticed.
He moved through the house with the careful restraint of someone trying not to spook a stray animal. He laughed with his friends, but he did not get loud. He passed near the bookshelf once to throw something away and didn't look directly at you until you looked first. Then he looked away, too, and that somehow made you feel worse.
You had wanted space and he was giving you space.
It also, strangely, felt like abandonment.
That made you angry enough to drink from the wrong bowl.
The punch was terrible. Sweet, red, and strong enough to make your throat tighten. You took only one cup, then another half because Tessa Morgan arrived and the night became sharply worse to your sanity.
She came in with two girls from your class, shaking rain from her hair, cheeks pink from the cold. She was wearing a cream sweater and fitted jeans tucked into boots. She looked effortless in the way that probably required effort and then restraint about showing it.
Steve saw her and smiled.
Not the smile you had been storing against your will. Not the small, careful one from the porch. A normal smile. Friendly. Familiar enough to make your stomach sink in that familiar pit.
Tessa crossed the room and touched his arm.
“Hey, stranger,” she grinned up with vibrancy.
You heard it because you were close enough and because your attention had become humiliatingly selective.
Steve answered something you couldn’t hear over the music. But you could hear how Tessa laughed. She lifted one hand to push damp hair from her face, and Steve gestured toward the kitchen, probably offering a drink, because of course he did. Of course he was attentive. Of course his basic decency looked romantic when aimed at someone prettier, easier, and less likely to turn affection into a weapon and point it at herself.
You looked down into your cup.
Red punch trembled near the rim.
Lena appeared beside you with a look that had you wanting to run off just so you didn't have to face it. “Don’t.”
You took a drink because it was your only escape from the endless chatter in your mind.
She sighed and murmured with her face puffed up. “That was extremely don’t-adjacent.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that before doing something unwise.”
You mirror her sigh, the sickly sweet mixture hit your tongue all wrong. “You’re busy. Go flirt.”
“I can multitask, I'm a big girl.”
You looked at Robin, who was standing awkwardly near the couch, pretending to read the back of a record sleeve while very clearly watching Lena. “She’s waiting.”
Lena hesitated and it made you feel conflicted with the guilt you felt.
“Go,” you pushed again, but softer this time.
Her eyes searched your face.
You gave her the version of yourself she needed; steady enough, dry enough, and still capable of being useful.
So she went, and you were glad for her.
The night stretched.
You still didn't talk to Steve.
Steve still didn't talk to you.
Tessa did.
That felt almost funny, in a cruel little ironic way.
She found you near the bookshelf after class notes became her excuse. “Oh! I meant to thank you,” she beamed up at you, touching your elbow before seeming to remember you didn’t enjoy that. Her hand dropped quickly. “For the notes. Professor Allen is impossible.”
You nodded slowly, because your movements slowed but not your head. “He’s fine if you ignore every third sentence.”
She laughed, the noise was pretty. That was another annoyance. “I should try that.”
You nodded again, because what else could you do?
She glanced across the room toward Steve, then back at you. Her smile shifted into something conspiratorial. “You know Steve, right?”
Every muscle in your body went unpleasantly alert for its previous lull.
“Everyone knows Steve,” you let your eyes find a spot to focus on ahead of her.
“True.” She looked down, smiling into her cup. “He’s been really sweet lately.”
You stared at her and your brows scrunched together at the repetition of her words. She did not seem to notice the danger.
“My car is such a piece of junk, and he’s driven me twice now. He said he knows a guy who can look at it. Isn’t that cute?”
Cute.
You could feel your pulse in your wrist, your throat, the thin skin under your jaw.
“That’s Steve,” that was the only thing that your tongue let you respond with.
You had meant it to sound neutral.
It surely did not.
Tessa looked up, and for the first time, her face sharpened with awareness. Not malice, that would have actually been welcomed, but with curiosity.
“Are you two friends?” she asked, and even the question was light.
“Nope.” The answer came too fast.
Across the room, Steve looked over.
Of course he did. He seemed to have a skill for catching you at your worst. Or was it pushing you to act your worst? You couldn't decide.
Tessa followed your gaze.
A little understanding moved over her face. The sight of it made heat rise behind your ears.
“Oh,” she made a small confused noise.
You hated that sound now. Oh. Everyone’s favorite little blade.
“No,” you said to her, probably sharper than it warranted.
“I didn’t—”
“I’m getting air.”
You set your cup down on the bookshelf without checking whether there was space for it and walked out before the conversation could become something you would have to survive.
The rain had stopped thankfully, but the porch was wet and cold enough to bite through the soles of your shoes. You stood near the railing, gripping the damp wood until your fingers went numb. The street beyond the house shone under the lamps, puddles holding broken bits of yellow light. Cars lined the curb. Somewhere down the block, people shouted and laughed on another porch, their voices carrying strangely in the wet air.
You breathed in the cold and tried to make your body behave.
It was not jealousy.
It was not.
It was disgust, you told yourself. Disgust at yourself for caring. Disgust at the ease with which Steve could become important to someone else. Disgust at knowing you'd pushed him away and still somehow expected him to remain exactly where you left him, waiting in the shape of your indecision.
You gripped the railing harder.
The door opened behind you.
You didn't turn because the irony was cruel when Steve stepped onto the porch and let the door close softly.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You could feel him standing a few feet away. Not too close. Not far enough.
“You okay?” he asked and you didn't realize how some part of you seemed to have missed his voice. The thought came unwelcomed and left rudely.
You laughed under your breath, nothing was really funny. “You need new material.”
He only exhaled. “Yeah.”
The porch light continued to buzz above you. A drop of water fell from the gutter and hit the step below with a steady, irritating rhythm.
You stared at the street spreading into the horizon. “Tessa seems nice.”
Steve was quiet.
Too quiet.
Your stomach twisted.
“She is,” he said carefully.
You nodded.
The motion felt mechanical.
Steve stepped closer, then stopped himself. “It’s not—”
“Don’t.” The word cut through the cold.
He stopped mid sentence. You closed your eyes briefly. “Don’t explain.”
“I think maybe I should.”
“No,” you repeated firmer. “You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
Because you would believe him.
Because you wanted to believe him.
Because if he said there was nothing going on with Tessa, you would have to confront the fact that the sick feeling in your stomach had not been proof of anything except your own fear.
You opened your eyes.
“Because I didn’t ask.” Steve’s face tightened as soon as you spoke.
The hurt was quick, but you saw it. You hated yourself for seeing it, and even worse, for causing it.
“Right,” he seemed like he wanted to stay more, but stopped himself.
You turned then, leaning back against the railing. The wood was cold and damp against your palms. “You don’t owe me explanations.”
“I know that.”
“Good.”
Steve opened his mouth then closed it, his restless hands found comfort in rubbing at the shorter pieces of his hair resting on his neck. “But you’re mad.”
The word instantly had you reeling at how it simplified you into something so childish. “I’m not mad.”
“You’re something.”
“Don’t analyze me, Harrington.”
He looked away at the name. Not because he hated it. Because he liked it, and you both knew enough now for that to be painful.
Inside, someone laughed too loudly. The sound pushed through the door and vanished into the wet night. Steve looked tired when he faced you again. “I’m trying to do what you asked.”
“I didn’t ask for anything.”
“You asked me not to make it something.”
Your throat tightened and you gave a few hard blinks at the railing. “I asked you not to act like it already was.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
The patience in his voice made you want to be worse.
“So what is this?” you asked because it seemed the most mature reckless thing available to you.
His brows drew together. “What?”
“This.” You gestured toward the house, toward Tessa, toward the space between you that neither of you seemed able to name without damaging it. “You leaving me alone until you think I’m upset, then coming outside to do the concerned thing.”
Steve’s jaw shifted, you could see a million thoughts probably running at full speed in his dark eyes.
“I came outside because you left upset,” he decided to say after a moment.
You made a displeased face again at the same result the word left in you. “I left annoyed at most.”
“You left because Tessa asked if we were friends.”
Your face went hot.
Damn him.
Damn him for noticing.
Still, you could only scoff and turn your head to glare at whatever was in your direction. “That’s not why.”
“No?”
“No.”
He got quieter when you wanted him louder. “What was it then?”
You had nothing.
Steve only waited.
The silence stretched until it became unbearable. You pushed off the railing. “I’m going home.”
His words came immediately and he pushed out of place to mirror you. “Let me walk you.”
The refusal came immediately. “No.”
“It’s late.”
“I’ve walked places after dark before you personally discovered concern.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
“I don’t think you do.”
You turned on him, finally facing him for more than a total of a few seconds. “Then say what you mean.”
Steve looked at you, and for one second, you thought he might. His face changed with the effort of holding something back. His hands flexed at his sides. The porch light caught the scrape near his knuckle again, half-healed now.
Then, the door opened.
Tessa stepped out, holding his jacket. You hated how quick you registered it in her hold.
“There you are,” she reached out to him, but then stopped when she saw you.
The moment froze in a way that would have been funny if it belonged to anyone else.
Tessa looked between you and Steve. Steve looked like he wanted the porch to collapse beneath him. You looked at the jacket in her hands.
His jacket.
The same one he had put around your shoulders.
Your stomach dropped so deep it went numb.
Tessa’s smile faltered flat. “You forgot this inside.”
Steve stared at the jacket as if he had never seen it before. “Right. Thanks.”
She held it out and he took it slowly.
You looked away before his fingers touched hers.
It was nothing. A jacket. A normal exchange. An object moving from one hand to another.
Your body did not care.
“Well,” you spoke up finally, voice flat enough to frighten yourself. “Goodnight.”
Steve stepped forward almost urgently now, “Wait—”
You were already down the porch steps and he followed to the top step. “Please.”
The please nearly stopped you.
Nearly.
But Tessa was still on the porch, silent now, and the whole house was behind her, and you could already imagine the story forming in someone else’s mouth. You and Steve outside. You upset. Tessa with his jacket. Something embarrassing and public and impossible to correct without admitting there was something to correct.
So, you kept walking.
Steve didn't follow.
That hurt too.
By Monday, you had turned the whole thing into something hard enough to hold.
Tessa had his jacket. Steve liked Tessa. Steve had been kind because Steve was kind to everyone, which meant none of it mattered. The stairs had been alcohol. The porch had been exhaustion. The phone call had been guilt. You had misread basic decency because it had been pointed at you during a weak moment, and now you were paying for it with the full-body humiliation of having wanted more.
Fine.
That was more survivable.
You had survived worse than wanting someone who belonged easily to other people.
You went to class. You copied notes. You returned Tessa’s borrowed pages and accepted her distracted thank-you without looking at her mouth, her sweater, her hands, anything that might make her real enough to be unfair to hate.
Lena watched you carefully all week.
Robin came over twice.
That, was new.
The first time, she stood in your kitchen holding a grocery bag and talking too fast.
“I brought soup because Lena said you both forget food exists when midterms happen, which is deranged, honestly, because food is one of maybe five good things about being alive, and before you ask, yes, I paid for it, no, Steve did not send it, and no, this is not a weird emotional bribe.”
You looked at Lena immediately at the condensed version of words and Lena looked at the ceiling which caused Robin to stop to an abrupt halt. “That was too much.”
“A little,” you gave a little nod but didn't hold any real judgement. Not for her anyways.
“Great.”
But she still stayed.
She and Lena made soup badly, somehow burning the bottom while leaving the middle lukewarm. You sat at the table with your textbook open, pretending not to enjoy the sound of them moving around each other. Robin talked when nervous. Lena grew quieter, smiling into tasks. They bumped elbows twice. Apologized both times. Neither moved away quickly enough.
You were happy for them.
You truly were.
It just sat beside everything else.
Watching them become brave in tiny increments made your own cowardice louder. Lena had spent years swallowing pieces of herself in public, and now she was reaching for something anyway. Robin lived with fear tucked under every joke, and she still showed up at your kitchen with soup and shaking hands.
You, meanwhile, had crossed streets and fled porches because Steve Harrington might have the power to disappoint you.
It made you crueler to yourself than you were to anyone else.
By Thursday night, you had stopped sleeping properly.
Your room took on the stale quality of a place occupied by someone refusing to leave and refusing to rest. Coffee cups gathered on the crate beside your bed. Your notes spread across the floor in neat, useless piles. The radio played low most nights, static swelling between songs from stations too far away. You kept waiting for your mind to tire itself out.
It never did.
On Friday, Professor Allen assigned partners for the final paper.
You got Tessa Morgan because fate was cruel, but professors were crueler.
She turned around in her seat with a bright smile that faded slightly when she saw your face.
“Hi,” she tried brightly.
“Hi.”
“This’ll be fun.”
“Sure.”
She laughed weakly, seeming uncomfortable with your lack of give. You couldn't blame her, you weren't the biggest fan either. “Or productive.”
“That’s more likely.”
You met at the library after class, at a table near the windows where rain trailed crooked paths down the glass. Tessa arrived five minutes late, smelling faintly of hairspray and cold air, carrying a folder pressed to her chest.
“Sorry,” she apologized when she came into view, breathless. “My ride took forever.”
You looked down at your notebook.
Her ride.
She sat across from you and began unpacking colored pens, index cards, a pack of gum, three library books, and a small tin of mints.
You watched the items appear one by one, ordinary and harmless. Then she said, “I feel like you don’t like me.”
You looked up after your face did a weird expression at the abrupt turn of conversation and Tessa’s face had gone pink, but she held your gaze.
You were so surprised that you said nothing.
She twisted one of her rings around her finger. “It’s okay if you don’t. I know I can be a lot.”
The honesty disarmed you in a way you resented.
“I don’t dislike you,” you gave a strained little clear of your throat, your words might’ve been awkward, but they remained true. .
Her mouth tilted up like she hadn't been expecting to find this humorous. “That sounded very rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Okay.”
Silence settled between you, interrupted by a cough from the next table and the scratch of someone’s pencil across paper.
Tessa looked down at her notes. “Is it because of Steve?”
Your pulse jumped humiliatingly on the mention of his name. “No.”
She gave you a look that was almost kind. You hated that too.
“I’m not dating him,” she said then, causing your pen to freeze over a loop.
Tessa looked embarrassed now, but determined. “I don’t know what people are saying. I mean, I kind of do, because people are obvious and bored. But he gave me rides because my car is awful. That’s it.”
You stared at the table instead of her. The wood grain blurred slightly.
“I didn’t ask,” you only found yourself able to say.
“I know.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because you look sick every time someone says his name.” That landed so sharply you almost stood up.
Tessa winced because she wasn't blind. “Sorry. That was too direct.”
“No,” you spoke up, but your voice sounded far away. “It’s fine.”
“It wasn’t.”
You pressed your palm flat to the page in front of you.
There it was. The explanation you had refused from Steve, delivered anyway by the girl you had made into evidence. The relief should have been clean. Instead, it arrived tangled with shame. You had been unfair to her. Unfair to him. Unfair to yourself in the most familiar way possible, hurting first and calling it protection.
Tessa opened her notebook slowly. “For what it’s worth, he talks about you.”
You looked up before you could stop yourself and quickly disliked how her mouth softened. “Not in a gross way. Just… he asks if you were in class when he sees me. Or if Professor Allen is still assigning too much reading. Stuff like that.”
You swallowed and went back to the grain on the table.
“Anyway,” she cleared her throat quickly, looking down at the table as well. “Thesis statements?”
You nodded because speech had become unsafe.
For the next hour, you worked.
Tessa turned out to be smart when she stopped performing being charming. She had good instincts about the novel and terrible comma habits. You corrected one, and she rolled her eyes but wrote it down. By the time you left the library, the rain had stopped and the pavement outside shone under a pale evening sky.
You stood at the entrance with your books in your arms.
Tessa hesitated beside you.
“I really don’t like him that way,” she became quieter, but no less determined.
You looked at her with furrowed brows and she gave a small, awkward smile. “He’s nice. But he spends half his time looking around rooms for someone who isn’t me.”
Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to do with kindness from the person you had been quietly resenting for a week.
So, you only nodded.
“Thanks,” you exhaled. It sounded insufficient because it was. Tessa accepted it anyway.
Steve found out from Tessa, which was not how he wanted to find out anything.
He was outside the Hardware store again, this time actually helping her jump-start her car, when she leaned against the driver’s side door and spoke v up, “Your girl is really intense.”
Steve hit his head lightly on the open hood from how he jumped at the words.
“Ow.” He straightened, rubbing the back of his head. Steve quickly cleared his throat. “She’s not my girl.”
Tessa gave him a look. He was really getting tired of that look from everyone.
“She’s not,” he insisted, though the insistence really just pricked at his skin more than relieved him.
“Okay.”
“She isn’t.”
“I heard you.”
He focused on the jumper cables because machines were easier than people, even when he barely knew what he was doing. Finally, after a begrudging moment, he spoke up again. “What does intense mean?”
“It means she hates me less now, I think.”
Steve looked over,.surprised by the words. “What?”
Tessa shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I told her we weren’t dating.”
He stared blankly and Tessa’s eyes widened. “Was I not supposed to?”
“No, I just—” Steve stopped, turning away from the car. His own eyes widened quickly after. “She thought we were?”
Tessa’s expression shifted into something regretful.
The parking lot was cold and gray, the store sign buzzed above the entrance. Cars passed on the road beyond, tires hissing over wet asphalt. Steve could smell gasoline, rain, and the metallic dust from the engine. His hands were dirty.
He thought of you on the porch, eyes fixed on his jacket in Tessa’s hands, and he felt stupid enough to deserve the headache forming behind his eyes.
“She wouldn’t let me explain,” he looked down at the engine once more because that was an easier target.
“Did you try again?”
He looked at her, a bit caught off guard, and Tessa lifted both hands up at once. “Sorry. None of my business.”
“No,” Steve shook his head a bit. “It’s okay.”
But it was not okay.
Nothing about this was okay in the way it could have been if either of you knew how to ask for what you needed without making it sound like an accusation.
Tessa’s car finally started with a miserable cough.
She cheered and even Steve managed a smile and unhooked the cables.
On the drive back to campus, he thought about going to your apartment. He thought about calling. He thought about leaving a note. Every option felt either too much or not enough. Robin would tell him not to Steve it. Lena would probably tell him to be honest. You would probably look at him like honesty was a trap.
He parked outside the fraternity house and sat in the car after turning off the engine.
The quiet suddenly felt huge.
His hands rested on the steering wheel. He stared at the dim reflection of himself in the windshield, his hair flattened from the rain, face tired, and shirt collar slightly crooked.
He wanted to be the kind of person who knew how to stay.
He was afraid you only knew how to leave first.
The next time you and Steve ended up in the same room, neither of you chose it.
Lena chose it, technically, by getting sick.
Not badly. Just enough fever and congestion to turn her dramatic and useless on the couch. Robin came over with more soup and a stack of tapes and Steve drove her because it was raining again and because Robin didn't have a car and because the universe enjoyed putting you through small, specifically ironic trials.
You opened the door expecting Robin. Steve stood behind her, holding a paper bag from Melvald’s.
For one second, all four of you froze in the narrow doorway.
Lena croaked from the couch, “If that’s soup, everyone lives.”
Robin recovered first. “It’s soup, cough drops, and the magazine you asked for with Rob Lowe on the cover, which I’m choosing not to take personally.”
Lena lifted one weak hand, her face turning sheepish with its flush. “For medical reasons.”
Steve looked at you, but you couldn't find it in you to meet his eyelids as strongly. Instead, you stepped back from the door.
Nobody said anything about the fact that you let him in.
The apartment felt too small immediately.
Robin went to Lena. Lena, despite looking half-dead under a blanket, brightened so visibly it softened the room. Robin sat on the floor beside the couch and began unpacking the bag with the focused care of someone who needed tasks to manage terror.
That left Steve standing near the kitchen entrance with wet hair and uncertainty.
You busied yourself with mugs instead of the sight.
“Tea?” you asked the room.
Lena nodded her head weakly. “Yes.”
Robin spoke up, “If it’s not a hassle.”
Steve said nothing.
You filled the kettle and set it on the stove. The metal clanged too loudly. Your fingers felt clumsy.
Steve came to stand near the kitchen table, but not close enough to crowd you.
“I can go,” he delivered it quietly.
You kept your back to him, busying yourself with the water kettle. “You just got here.”
“I know.”
The kettle sat cold on the burner. You turned the knob, watched the blue flame catch beneath it.
“Do you want to?” you asked. The question came out sharper than intended.
Steve was quiet for a second.
“No,” he decided on saying.
Your throat tightened.
You reached for four mugs instead of three.
The small action sat between you.
Steve noticed, of course.
For a while, the evening became almost normal.
Robin played a tape too low to bother Lena’s headache. Lena made terrible jokes through congestion. Steve fixed the wobbly kitchen chair without being asked, tightening a screw with a butter knife because none of you knew where the actual tools were. You pretended not to watch him crouched beside the chair, sleeves pushed up, and with his brow furrowed in concentration over something so ordinary it made your chest ache.
He caught you looking once. You looked away immediately and hated yourself for acting incriminating
He didn't smile.
That was worse than the actual evidence.
Later, Robin took Lena’s temperature and announced she was not dying, only disgusting. Lena called her cruel. Robin said cruelty was part of her healing practice. Their hands touched over the thermometer, and Lena did not pull away.
You saw Steve see it.
His face softened, proud and quiet.
For the first time all night, you remembered why this had started.
Not because he wanted to hurt you.
Not because he wanted Lena.
But because he loved Robin enough to panic badly.
You went into the kitchen to rinse mugs that did not need rinsing.
A minute later, Steve followed.
The living room noise covered the first few seconds of silence. Water ran warm over your hands. The sink smelled faintly of dish soap and metal. Rain ticked against the window.
“I’m not dating Tessa,” he told you once again, softer than the first time.
You shut off the water.
Your hands stayed in the sink. Steve stood behind and to the side of you, far enough away that you could leave if you wanted.
“I know,” you bit at the inside of your cheek and have a hesitant, but sturdy nod.
He let out a quiet breath and his own head nodded. “Okay.”
“Tessa told me.”
“Yeah. She told me she told you.” You dried your hands on a towel, buying time you didn't know how to use.
“I didn’t ask her,” you felt the clarification was useless, but your stupid pride needed it.
“I know.”
“I didn’t ask you either.”
“I know that too.” You turned around then.
Steve’s face was open in a way that made you want to look anywhere else. He seemed tired, but not angry. That almost made it stranger. Anger would have given you something familiar to push against.
“I wasn’t mad,” you reached for one last time.
His mouth twitched sadly at the corners. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I wasn’t.”
“Okay.”
A frown made its way into your face before you could've steered it away. “You don’t believe me.”
“I think you were hurt.” The words were too direct for your liking.
You looked toward the living room. Robin was laughing softly at something Lena said, their heads close together over the magazine.
Steve followed your gaze, then looked back at you. “I’m not trying to trap you into admitting anything.”
“Then stop saying things that require answers.”
He nodded once.
That should have ended it.
But you were tired. Tired from not sleeping, tired from avoiding routes, and tired from turning every feeling into proof you were stupid for having it.
So, you decided to be uncharacteristically vulnerable, “I thought you moved on.”
Steve stared at you with such intensity it had you wanting to leave your own home.
The words hung there, ugly and bare.
You folded your arms, immediately defensive against your own honesty. “Not that you had anything to move on from.”
Steve's jaw shifted slightly, and you knew he was restraining himself.
“Right,” he nodded again, smaller this time.
You hated that answer.
You had built him a hallway and then punished him for walking through it. You knew that. Knowing didn't make you less afraid, though.
Steve rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. He looked at the back of his hand because if not, he'd look at you and say things that would only scare you further. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
The sentence wasn't necessarily cruel.
It still hit like it was.
You looked down at the floor.
“I don’t either,” your brows furrowed in their displeased, familiar confusion.
The living room went quiet for half a second, then Robin sneezed loudly enough to make Lena laugh herself into a cough.
Neither of you moved.
Steve’s voice lowered, and it seemed to have cost him effort. “I can leave you alone if that’s what you want.”
There it was again.
The offer.
The knife.
You closed your eyes for a momentary escape.
Part of you wanted to say yes because yes was clean. Yes meant no more waiting for him in rooms. No more Tessa-shaped panic. No more watching his hands flex while he tried not to reach for you. No more feeling seen and wanting to punish him for it.
Another part of you wanted to say no so badly it felt humiliating.
Instead, you opened your eyes and chose the worst possible middle.
“I don’t want to do this in my kitchen.”
Steve nodded slowly. His face had gone careful again.
“Okay,” he settled for carefully.
You hated the carefulness.
You hated yourself more for needing it.
In the living room, Lena called weakly, “Is the tea dead?”
You stepped away first. Steve stayed in the kitchen for a moment before following.
The rest of the night passed in pieces.
Tea. Soup. Robin pretending not to panic when Lena fell asleep against her shoulder. Steve washing dishes because his hands needed something to do. You handing him a towel without looking at him. His quiet thank-you. Your quieter acknowledgement.
When Robin finally woke Lena enough to say goodbye, the rain had eased into mist. Steve stood by the door, jacket on, keys in hand. Robin hovered beside him, still watching Lena with a face she probably thought was subtle.
You opened the door.
Cold air entered the apartment and Steve paused on the threshold.
For one second, it was just the two of you again, with everyone else distracted behind him.
“I’m not going to disappear,” Steve spoke up quietly into the quiet night air.
Your hand tightened on the door. He looked at you, then away, like he was making himself give you room even in the sentence.
“But I’ll stop standing in front of the exit,” he added and you did not answer.
You couldn’t.
Steve nodded again once, accepting the silence even though it clearly hurt him, and then stepped out onto the porch.
Robin followed after giving Lena one last awkward wave.
You shut the door and made no movement to move away from the frame.
Lena, still half-asleep on the couch, opened one eye. “You’re both idiots.”
You leaned your forehead against the door. The wood panel felt cold against your skin.
“I know,” your words were barely above a whisper.
Outside, Steve walked Robin to the car.
Neither of them spoke until they reached it. Robin got into the passenger seat, then waited while Steve stood in the mist with his hand on the roof of the BMW, looking back at your apartment.
“You okay?” she asked, throwing him a careful look from his side.
He laughed once, all weak and breathless. “That obvious?”
Robin smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
Steve slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. The car smelled faintly of old leather, rain, and the paper bag from Melvald’s. He put the keys in the ignition but didn't turn them just yet.
“She thought I moved on,” his fingers tapped against the unmoving wheel in front of him.
Robin’s face softened when he continued.
“And I think part of her wanted that,” he continued, and Steve's head went tipped back. “So she could be right.”
Robin looked out the windshield at the wet street, the porch light glowing behind them.
“Maybe,” she only decided to say and Steve rested his head back against the seat a bit harder this time.
The wipers sat still against the glass. Mist gathered in tiny beads until the streetlights blurred.
Then, quieter, “I told her I wouldn’t disappear.”
Robin nodded appreciatively. “That’s good.”
“I also told her I’d stop standing in front of the exit.”
Robin turned to him, and her softened blue eyes made him want to groan. “That’s better.”
He closed his eyes for a second.
“It feels like leaving,” Steve murmured and his face turned displeased at the unwelcome thought.
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
Robin was quiet long enough that he opened his eyes. She was twisting one of her rings, thoughtful and nervous and, for once, not reaching for a joke first.
“Because leaving is about you being done,” she then decided to settle for. “This is about giving her a choice.”
Steve swallowed and sighed when Robin patted his shoulder, he started the car quickly after that.
Across the street, your apartment window glowed warm through the mist.
He let himself look once, then he drove away.
Inside, you stood in your room with the lights off, watching his taillights disappear through the rain-blurred glass.
Lena had gone back to sleep on the couch. The apartment was quiet except for the radiator and Robin’s forgotten tape still playing low, some soft, crackling song from the other room. Your reflection hovered faintly in the window, tired and indistinct.
Steve’s words stayed with you.
I’m not going to disappear.
But I’ll stop standing in front of the exit.
You hated how much that sounded like care.
You hated that it also sounded like he was learning how to love someone better than you were learning how to let him.
On your desk, your American Lit notes sat open to a page where your pen had torn through the margin days ago. Beside them was a mug of cold tea Steve had washed and placed upside down on a towel before leaving.
You stared at it until your vision blurred. Then you turned away, crawled into bed fully clothed, and pulled the blanket over your head.
In the dark, you told yourself this was what you wanted.
Space.
Quiet.
No pressure.
No Steve Harrington standing too close with careful hands and a patient voice.
For the first time all week, nobody called. Nobody knocked. Nobody chased you across a porch or caught you at the sink or asked whether you were okay in that maddening, sincere way.
description: you’re Hopper’s daughter, which means one thing: no dating. ever. unfortunately for Eleven, that also means she can’t date either, unless you do first. cue Mike and Dustin coming up with the worst (best) idea possible: paying Eddie to take you out. too bad you’re the last person in Hawkins who’d ever fall for it… right?
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: hoppers daughter! reader, enemies to lovers (or something like that...), punk x menace, you hate everyone but him (eventually), he falls first, persistent idiot x guarded girl, sibling dynamic with el, soft eddie munson, we love a mean girl with a soft center, slight angst
TW: deception/manipulation, mild angst
WC: 12.2k (sorry not sorry)
A/N: i just re-watched 10 Things I Hate About You for the millionth time and immediately caught inspo. it's taking everything out of me to not make this a series but i stay doing that to myself. reblogs are always appreciated :) enjoy!!!! <3
The road is quiet in that late-afternoon way Hawkins always seems to settle into, golden light stretching across the pavement, your window cracked just enough for the wind to tug at your hair and carry in the faint smell of something burning from someone’s backyard.
You’re halfway through a cigarette you probably shouldn’t be smoking when you see them up ahead, two figures walking a little too close together to be accidental.
You don’t even have to squint to recognize Eleven in that oversized flannel she stole from your closet three weeks ago and never gave back.
You slow the car just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to take it in. She’s looking up at Mike like he hung the goddamn moon, and he’s talking with his hands like he always does when he’s nervous, their shoulders brushing every few steps like it’s something they’re still getting used to but don’t want to stop.
It’s… harmless, objectively. Soft, even. The kind of thing most people would smile at.
You don’t.
You flick the ash out the window, press your foot back on the gas, and drive right past them without so much as a glance in their direction, because whatever this is, it’s not your problem. Not yet.
By the time you get home, Hopper’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means you’ve got a small window of peace before the nightly interrogation disguised as dinner.
You take it without hesitation, tossing your keys on the counter and kicking your shoes off like the house belongs to you, because in every way that matters, it does.
El walks in about twenty minutes later.
You hear the door before you see her, the soft creak, the careful steps like she’s trying not to be noticed, which is almost funny considering the fact that she is, quite literally, impossible to ignore.
You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through some old magazine you found under a stack of mail, when she finally steps into the kitchen, pausing when she realizes you’re there.
Like a deer caught in headlights that doesn’t quite understand what a car is yet, but knows it should probably be afraid of it.
You don’t look up.
“You walk home?” you ask, voice casual in a way that’s almost too deliberate.
“Yes.”
You hum, turning a page. “Must’ve been a long walk.”
She doesn’t answer that, and for a second, you think she’s going to drop it, retreat, let it go the way you just did out on the road. But then she shifts, something in her posture tightening, like she’s bracing herself.
“I was with Mike.”
You glance up finally, one slow look that says everything you’re not bothering to put into words, and she lifts her chin just slightly under it, defiant in that quiet way of hers that almost makes you respect it.
“Congrats,” you say flatly, tossing the magazine back onto the counter. “Want a medal or are you just sharing?”
Her brows pull together. “You saw.”
“Yeah,” you shrug, reaching for the fridge like this conversation couldn’t matter less. “Hard to miss the whole hand-holding, walking-like-you’re-in-a-romance-movie thing.”
“It is not a movie,” she says, sharper now, stepping closer. “It is real.”
You close the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning to face her fully now, leaning back against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world.
“Then maybe you should be smarter about it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think you are smarter?”
“I know I am.”
You can see it in the way her jaw sets, the way her hands curl at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to do something she’ll regret.
“You don’t understand,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t even try.”
You let out a small laugh, not kind, not cruel, just dismissive. “Oh, I understand plenty. I just don’t care.”
That’s the wrong thing to say.
You know it the second her expression shifts, something hurt flashing across her face before it hardens into something else. Something a little more calculated, a little more familiar to you than you’d like.
“You are alone,” she says quietly. “You push everyone away.”
You go still.
“And now you want me to be alone too.”
There’s a moment where you could back off, could soften it, could remind her that you won't say anything to Hopper.
“If you end up alone,” you say, voice even, “it won’t be because of me.”
The front door opens before she can respond.
Hopper fills the doorway like he always does, presence first, everything else second, shrugging off his jacket and glancing between the two of you like he already knows he walked into something he doesn’t have the patience for.
“Why do I feel like I missed a fight?” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen.
You push off the counter, grabbing your keys again. “Because you did.”
“Hey—”
“I’m going out,” you cut him off, already moving past him. “Don’t wait up.”
“Dinner’s in twenty—”
“Then eat it without me.”
You’re halfway out the door when El’s voice cuts through the air, quiet but deliberate.
“I was with Mike.”
Slowly, you turn back.
Hopper frowns. “You were what?”
El doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes on him.
“We were walking together. We are… dating.”
Hopper’s expression darkens. “No, you’re not.”
El’s chin lifts. “Yes. We are.”
You watch it unfold like a car crash you could’ve prevented but chose not to. Something almost detached settles over you as Hopper starts pacing, running a hand over his face.
He's already gearing up for a lecture that’s going to last longer than either of you has the patience for.
“I told you, no dating,” he says, voice rising. “You’re too young, you’re not—this is not happening.”
El’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward you.
And then, like she’s made a decision. “Just because she does not date doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I don’t want to.”
Hopper looks between the two of you, something clicking into place in that stubborn, overprotective brain of his, and you can actually see the moment the worst possible idea forms.
“…Fine,” he says.
“If she wants to date,” he continues, pointing at El, “then the rule changes.”
“Dad—”
“No dating,” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours now, “until you do.”
Silence. You stare at him, and he stares right back.
And then you laugh, full and sharp, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.
“That’s not a rule, that’s a death sentence for El.”
“And why would that be?”
You roll your eyes. “Please. I would never date the neanderthals in this school if they were the last living organisms on earth.”
Hopper crosses his arms, satisfied. “Then I guess nobody’s dating.”
El’s lips press together, trying and failing to hide the smallest hint of disappointment.
You point at her. “This is on you.”
The next morning feels heavier for her in a way she can’t quite name.
Hawkins High hums the same as it always does, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against the tile.
Eleven moves through it like something slightly out of place, like the rhythm doesn’t quite match her steps.
People notice her before she notices them, and then they look away just as quickly, conversations dipping, shoulders angling.
A group of girls by the lockers goes quiet when she passes. One of them mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to repeat, just loud enough to land.
El doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens, her hands curling into the sleeves of her sweater as she keeps walking, eyes forward, because she’s learned that looking back only makes it worse.
She doesn’t understand all of it, but she understands enough.
She finds Mike and Dustin near their usual table, both of them mid-conversation, Dustin animated as always, Mike nodding along like he’s only half paying attention until he spots her.
His whole face changes. “Hey,” he says quickly, standing up like he always does, like it’s instinct now. “Hi.”
El slows when she reaches them, glancing briefly at Dustin before looking back at Mike.
“Hi.”
Dustin leans forward immediately, eyes flicking between them. “Okay, so, I feel like something happened because you look like you just came back from, like, emotional warfare—”
“El, did you get in trouble—” Mike starts, already bracing.
“It is worse,” El cuts in.
Mike’s brows pull together. “Worse than what?”
“Hopper made a new rule.”
Dustin groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never good. Last time there was a new rule I wasn’t allowed in your house for, like, a month—”
“He says I cannot date,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “until she does.”
Mike blinks. “Until… who does?”
El doesn’t have to say it. Their heads both turn slightly, almost in sync, scanning the cafeteria like they expect to spot you immediately.
Dustin’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not kidding.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, already stressed. “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not even fair.”
“It is not fair,” El agrees, sharper now. “It is stupid.”
Dustin nods emphatically. “Super stupid. Like, impressively stupid. Like, I didn’t even know you could make a rule that stupid—”
Mike cuts him off. “Okay, okay—wait.” He looks back at El. “Why would he do that?”
El’s expression shifts, something more complicated flickering there. “Because she does not date.”
“…At all?” Dustin asks.
El shakes her head. “She said she would ‘never date the neanderthals in this school.’”
Dustin lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… harsh. I mean, not entirely inaccurate for some of the male population here, but still. Harsh.”
Mike doesn’t laugh; he’s busy thinking.
“I want to be with you,” she says quietly. “Not in secret. Not like… like something bad.”
Mike looks at her, and whatever frustration he had a second ago shifts into something more determined. “Yeah. I know. I want that too.”
Dustin straightens, eyes lighting up just a little, that familiar spark of an idea forming, whether anyone asked for it or not. “Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”
Mike groans. “Dustin—”
“No, hear me out,” he insists, pointing between them. “If the rule is that she has to date someone, then all we have to do… is make that happen.”
Mike stares at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”
Dustin leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something highly illegal, which, in his mind, is probably half the appeal.
“We find someone who’s willing to go out with her.”
Mike blinks. “And why would anyone do that?”
Dustin pauses, considers. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually means trouble. “…Incentive.”
Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No, absolutely not—”
“It could work!” Dustin presses. “Think about it, man. We just need one guy, right? One guy who’s not completely terrified of her—”
“That’s already a short list,” Mike mutters.
“—and who doesn’t care about her whole… thing,” Dustin continues, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’d do it for the right price.”
El watches them, confusion knitting her brows. “You want to pay someone to date my sister?”
Mike winces. “When you say it like that—”
“That is what you are saying.”
Dustin shrugs. “I mean… yeah. But it’s not, like, real dating. It’s just…strategic.”
El looks between them, uncertainty flickering, but underneath it is something stronger.
“If it works,” she says slowly, “the rule will change.”
Mike hesitates, then nods. “If it works… yeah.”
Dustin claps his hands together once, already scanning the cafeteria like he’s picking from a lineup.
“Okay. So. Who do we know that’s got a high tolerance for danger, questionable decision-making skills, and absolutely nothing to lose?”
There’s a pause. And then, almost simultaneously, both boys have the exact same thought.
Across the room, at a table that feels more like its own territory than part of the cafeteria, sits Eddie, boots up on the bench, laughing too loud at something one of the Hellfire guys just said, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, a very bad idea has just found its target.
They don’t move right away.
For a second, both of them just stand there, watching from a distance like they’re about to approach a wild animal that might be friendly but could just as easily bite.
Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot while Mike very clearly considers abandoning the plan entirely.
“This is a terrible idea,” Mike mutters under his breath.
Dustin doesn’t disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it’s also the only idea.”
Mike glances back at Eleven, still standing by the table, watching them with that quiet, unwavering expectation that makes it very hard to say no to her.
He sighs. “…Fine.”
The Hellfire table is loud in a way the rest of the cafeteria isn’t.
“Wheeler. Henderson,” Eddie drawls, leaning back slightly, a grin already forming like he can smell trouble from a mile away.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? You here to finally admit my campaign last night was amazing, or—”
“We need a favor,” Dustin blurts, cutting him off.
That gets his attention.
Eddie’s brows lift, interest piqued, grin sharpening into something more curious as he slowly lowers his boots from the chair.
“A favor,” he repeats. “From me.”
Mike crosses his arms, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Yeah.”
Eddie glances between them, taking in the tension, the way neither of them looks entirely sure about what they’re about to say, and it only makes him more entertained.
“This should be good,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Go on. Enlighten me.”
Dustin steps forward like he’s presenting a business proposal. “Okay, so. Hypothetically—”
“Oh, we’re starting with hypotheticals,” Eddie hums.
“—if someone,” Dustin continues, ignoring him, “needed you to, I don’t know, go out with someone—”
Eddie snorts. “Henderson, you’re gonna have to narrow it down. My dance card is shockingly empty.”
Mike cuts in, faster this time. “We’ll pay you.”
Eddie goes still for half a second, definitely caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting them to skip straight to that part.
“…You’ll what?” he says, slower now.
Dustin nods, serious. “Pay you.”
Eddie lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he leans forward onto the table, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke he hasn’t been let in on yet.
“You’re offering me money,” he says carefully, “to go on a date.”
“Yes,” Mike says.
“With who?” Eddie asks, already half amused again.
Mike hesitates.
Dustin doesn’t.
“Hopper’s daughter.”
Eddie leans back in his seat, something thoughtful creeping into his expression now.
“…That Hopper’s daughter,” he repeats.
Mike nods. Eddie’s gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, across the cafeteria. It doesn’t take long to find you.
You’re not hard to spot, not because you’re loud or attention-seeking, but because people give you space without meaning to, a quiet radius that forms around you wherever you sit.
You’re leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, completely uninterested in anything happening around you.
Like the entire room is background noise you’ve already tuned out. He’s never talked to you, not once. But he knows you. Everyone does.
The attitude. The sharp tongue. The way you look at people like you’ve already decided exactly what they are and found it lacking.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at them.
“…You want me,” he says slowly, “to go out with her.”
“Yes,” Dustin says again, like repetition might make it sound less insane.
Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he leans back, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.
“You guys have a death wish or something? I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at people. I’m pretty sure I’d burst into flames on contact.”
“You won’t,” Mike says quickly. “Probably.”
Eddie shoots him a look. “Reassuring.”
Dustin leans in. “Look, it doesn’t have to be real. You just have to take her out a couple times, make it believable, and that’s it.”
“Why?” he asks.
Mike hesitates. El answers from behind them.
“Because I want to be with him.”
All three of them turn.
El stands a few steps closer now, her gaze steady as it moves from Mike to Eddie, something earnest and unfiltered sitting right at its center.
“Hopper says I cannot date until she does,” she continues. “So she must.”
Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly, and he glances back at you again. You haven’t noticed him. Or maybe you have, and you just don’t care.
Either way, it does something strange in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for. He looks back at Dustin and Mike.
“…And you’re paying me,” he says.
Dustin nods eagerly. “Yes.”
Eddie taps his fingers against the table, thinking.
“You do realize,” he says after a moment, “this is gonna blow up in your faces, right? Like, spectacularly. Possibly with casualties.”
“Probably,” Mike admits.
Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, almost absently, his eyes flick back to you one more time, alone at your table.
He tilts his head, something like a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“…Alright,” he says.
Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”
Eddie shrugs, pushing himself up from the chair, grabbing his jacket like he’s already halfway committed before he’s even finished deciding.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.”
Dustin grins. “And the money.”
Eddie points at him. “And the money.”
Then he glances back at you, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand yet but very much intends to.
“…Plus,” he adds, almost to himself, “I’ve never met a dragon I didn’t want to try and charm.”
Mike groans. “Please don’t call her that to her face.”
Eddie’s grin widens. “No promises.”
The bell cuts through the cafeteria, sharp and final, and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping, conversations breaking, bodies funneling toward the exits in a familiar, restless wave.
You don’t rush, you never do.
You take your time gathering your things, sliding your bag over your shoulder, letting the crowd thin just enough that you don’t have to fight your way through it.
You don’t notice him at first, not until he’s already there.
Falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the first time he’s ever willingly placed himself in your orbit.
“Hey,” Eddie says easily, turning slightly so he’s walking half backward just to catch your eye, a crooked grin already in place. “Hopper, right?”
You don’t stop, you don’t even look at him.
“Do I know you?” you ask flatly, eyes fixed ahead.
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s cold. I’m hurt.”
“Tragic.”
He snorts, clearly entertained, and then, without missing a beat, sticks his hand out between you like he’s introducing himself at a business meeting.
“Eddie. Munson. Local celebrity, part-time academic menace, full-time delight. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
You glance down at his hand. Then back up at him. And just… stare.
He holds it there a second longer than most people would, grin twitching slightly at the edges as he realizes exactly what’s happening, and then he exhales a quiet laugh, dropping it back to his side.
“Alright, tough crowd,” he mutters, half to himself.
You keep walking.
“So,” he continues, undeterred, falling back into step beside you like he’s decided this is a long game. “I was thinking, dangerous, I know, but maybe you and I could—”
“No.”
He blinks. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”
“I didn’t need you to.”
That earns a laugh, low and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to shut him down that fast but he’s not exactly mad about it either.
“Okay, fair,” he concedes, nodding like you’ve made a solid point. “But hypothetically, if I had finished the sentence—”
“You shouldn’t.”
You cut around a group of people blocking the hallway, not slowing, not adjusting your pace to make room for him.
He sidesteps neatly back into place beside you, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.
“You always this friendly,” he asks, “or am I just special?”
You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re not special.”
“Ouch,” he says, though there’s no real sting to it, just amusement. “Gonna have to try harder, I see.”
You stop at your locker, spinning the dial without acknowledging him, and he leans casually against the one next to yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“I mean, come on,” he goes on, softer now, less performative, more coaxing. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”
“I don’t care about your pitch.”
“Not even a little curious?”
You glance at him then, finally, just a flick of your eyes.
“…No.”
He grins, like that’s the answer he wanted.
“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong,” he says, pushing off the locker, stepping just a little closer. “Because if you were really not curious, you would’ve told me to shut up and left already.”
You slam your locker shut. “I’m telling you to shut up now.”
He laughs, full and unbothered. “There she is.”
You sling your bag back over your shoulder, turning to walk away again, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like this is just how things are now.
“Just one shot,” he says, holding up a finger. “One sentence. If you hate it, I’ll disappear, never bother you again, you can go back to your regularly scheduled brooding—”
“You’re already bothering me.”
“—but if you don’t hate it,” he continues smoothly, ignoring that, “you hear me out.”
You stop again, slowly.
“…You have one sentence,” you say.
His grin comes back, slower this time, a little more careful.
“Go out with me.”
Silence. You stare at him, and he holds it, waiting.
And then you let out a short laugh, like he’s just confirmed exactly what you thought about him the second he opened his mouth.
“Absolutely not.” And just like that, you turn and walk away, not even giving him the chance to respond this time.
Behind you, Eddie just watches you go, something thoughtful settling in behind the amusement. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he falls back a step.
“…Alright,” he mutters to himself, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth again. “Challenge accepted.”
By the time the plan reaches its next phase, it already feels like something that’s gotten out of hand. Not that that stops them.
The cabin is quiet when they get there. Late afternoon light spills through the windows, warm and low, dust floating lazily in the air like the place is holding its breath, and Eleven pushes the door open without hesitation.
The boys follow more cautiously.
Mike lingers just inside the doorway, already tense, eyes darting around like Hopper might materialize out of thin air, while Dustin closes the door behind them with a soft click, lowering his voice instinctively.
“This feels illegal,” Eddie whispers.
“It is not illegal,” El says, already moving toward the hallway. “It is necessary.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going through her stuff.”
El pauses, glancing back at him. “We are learning.”
“That’s worse.”
They find your room easily.
The door’s half-open, like you never bothered to shut it fully, and there’s something about that alone that makes all four of them hesitate for a second.
Dustin pushes it open anyway.
“Okay,” he says under his breath, stepping inside. “Recon mission.”
The room is exactly what Eddie expected. And not at all.
It’s not messy, not really, but it’s not polished either, not curated in that way some people’s rooms are.
Yours feels lived in, real. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, books stacked unevenly on your nightstand, a jacket tossed carelessly across the end of your bed like you’ll come back for it later.
There are posters on the wall, and not the ones people expect. Not pop stars or clean-cut bands, but darker, louder things, edges curling slightly at the corners, ink-heavy designs that feel more like statements than decoration.
Eddie steps further in, slower than the others, gaze dragging across the details, taking it in piece by piece like he’s reading something written in a language he almost understands.
“…Huh,” he says quietly.
Dustin’s already at your shelf, flipping through a stack of vinyls with growing enthusiasm. “Oh, this is gold. This is gold—she’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”
Mike’s still hovering, arms crossed. “Can we not touch everything?”
“We’re not touching everything,” Dustin argues. “We’re strategically observing.”
“You’re holding it.”
“That’s part of observing.”
El moves toward your desk, fingers brushing lightly over the surface, pausing on a notebook left half-open, but she doesn’t flip through it. Not that.
Even she seems to recognize there’s a line somewhere.
Eddie, meanwhile, drifts closer to your wall. He studies the posters more carefully now, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit as something clicks into place.
“…She’s not just mean,” he says, almost absently.
Mike glances over. “What?”
Eddie gestures vaguely at the wall. “This stuff—this isn’t random. She’s got a whole thing going on. It’s like…” He trails off, searching for the word, then shrugs. “Curated chaos.”
Dustin snorts. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now,” Eddie shoots back, though his attention’s already shifted again, scanning the room like he’s trying to piece together a person out of fragments.
There’s something quieter in him now. Less show, more interest.
He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to, but it’s there in the way he lingers, the way he notices things the others don’t, the way his gaze softens just slightly when it lands on something small, something personal.
On your nightstand. A folded piece of paper sticks out from under a book, worn at the edges like it’s been handled more than once, and Dustin, of course, zeroes in on it immediately.
“Ooh, what’s this—”
“Don’t,” Mike says quickly.
Too late. Dustin pulls it free, unfolding it with zero hesitation, eyes scanning over it before lighting up.
“No way.”
“What?” Mike asks, stepping closer despite himself.
Dustin turns it so they can see. Tickets. Two of them. Worn slightly at the corners, like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.
“To a show,” Dustin says, unnecessarily.
Eddie steps in closer, eyes dropping to the print, and something in his expression shifts again, sharper this time, recognition sparking.
“…You’re kidding me,” he murmurs.
El tilts her head. “What is it?”
Eddie reaches out, not taking the tickets, just brushing his fingers lightly against the edge like he needs to confirm they’re real. “This is—”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “—The Misfits,” he finishes.
Dustin blinks. “Is that… good?”
Eddie looks at him like he just asked if oxygen is optional.
“Is that good? Henderson, that’s not just good, that’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, still half smiling. “That’s not exactly mainstream around here, alright? That’s… specific.”
Mike frowns slightly. “So she likes them?”
Eddie exhales, glancing around the room again, like everything suddenly makes a little more sense. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”
Dustin’s grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate. “Okay. So. We use that.”
Mike hesitates. “Use it how?”
Dustin gestures with the tickets. “Conversation piece.”
Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at the tickets, at your room. At the pieces of you scattered around it like clues he didn’t expect to care about.
“…That’s not a terrible idea,” he admits finally, quieter than before.
Mike stares at him. “You’re actually considering this.”
Eddie glances at him, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I told you. I like a challenge.”
But it’s not just that anymore.
“…Guess I’ve got my opening line.”
The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle when it opens, the kind that’s been rung a thousand times and stopped caring somewhere around the five hundredth. You don’t look up right away.
The record store is slow this time of day, the low hum of music drifting through the speakers, something scratchy and familiar playing from behind the counter as you flip through a stack of new arrivals, reorganizing them more out of habit than necessity.
“Afternoon,” you say flatly, still not looking.
“Yeah, I’m hoping it gets better from here.”
You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, you lift your head.
Eddie stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who very much does not belong here.
Your eyes narrow instantly. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grins like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Miss me?”
“No.”
“Cold,” he hums, stepping further inside, gaze drifting lazily over the shelves like he’s browsing. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“You weren’t.”
“Okay, no,” he concedes easily. “I wasn’t.”
You go back to what you were doing, dismissing him with the same efficiency you would anyone else you don’t care to deal with.
“Then leave.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he wanders closer to the counter, fingers brushing along the edge of a display, scanning the titles like he’s genuinely interested. Even though the slight tilt of his mouth says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
“So,” he starts casually, like you’re in the middle of a normal conversation. “You got any Misfits vinyls in stock, or am I gonna have to take my business elsewhere?”
That stops you.
“…You like the Misfits?” you ask, tone edged with suspicion more than curiosity.
He catches it immediately, doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal.
“Yeah. Shocking, I know. Dude in a leather jacket listens to loud, obnoxious music. Real plot twist.”
You step closer, bracing your hands on the counter, gaze locking onto his like you’re trying to catch him in something.
“Name three songs.”
He blinks once. Then huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. Gatekeeping. Love that for you.”
“Name them,” you repeat, unmoved.
He studies you for a second, something amused flickering in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
“…‘Last Caress,’ ‘Hybrid Moments,’ ‘Where Eagles Dare,’” he says easily, ticking them off on his fingers. “Want me to keep going or—?”
You hold his gaze a second longer. Then lean back slightly, crossing your arms.
“…Lucky guesses.”
“Ouch,” he says, though he’s smiling again, a little softer this time, like he’s pleased he got under your skin even a fraction. “You wound me.”
You turn, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Third crate. Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He finds the crate easily, crouching down to flip through it, but he doesn’t speak right away this time.
But, after a moment: “Minor Threat, huh?”
You don’t turn around. “What about them?”
He glances up at you from where he’s crouched, one brow lifting. “Didn’t peg you for the straight-edge type.”
“I’m not.”
He hums, flipping to the next record. “Bad Brains.”
You go still. “…You’re just naming bands now?”
“Descendents,” he adds, like he didn’t hear you.
“How do you know that?” you ask, voice quieter now.
Eddie doesn’t answer right away.
He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, expression shifting just slightly, and meets your gaze.
“I pay attention,” he says simply.
You search his face, like you’re trying to find the angle, the trick, the punchline that hasn’t landed yet.
“…That’s creepy,” you decide finally.
He exhales a soft laugh, nodding like he’ll take that. “Yeah. Little bit.”
You shake your head, turning away again, but it’s not the same dismissal as before. There’s something else under it now, something you don’t quite like.
“You’re not getting a discount.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“So,” he tries again, a little lighter now, easing back into that easy charm like he never left it. “You work here often, or is this a special occasion thing?”
You don’t miss a beat. “I’m here every day.”
“Good,” he says.
That makes you look at him again. “…Why?”
He shrugs, picking a record from the crate, holding it up like that’s his whole answer.
“Makes it easier to come back.”
You stare at him longer this time. Trying to decide if he’s serious. Trying to decide if you care.
“…Buy something or leave,” you say finally, turning back toward the counter, but your voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was when he walked in.
Behind you, Eddie just smiles to himself, something thoughtful tucked behind it as he glances down at the vinyl in his hands.
Hook set, whether you realize it or not. The next day, the idea finds him again before he can talk himself out of it.
You’re at your locker when he spots you.
Same as yesterday. Same hallway, same noise, same carefully maintained distance people keep from you like it’s second nature.
You’re leaning slightly into the metal, spinning the dial with that absent, disinterested look like none of this matters, like none of them matter.
He watches you for a second, then pushes off the wall and heads over.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie Munson calls lightly as he approaches, like this is already a routine between you. Like you didn’t shut him down less than twenty-four hours ago.
You don’t even look up. “Wrong person.”
He grins. “Debatable.”
You slam your locker shut, finally turning to face him, unimpressed as ever. “What do you want, Munson?”
“No hello?” he hums. “No, ‘how’ve you been, Eddie, light of my life, bane of my existence’?”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Good,” he says easily. “This’ll be quick.”
That makes you pause, just slightly.
“There’s a party tonight,” he continues, casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not watching your reaction a little too closely. “At Nancy Wheeler’s place. Parents are out of town, whole suburban rebellion thing, you know the drill.”
You blink once. “…And?”
“And,” he says, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep your attention, “you should come.”
Then you laugh.
“I’d rather die.”
He winces theatrically. “Jesus. You always go straight to homicide, or is that just me?”
You shoulder your bag, already turning away. “Find someone else to bother.”
“I did,” he calls after you. “Didn’t take.”
That slows you down. You glance back, eyes narrowing. “…What.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the entire point. “Figured I’d aim higher.”
You stare at him, and he holds it. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke.
“…I don’t think so,” you say finally.
He tilts his head, considering you, something softer slipping into his expression for half a second before the grin comes back.
“Alright,” he says.
You turn away again, done with it.
“Pick you up at eight.”
You stop.
“…I didn’t say yes.”
“You also didn’t say no,” he shoots back immediately.
You turn, ready to argue, but he’s already walking backward down the hall, hands up in surrender, grin wide and unbothered.
“Eight o’clock, sweetheart!” he calls. “Wear something scary!”
You watch him go. Annoyed... and something else you refuse to name.
That night, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that means something’s about to go wrong.
Eleven moves carefully, slow steps down the hallway, shoes in her hand, eyes flicking toward the living room like she expects Hopper to appear at any second.
She makes it halfway to the door.
“Where are you going?”
She freezes. Hopper stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already unimpressed.
“…Out,” she says.
“Out,” he repeats flatly. “At night. Without telling me.”
She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “There is a party.”
“Oh, there is a party,” he echoes. “And you’re just gonna—what—sneak out and go to it?”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
Hopper shakes his head, already gearing up.
“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this—no dating, no parties, no—”
“She is going.”
Both of them turn.
You’re leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, already in something that looks like you might leave the house even if you haven’t admitted it yet.
Hopper frowns. “She is not—”
“I am,” El insists, stepping closer. “Because she is coming with me.”
You scoff immediately. “No, I’m not.”
El turns to you. And then, she does it: big eyes, slight tilt of her head.
That quiet, stubborn softness that somehow hits harder than any argument she could make. You stare at her.
“…No,” you repeat.
She doesn’t look away. “Please.”
You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face like this is physically painful for you.
“You don’t even know those people.”
“I know Mike.”
Hopper groans. “We are not doing this again—”
You glance at him, back at her, then at the door.
“…Fine,” you snap finally. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
El’s face lights up just slightly. Victory.
Hopper points between the two of you. “No. No, no, no—hold on, I didn’t agree to this—”
Too late. There’s a knock at the door, and all three of you freeze.
You close your eyes briefly.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Hopper squints toward the door. “Who is that?”
Another knock. Louder this time. You push off the wall with a sigh, already heading for it.
“A mistake,” you mutter under your breath.
When you open it, there he is.
Eddie, leaning casually against the frame like he’s been there for a while, like this is perfectly normal, like showing up early to something you never agreed to is just part of his charm.
He looks you up and down once, quick. Then grins.
“…Eight o’clock felt a little late,” he says. “Figured I’d get a head start.”
You stare at him. Behind you, Hopper steps closer.
“…What the hell is this?” he asks.
Eddie straightens, instantly switching gears, hand coming up in an almost too-friendly wave. “Evening, Chief.”
You drag a hand down your face. “This,” you say flatly, “is exactly why I don’t go out.”
The drive is louder than it needs to be.
Not because of conversation, there isn’t much of that, but because Eddie keeps the music just a little too high, fingers tapping against the wheel, glancing at you every so often like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.
You sit with your elbow hooked out the window, gaze fixed on the blur of trees and streetlights, cigarette smoke trailing behind you, acting like he’s not there at all.
He doesn’t push it, not yet.
The house is already packed by the time you pull up.
Cars line the street, music spilling out through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even make it to the front door.
El is out of the van the second it stops, practically sprinting toward the house like she’s been waiting for this all week.
“Hey—don’t—” you start, but she’s already gone.
Eddie watches her disappear inside, then looks at you, one brow lifting slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“…After you.”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him without a word, pushing the door open like you own the place, like you’re not even slightly out of your element.
The noise hits you all at once. Laughter, shouting, music too loud for the speakers it’s coming from, bodies moving through the space in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm. You head straight for the kitchen.
It’s instinct at this point, find the drinks, find something to do with your hands, something to anchor you in a room you already know you don’t want to be in. Eddie follows.
Not hovering exactly, but close enough that you’re aware of him, that steady presence at your side as you weave through people, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the way heads turn just a little too slowly as you pass.
It doesn’t take long. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
You don’t even have to turn to know the tone, but you do anyway.
A couple of guys leaning against the counter, red cups in hand, smirks already in place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
“The shrew herself,” one of them adds, louder this time, making sure people nearby can hear.
“Bite me,” you say flatly, already reaching past them for a drink like they’re nothing.
“God,” Eddie murmurs, just low enough for you to hear, “you’re terrifying.”
You crack open the drink, not looking at him. “Then why are you still here?”
He shrugs, grabbing one for himself. “I’ve got a thing for danger.”
You take a sip, letting the noise of the party settle around you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.
For Eddie, that’s new.
Instead, he just stands there, shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the space between you.
You glance up at him.
“Why did you want me to come, anyway?” you say, nodding toward the crowd. "What's in it for you?"
He looks down at you, like he didn’t expect the question. “What, I can’t invite someone to a party without ulterior motives?”
“You?” you say, arching a brow. “No.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, bringing the cup to his lips.
He takes a sip, pauses, then grimaces immediately. “…Yeah. Okay. That’s foul.”
You almost smile, and he catches it.
“Was that—” he leans in a little, eyes bright, voice dropping like he’s in on a secret, “—was that a smile?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” he says easily. “Already planning my future around it.”
You shake your head, but there’s something softer in your expression now. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs, a little less guarded this time.
“And for the record,” he adds, quieter, “I didn’t come for the party.”
You glance at him. “No?”
“Nah.” A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I came for the part where you show up and pretend you don’t hate me for a couple hours.”
That does it. You smile fully, just a little. And he looks like he just won something.
Across the room, the party swells, louder, messier, people spilling into hallways, voices rising, music shifting tracks.
But Eddie sticks by your side.
The kitchen settles around you in waves, people rotating in and out, laughter rising and falling, and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, you stop counting the seconds until you can leave. Eddie’s still there.
Leaning back against the counter now, one foot hooked behind the other, drink forgotten in his hand as he talks, like this is easy, like you’re easy, like the whole thing isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle.
“…and then Henderson swears the dice are cursed,” he’s saying, gesturing with his hands, animated in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, not really.
“Like, full conspiracy, thinks the entire campaign is rigged against him personally, which—honestly—not entirely wrong, but still.”
You glance at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You rig your own games?”
“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’m a tyrant. A menace. It’s in the job description.”
“That’s pathetic.”
He grins. “That’s leadership.”
You huff out a quiet breath, something that’s dangerously close to a laugh, and he catches it immediately, eyes lighting up like he’s just hit a milestone.
“There it is again,” he says, pointing at you. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Oh, I’m gonna push it,” he says easily. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”
You shake your head, taking another sip of your drink, but you don’t shut him down. He seems to clock that too, something softer settling into his expression for a second before he covers it with another smirk.
“So what,” he goes on, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, testing the boundary. “You just sit around all day, scaring small children and rejecting perfectly charming invitations, or—”
“Children scare easily.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to see why.”
You glance at him again, like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is and coming up short.
“…You talk a lot,” you say.
“I’ve been told it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”
“It’s not.”
“Agree to disagree.”
There’s a pause. Then, before you can stop it, you laugh.
It slips out of you like you didn’t mean for it to, like it caught you off guard just as much as it does him.
Eddie goes quiet, like he doesn’t want to ruin it.
“Wow,” he says after a second, softer now, something genuine threading through the usual humor. “Okay. That— that was worth the price of admission.”
You roll your eyes immediately, the moment passing just as quickly as it came. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But he’s still smiling. Not the loud, performative grin from earlier.
“Hey—” You both turn.
Nancy stands a few steps away, red cup in hand, looking pleasantly surprised, like she almost didn’t believe it when she heard you were here.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
You shrug, already bracing for whatever comment’s coming next. “I didn’t plan on it.”
Nancy’s eyes flick briefly to Eddie, then back to you, something knowing in her expression that you immediately don’t trust.
“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “I’m glad you did. It’s… nice to see you out of your shell.”
You stare at her. “I don’t have a shell.”
Eddie snorts into his drink.
Nancy laughs softly, unfazed. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
She just shakes her head, still smiling, like she’s decided not to push it, and takes a step back. “Just—have fun, okay?”
He glances at you, one brow lifting. “Out of your shell, huh.”
“Say one more word, and I’m leaving.”
He holds his hands up immediately. “Hey, hey—zip it. Noted.”
Then, quieter, “For what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time, “I think you’re doing great.”
You don’t respond. But you don’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for him.
The Hideout isn’t trying to impress anyone.
Dim lights, sticky floors, a stage that’s seen better decades, the low hum of a crowd that feels more like background noise than the main event.
It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Eddie to bring someone.
It’s not the kind of place you expected to like. And yet…
You’re sitting across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, one leg tucked under you, drink sweating in your hand as he tells stories.
Dumb ones, mostly, about Hellfire campaigns and arguments over rules and how Henderson once tried to “unionize the party,” whatever that means.
You don’t fully understand half of it, but you listen anyway.
“…and then he goes, ‘you can’t just kill my character because I questioned your authority,’” Eddie finishes, shaking his head, clearly still entertained by it. “And I’m like, ‘watch me.’”
You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a compliment.
You take a sip of your drink, studying him over the rim of the glass, something quieter settling in your chest, something unfamiliar and a little unsettling. Because he’s not what you expected, not entirely.
He’s loud, yeah. Annoying. Persistent in a way that should get under your skin more than it does. But he’s also gentle, in strange, fleeting ways.
Like the way he slid into the booth first, so you wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. The way he asked what you wanted before ordering, like it mattered. The way he listens when you do speak, even if you only give him scraps.
It’s disarming. You don’t like that.
“…What,” he says suddenly, catching your gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes, looking away. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I,” he hums, leaning forward just slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye again. “Because I’m pretty sure that was a nice look.”
“Don’t push it.”
He grins, softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he reaches across the table, not touching you, just tapping his fingers lightly against the surface like he’s resisting the urge to close the distance.
“I’m glad you came,” he says.
Simple, no joke attached. You don’t answer right away.
“…Me too,” you admit, quieter.
His expression shifts, just a fraction, something warm flickering there before he looks away, like he needs a second to recover from it.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”
You scoff. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But there’s no bite to it, not really.
You don’t realize how far you’ve let your guard down until you stand up to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t follow. You don’t expect him to, but you notice it anyway.
The hallway’s quieter, the music muffled, the buzz of the bar fading just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.
This was a mistake; it has to be. You don’t do this. You don’t sit in booths and laugh at stupid stories and let people get close enough to matter.
And yet...You push the bathroom door open, splash water on your hands, stare at your reflection for a second longer than necessary, then head back out.
You hear it before you see them.
“…I’m just saying, man, you better get your cut.”
You slow, just slightly. Voices from around the corner, familiar in that distant way you recognize but don’t care enough to place.
“Yeah, seriously,” another one adds. “How much is Henderson even paying you for going out with Hopper’s daughter again?”
Your stomach drops, cold and sharp. You step around the corner, and there he is.
Eddie, leaning back against the wall, a couple of Hellfire guys clustered around him, laughing like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke that doesn’t have a target. Like it’s not you.
He doesn’t laugh, not really. But he doesn’t shut it down fast enough.
“…It’s not—” he starts. Too late.
They notice you, and the laughter dies. Eddie’s head snaps up. And the second his eyes meet yours, he knows.
“Hey—” he says, pushing off the wall immediately, something urgent in his tone now. “It’s not like that—”
You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Wow.”
He stops a few feet in front of you, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast. “I can explain—”
“That’s rich,” you cut him off, voice low and sharp, eyes burning into him. “'Nothing in it for you', huh?”
“I was going to tell you,” he insists, stepping closer. “I just—”
“When,” you snap. “After you got paid? Or were you waiting on a bonus for sleeping with me?”
“It’s not about the money anymore,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been for a while.”
You laugh again, harsher this time. “Oh, please.”
“I mean it,” he says, more forcefully now, frustration bleeding through. “Yeah, it started that way, I’m not gonna lie to you, but that’s not what this is now—”
“You expect me to believe that,” you cut in, stepping back, putting space between you like you need it to breathe. “You expect me to believe you suddenly just—what—like me?”
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation, no joke. It almost makes it worse.
You shake your head, backing up another step, something tight and ugly twisting in your chest that you refuse to name.
“God, you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—”
“You didn’t mean for me to find out at all,” you correct.
You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something colder, something safer, something that doesn’t let any of that hurt show through.
“Don’t follow me,” you say flatly.
Then you turn and walk out. Leaving him standing there, the noise of the bar rushing back in around him, the taste of something good turning bitter in his mouth before he even has time to process how badly he just screwed it up.
The next morning feels different.
Not in the way anyone else would notice, not in the noise or the routine or the way Hawkins High hums along like nothing ever really changes, but in the space around you.
You move through the hallway like you always do, head high, eyes forward, expression locked into something unreadable, but there’s an edge to it now, something sharper, like you’ve sealed something off and thrown away the key.
People still move out of your way; they always do. But this time, you don’t even register them.
Eddie is leaning against a row of lockers, mid-conversation with one of the Hellfire guys, but the second you round the corner, his attention shifts completely, like everything else drops out of focus.
He pushes off the wall without thinking. “Hey—”
You don’t slow.
“Hey,” he tries again, falling into step beside you, voice lower this time, less show, more real. “Can we just—”
“No.” Not even a glance.
He exhales, quick, frustrated, but keeps pace anyway.
“Just listen for a second, okay? I know you’re pissed, I get that, but I—”
“I’m not pissed,” you cut in, voice flat. You keep walking. “I just don’t care,” you finish.
He hovers there for a second, like he’s been physically pushed back, then jogs a step to catch up again, not ready to let it go.
“That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, almost like he’s trying not to spook you. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be—”
“Don’t,” you snap, finally turning to face him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”
He lifts his hands slightly, backing off just a fraction. “I’m not—”
“You lied,” you say simply.
“I didn’t lie about everything,” he pushes, something desperate creeping in now. “I meant what I said—”
“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you asked me out, or the part where you cashed the check.”
A couple of people nearby slow down, sensing tension, but neither of you notices or cares.
Eddie swallows, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that.”
You step back, putting space between you again, shutting it down before he can try to spin it into something softer.
“Find someone else to entertain you,” you say, voice cold. “I’m done.”
And this time, you walk away without stopping. Without looking back. Without giving him anything to hold onto.
He just stands there for a second, staring after you, something tight and frustrated and stuck settling in his chest.
“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.
Eddie drops into the seat across from them harder than necessary.
Dustin startles. “Jesus—”
“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie says flatly.
Mike winces immediately. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face. “No, like—won’t. Won’t even look at me. I tried this morning and she just—”
He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t exist.”
El looks up at that. “You hurt her.”
Eddie exhales, nodding once. “Yeah. I got that part.”
Mike leans forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”
“I didn’t let anything—” Eddie starts, then stops, because he knows how it sounds, because he knows they’re not wrong. “…Okay, yeah. I did. I know.”
Dustin folds his arms. “So what’s the plan now?”
Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I’m asking you.”
They all look at each other. No immediate answer. Which is… not encouraging.
“You apologize,” Mike says finally.
“I did.”
“No, like—actually apologize,” Dustin adds. “Not the whole ‘I’m sorry but also here’s why I’m still kind of right’ thing you do.”
“I didn’t do that,” Eddie argues.
“You definitely did that,” Mike says.
Eddie groans, dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll apologize better. Then what?”
El watches him for a second, quiet, thoughtful. “You tell the truth,” she says.
He looks up at her. “I did.”
She shakes her head slightly. “Not just about the money. About… everything.”
Eddie leans back in his seat, staring at the table like it might give him an answer he doesn’t already know.
“…She doesn’t believe me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even if I say it, she’s just gonna think it’s another lie.”
“Then don’t make it sound like one,” Dustin says.
Eddie snorts. “Helpful.”
“I’m serious,” Dustin insists. “You can’t just charm your way out of this one, man. That’s like—your whole thing. She’s not gonna buy it.”
Mike nods. “You need to… prove it.”
Eddie glances between them. “How.”
El speaks again. “Do something for her,” she says simply.
He frowns. “Like what.”
She shrugs, small, but certain. “Something she would know is real.”
Your room feels smaller than it usually does. Not physically, nothing’s changed.
Same half-made bed, same stack of books by the nightstand, same records leaning against the wall like you meant to put them away and never did.
But it’s quieter in a way that presses in on you, like the air’s heavier, like everything’s waiting for you to do something you’re not going to do.
You’re stretched out on your bed, a book open in your hands, eyes moving over the same paragraph for the third time without actually reading a word of it.
It’s stupid, all of it. You knew better. You always know better.
A knock breaks the silence. You don’t look up.
“Go away.”
A pause. Then, softer, “Please.”
You close your eyes briefly, irritation flickering up fast and familiar.
“I said go away, El.”
The handle rattles, and you hear her try it once. Twice. Then: a quiet click.
Your head snaps up just as the door pushes open. Anger hits first.
You sit up fast, book forgotten as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, already moving.
“I told you not to do that anymore,” you snap, voice rising as you step toward the door. “What part of that is confusing to you, you little—”
You stop. Because it’s not just Eleven standing there. She’s off to the side, watching.
And in the doorway, Eddie. The anger doesn’t disappear. If anything, it sharpens.
“What the hell is this,” you say, colder now, folding your arms like that’s enough to hold yourself together. “You recruiting now?”
El looks between the two of you.
“He wants to talk,” she says.
“I don’t.”
Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push into the room, doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin. He just stands there, hands empty, like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”
You scoff, looking away. “Then what are you doing here.”
“I gave it back,” he says.
You glance at him. “…What.”
“The money,” he clarifies, swallowing once. “I gave it back to Henderson. All of it. Told him I’m out.”
You stare at him, searching. For the angle, the lie, the performance.
“…Why.”
He lets out a breath, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it again, like he doesn’t want to hide behind the motion.
“Because it’s not what I want,” he says.
You don’t react.
“Wasn’t at first,” he adds, honest in a way that almost makes you more irritated than if he’d tried to sugarcoat it. “I’m not gonna pretend it was. But somewhere in there, it stopped being about that.”
You shake your head slightly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “And I’m supposed to just believe that.”
“No,” he says immediately.
“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say,” he continues, voice steady, even if there’s something tight underneath it. “I just… needed to say it.”
El shifts slightly by the door, unsure, watching both of you like she’s waiting for something to break.
You look at Eddie again. No grin, no attitude, no bullshit.
“…You should’ve told me,” you say, quieter now, but no less sharp.
“I know.”
“Before.”
“I know.”
“You let me sit there,” you continue, stepping a little closer, not soft, in your anger now, “and actually think you—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.
He doesn’t fill the space.
“That part wasn’t fake,” he says instead, softer.
You laugh, but it’s weaker this time. “That’s convenient.”
“I liked you,” he says. “I like you. That didn’t start with the money and it didn’t end when I gave it back.”
You shake your head again, but there’s less certainty in it now, less bite.
“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” he says, a little breath of a laugh slipping through. “Been hearing that a lot lately.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds.
Your eyes flick back up to his.
“I’m not asking you to go out with me again,” he continues. “Or even talk to me after this.”
“I just didn’t want you thinking it was all fake,” he finishes. “Because it wasn’t.”
You don’t move, and you don’t respond.
Just stand there, caught somewhere between the version of him you decided on and the one standing in front of you now.
Behind him, El watches, quiet, hopeful in a way she’s trying not to show.
You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face.
“…You’re still an asshole,” you say finally.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“And you showed up to my house uninvited.”
He glances at El. “…Yeah.”
“And she broke into my room.”
“She did.”
You look at him for another second. Then, “…But you gave the money back.”
It’s not a question. He shakes his head.
“Didn’t feel right keeping it.”
“…That was stupid,” you decide.
A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, softer now, something shifting under the surface whether you like it or not. “You could’ve at least kept it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought about it.”
“…You still owe me a real date,” you say.
His head tilts, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right. “…I do?”
You roll your eyes immediately, looking away like you already regret it. “Don’t make it weird.”
A slow, careful smile spreads across his face. Not big. Not cocky. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You cross your arms again, trying to regain some control over the situation. “And if you screw it up again, I’m not giving you another chance.”
“Fair.”
“And you’re not picking me up early this time.”
He nods, serious. “Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock,” you confirm.
Behind him, El’s face brightens just slightly, relief slipping through before she quickly tries to hide it. You catch it anyway.
“Get out,” you tell her flatly. She doesn’t argue this time. Just turns and disappears down the hallway.
You look back at Eddie. He lingers in the doorway for a second longer, like he’s making sure this is real, like you didn’t just shut the door on him again.
“…I’ll see you at eight,” he says. You don’t answer, but you don’t tell him to leave, either. And when he finally does, the room doesn’t feel quite as small.
You stare at your closet like it personally offended you. Nothing looks right. Everything looks like you, which is the problem.
You tug a shirt off a hanger, hold it up, hesitate, toss it onto your bed with a quiet huff.
Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror across the room, arms crossed, expression already halfway to annoyed, like you’re judging yourself for even trying.
It’s just a date. A real date.
You roll your eyes at the thought, dragging a hand through your hair before turning back to the mess you’ve made.
After a second, you pull something else out. Simpler. Still you, just… softer around the edges. Something that doesn’t scream don’t talk to me quite as loudly.
You hesitate, then change anyway. When you step back in front of the mirror, you don’t smile. But you don’t hate it either.
“…Shut up,” you mutter to your reflection, grabbing your jacket.
The knock comes right at eight.
You freeze for half a second in the hallway, like your body needs to catch up with the fact that this is actually happening. Then you force yourself forward, pushing past it before you can overthink your way out of the entire night.
Hopper gets to the door first.
“Stay,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for the handle like you’re a dog he doesn’t trust to bolt.
You scowl but don’t argue, lingering just behind him as he opens the door.
Eddie's standing on the porch like he’s been there for a while, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture just a little straighter than usual, like he’s aware of exactly whose house he’s standing in.
“Evening, Chief,” he says, lifting a hand in a small wave.
Hopper eyes him up and down.
“I know you,” he says.
Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Munson.”
“I knew your dad,” Hopper adds, like that explains everything.
Eddie winces slightly. “That can’t be good.”
Hopper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Depends on the day.”
Then Hopper steps out onto the porch, pulling the door halfway closed behind him so you’re left just inside, listening whether you want to or not.
You lean slightly, just enough to catch it.
“You’re taking her out,” Hopper says, voice lower now.
“Yes, sir.”
Hopper studies him for another second, something shifting in his expression. Like he knows the reputation, but he’s also seen enough of the kid underneath it to not write him off completely.
“I don’t care what people say about you,” Hopper continues, steady. “I care how you treat her.”
Eddie nods immediately. “Fair.”
“If she asks, you bring her home. No questions.”
“Of course.”
“And if she looks even a little unhappy—”
“I won’t let that happen,” Eddie cuts in.
That pauses Hopper, just for a second. He looks at him again, sharper this time, like he’s trying to decide if that confidence is arrogance or something else.
“…Alright,” he says finally.
He steps back, pushing the door open again. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Eddie gives a small nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You’re already there when he steps back inside.
Leaning against the wall like you haven’t been eavesdropping, like you didn’t hear a single word of that. Eddie looks at you and stops, just for a second.
His eyes flick over you, quick but not careless, taking in the change, the effort, the fact that you showed up to this night differently than before.
Something soft crosses his face.
“…Wow,” he says quietly.
You immediately cross your arms. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You look nice.”
You roll your eyes, pushing past him toward the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The drive is different this time.
“…So,” you say after a while, glancing at him. “Where are we going.”
He glances over, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll see.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I figured.”
“Then why—”
“Because this one’s good,” he cuts in, softer this time.
You study him for a second, then look back out the window.
“…It better be.”
The venue isn’t in Hawkins. Small, a little rundown, lights buzzing faintly above the entrance, a line already forming outside, people packed close, voices loud, energy crackling in the air.
You step out of the van and stop, recognition hitting instantly.
“…No way.”
Eddie leans against the door, watching your reaction, something almost nervous flickering behind the usual confidence.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”
You look at the sign again. At the crowd. At him.
“…Descendents?”
He nods once. “Figured I’d start strong.”
“You got tickets.”
“Had to pull some strings,” he admits. “Almost sold my soul, but, you know. Worth it.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it.
“…You’re unbelievable,” you say.
“Yeah,” he grins. “Been told.”
“…Thank you,” you add, quieter.
That hits him in a different way; you can see it. The way he stills for just a second before nodding, like he doesn’t trust himself to make a joke out of it this time.
“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”
He pushes off the van, stepping closer, not crowding you, just enough to fall into step beside you as the two of you move toward the line together.
The crowd spills out of the venue in loose waves, people shouting over each other, laughing, reliving moments that already feel bigger than they probably were.
You step out with them, breath catching slightly as the quiet starts to settle back in.
“…Okay,” you admit, pushing your hair back from your face, still a little flushed from the heat inside. “That was—”
You stop, like you don’t want to give it to him.
Eddie watches you, already grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he knows exactly where this is going.
“Go on,” he says. “Finish the sentence.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m not ruining anything, I’m encouraging honesty.”
You scoff, starting down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like he always does now, like there’s no question about it.
“…It was good,” you say finally, quieter this time, like it costs you something.
His grin widens. “Good?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m just saying, I expected at least a ‘life-changing experience’ or a tearful confession—”
“I said don’t push it.”
He laughs, softer this time, not trying to get a rise out of you, just simply enjoying it.
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “But for the record, I think I deserve more credit here.”
“For what,” you ask, glancing at him.
“For broadening your horizons,” he says easily.
You blink at him. “You took me to a band I already like.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “But I picked the right band.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.
“…They were better live,” you admit after a second.
That catches him.
“Yeah?” he asks, a little surprised.
You nod slightly. “Yeah.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”
You glance at him again, brow lifting. “You didn’t think they were good?”
“I thought they were fine,” he says carefully. “Like, solid. Respectable.”
You scoff. “Respectable.”
“Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he shoots back. “Can’t just go around admitting I enjoyed something that much.”
You bump your shoulder into his, a little harder this time. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he grins. “But you’re still here.”
You don’t respond. But you don’t move away, either.
There’s a moment as you walk, the noise of the crowd fading behind you, replaced by the quiet stretch of road, the hum of distant cars, the lingering echo of music in your chest.
And then, his arm comes up. Slow. Careful.
Not like he expects it, not like he’s claiming anything, just resting across your shoulders, light enough that you could shrug it off if you wanted to.
You feel it immediately; the warmth, the weight. You tense, just for a second. He feels it too and starts to pull back.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
But you don’t move away. You don’t shrug him off. Instead, you pull his hand around the rest of the way.
You lean into him just slightly, your shoulder fitting more comfortably under his arm like it makes sense there.
Like it’s allowed. He goes quiet.
“…You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, softer now.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, well,” he glances down at you briefly, something warm in his expression, “I don’t want to mess this up.”
You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done that once.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Trying not to make it a pattern.”
“…You’re doing alright so far,” you say. It’s quiet, almost lost to the night. But he hears it.
“I’ll take that,” he says.
You glance up at him for a second, catching the way he’s looking ahead, not at you, like he’s giving you space even now.
The van comes into view at the end of the lot, headlights dim, the night settling in around it like a quiet pause between moments.
Neither of you rushes toward it. Neither of you breaks the space between you.
And as you walk, side by side, his arm still draped over your shoulders, your weight just barely leaning into him; it doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel forced. Just easy in a way you're a little scared to name.
The ride home feels softer than the one there.
The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, cool against your skin, the kind that keeps you awake in a way that’s not exhausting.
The music is lower this time, something steady humming through the speakers while the road stretches out in long, quiet lines ahead of you.
You’ve got your elbow hooked out the window again.
He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, like he’s still half in the rhythm of the show.
“…So,” he says after a while, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”
You don’t look at him. “I am always honest.”
He snorts. “That’s terrifying, but not what I meant.”
You finally turn your head, brow lifting. “What did you mean.”
“Scale of one to ten,” he says. “How good was it.”
You consider it for a second, dragging it out just to annoy him.
“…Seven.”
He scoffs immediately. “Seven?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“That was at least an eight,” he argues. “Minimum.”
“Seven,” you repeat.
He shakes his head, like he’s deeply disappointed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into planning the perfect night—”
“You bought tickets,” you cut in.
“—and this is the thanks I get,” he finishes anyway.
You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth again, one you don’t bother hiding this time.
“…Okay,” you say after a second. “Eight.”
He glances at you, quick. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me take it back.”
“I’m just saying,” he grins, settling back into his seat a little, “I might be good at this.”
“At what.”
“Dating you.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve had one successful outing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“One and a half,” he corrects. “You didn’t hate the first one until the whole… you know.” He gestures vaguely.
You exhale through your nose. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“Right. Sorry.” He nods once. “Moment preserved.”
“…You’re not as bad as I thought you were,” you admit.
It slips out before you can stop it. The car goes quiet. He looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you’re messing with him.
“…Wow,” he says softly. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he murmurs.
You turn back toward the window, but your shoulder brushes his arm for a second when the car shifts, and neither of you pulls away right away.
By the time you pull up to the cabin, the night’s settled in fully.
He cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost too loud after everything else, and for a second, neither of you moves.
“…Home sweet home,” he says lightly.
“Don’t say that.”
“What, you don’t like it?”
“It’s weird.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Noted.”
You reach for the door. He’s already out of the van by the time you step onto the gravel, circling around without thinking, falling into step beside you like it’s automatic now.
The walk to the door is short, too short. You notice that, annoyingly.
Neither of you says much, the quiet stretching out again, not uncomfortable, just full of something neither of you is naming.
You stop at the door, turn. He’s already looking at you.
For once, he doesn’t have a line ready. Just that same careful, steady look he’s had all night, like he’s trying not to mess this up.
“…I had a good time,” he says.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
“…Eight,” you add.
His mouth twitches. “I’ll take it.”
You should go inside, you know that. You always know when to end things. Clean. Simple. No room for anything to get complicated.
But instead, you step forward. He barely has time to register it before your hand catches lightly on his jacket, pulling him just enough, and you kiss him.
It’s quick, but not hesitant. Not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else.
You pull back just as fast, like you’ve already decided that’s all he’s getting, like if you linger, you might rethink it.
He stares at you. Completely caught off guard.
“…Wow,” he breathes.
You roll your eyes immediately, stepping back toward the door.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, because he is a little stunned, because that definitely wasn’t what he expected.
You reach for the handle, pause, then glance back at him over your shoulder.
“…Goodnight, Munson.”
A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across his face.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Goodnight.”
You disappear inside before he can say anything else.
And for a second, he just stands there on the porch, staring at the door like it might open again. Like, he didn’t just imagine that.
Then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back toward the van.
“…Eight,” he mutters to himself, still smiling.
AGHAHGDHHS okay here it is. i hope you all enjoyed :3
Summary: You love it when your boyfriend Eddie fucks you hard and stupid- and you loved nothing more than letting him know just how grateful he makes you for it.
Credit: Thank you to @spacejjunk for the title idea ❤️ Dividers by @cafekitsune
────────
“That’s it, baby!”
The headboard smacks against the wall again, in rhythm with his deep, punishing thrusts as he continues pounding you- face down, ass up into the mattress.
“Fuuuuck yeah…you love it when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”
“Eddie p-please!” You whimper, fisting the bed sheets beneath you as his hips slap against your ass- forcing his hard cock to brush against your cervix with every thrust.
“Please, what? Use your words, sweetheart.” He tsks, a devilish grin spreading across his face as he looks down where both of your bodies meet- watching himself slide in and out of your drenched cunt.
“H-harder.” You sob, tears wetting the sheets as your body shook with pleasure. “Please fuck me harder!”
“Oh, you want it harder?” Eddie asks, his grip on your hips tightening hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “You sure you can handle that?”
You gasp, nodding your head helplessly as the tears keep flowing- choking on desperate sobs and moans.
“I c-can t-take it!” You cry out “Please!”
“Alright.” Eddie smirks, looking down at his slutty little plaything as you writhed and cried out beneath him. “Whatever you want, gorgeous.”
Before you have time to react, Eddie leans his body forward- putting all his body weight on you until you’re on your stomach, lying prone on the mattress as he pounds into you at a brutal, punishing pace.
“Oh my fucking god!” You cry out, another onset of hot, thick tears take over you as you sob out in pleasure.
“That feel good?” Eddie growls, snapping his hips against you as he drives his hard cock into you as deep as you could take it. “Is that what you’re fucking crying about, sweetheart? Yeah? Fucking…answer…me.”
“Yes!” You squeal “Yes, Eddie! Oh fuck yes! Thank you!”
One of his hands snake up to your neck, wrapping around it as he pulls your head back towards him- lightly squeezing your throat.
“What was that, angel?” Eddie patronizes, his voice hot against your ear “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Thank you, Eddie. Fuck- thank you!”
“Oh baby, you’re welcome.” Eddie coos “Anything for my little cocksleeve. My cock hungry whore with such good fucking manners. Right, baby? You keep using those manners for me and I’ll keep giving you this fucking dick just how you fucking like it.”
“Thank you!” You gasp, your voice hoarse and desperate as he thrusts into you hard enough to jolt you forward. “Oh god! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“Fuck, baby. Such good manners.” Eddie praises “You know what you get with manners like those? Hm?”
“Oh fuck, please!”
“That’s it. Atta girl!” Eddie chuckles darkly “With manners like those, you can have anything you fucking want.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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FRIEND! There is NO way you can have fuck ai in your bio and also fuck with gem writes 😩 like literally no way! I’m sure she’s nice but she uses ai background pictures for her shit, everyone knows this it’s hella sus
I am a human being, not a monolith or someone who merges with people's beliefs just because I know them.
We're both grown women, and I cannot force anyone to stop doing something that they WANT to do.
My opinion on ai STILL stands, I fucking hate it.
I will never, and have NEVER used it in my works. I can't help what other people do in theirs.
I am still MY own woman. I put fuck ai because it's what I believe. I can't stand it. I can't stop what other people do.
Everything on this page is made from me from the MOMENT I started writing, and it will always be like that.
I can't do anything about what someone else does with their works.
I don't, and will never condone ai usage in fandom no matter WHO I know. Please remind yourself that you and I are strangers and you don't know me at all.
I'm not a sheep, and I'm certainly not your friend. Whoever you are, block me.
It's STILL fuck ai on this blog! Have the guts to be non anon and then we can talk. You clearly know who she is, so demonstrate your issues with her, not me.
I’m a teacher and there’s a little hole in the ceiling of my classroom that’s about two inches in diameter from where a projector used to be and without fail, there’s always a kid who asks what the hole is for. Every year. My response is always “Oh it’s for the snakes.”
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summary: you've been living next to peter for four years now with no issue! hes a great neighbor! quiet (for the most part), polite- oh and hes spider-man. not that youd say anything to him about it. but things are starting to get weird- weirder than the normal queens bullshit.
general warnings/tags: smut, angst, comfort, some fluff, mainly smut and angst tbh, mean! peter, porn AND plot, each chapter has specific tags
masterlist // join the taglist // request a bonus chapter
part one: (not so) friendly neighborhood spiderman
part two: little bug
part three: pest control (tbd)
summary: youve always had this...problem when it comes to sex. youve never made it across the finish line like...ever. you intended on keeping this a secret. especially from your older coworker eddie but your best friend had to just open her stupid mouth and now hes on a personal mission to right the wrongs of the universe.
warnings/tags: 2002 au, age gap (15 years), bartender! eddie and reader, pining, smoking, smut (oral f receiving, squirting, multiple orgasms, breast worship, multiple positions, praise, big dick! eddie, aftercare)
masterlist // join the taglist
The bar was a goddamn ghost town at three in the afternoon. Half the stools still had yesterday’s coasters stuck to them. The jukebox was stuck on some early 2000s alternative bullshit that no one had the energy to change. You were wiping down the same stretch of sticky counter for the third time when Jess leaned her elbows on it, chin in her hands, eyes gleaming like she’d just gotten away with murder.
“I’m serious,” she said, voice low and conspiratorial even though the only other person in the place was Eddie, restocking the well bottles with his back to you both. “This guy. Last night. I don’t even remember his name. Doesn’t matter. He went down on me like it was a calling. Like he’d been training for it since puberty. I came so hard I thought I was gonna black out. Twice. In like twelve minutes.”
You snorted into the rag. “That’s disgusting. And also… congratulations?”
“Thank you.” Jess preened. “I’m glowing. Look at me. Post-orgasmic radiance.” She tilted her face toward the neon Bud Light sign like it was a mirror. Then her expression softened into something more pointed. “Speaking of which… you still having your little problem with men?”
You froze mid-wipe. “Jess—”
“What problem?”
Eddie’s voice cut across the bar, casual as anything. He didn’t even turn around at first, just kept lining up the Jack and the Jim like he hadn’t been listening the entire time. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, one dark brow was already arched high under the messy fall of his hair. He always looked unfairly good—black band tee stretched across his shoulders, silver rings flashing every time he moved, that perpetual half-smirk that made it hard to tell if he was about to roast you or flirt with you. Probably both.
Jess didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you know. Her problem.” She jerked a thumb in your direction. “She’s never came from a dude before.”
The bottle of whiskey in Eddie’s hand paused halfway to the shelf.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Jesus Christ, Jess—”
“What?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’s not like it’s a secret. You’ve told me like six times. And he’s right there. He’s basically part of the furniture at this point.”
Eddie set the bottle down with deliberate care and turned fully, resting his forearms on the bar. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Never?” he repeated, voice low and amused and way too interested. “Like… ever? Not even the accidental ones? The ‘oops I moved wrong and something happened’ variety?”
Heat crawled up your neck. “Can we not—”
“Nope,” Jess said cheerfully. “We’re airing it out. Self-awareness is in bitch.”
Eddie tilted his head, studying you like you were a particularly fascinating puzzle. The long hair, the rings, the faint scar through his eyebrow—everything about him was unfairly magnetic, and he knew it. He’d always known it. The way his eyes lingered a half-second too long when you reached for the top-shelf bottles. The way yours did the same when he stretched to change the lights over the pool table.
“Huh,” he said eventually. “That’s… tragic. Actually tragic. Like Greek tragedy levels of tragic.”
You glared at him. “It’s not tragic.”
“It is,” he insisted, deadpan. “You’re twenty-one. Peak prime. And you’re walking around out here unsatisfied like it’s some kind of personality trait. That’s criminal. Someone should fix that.”
Jess grinned. “See? He gets it.”
“I get nothing,” you muttered, scrubbing harder at a non-existent spot on the wood. “And for the record, it’s not like guys haven’t tried. They’re just… bad at it. Or distracted. Or weirdly determined to go for the Olympic gold in thrusting while forgetting the rest of the body exists.”
Eddie made a soft, wounded sound. “Ouch. Collectively roasting half the male population. Bold.”
“Deserved,” you shot back.
He leaned in a little, elbows sliding closer across the bar. The metal of his rings clicked against the wood. “So what you’re saying is… every single guy who’s ever had the privilege has been mid at best.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And none of them managed to, y’know—” he made a vague, elegant gesture with one hand, rings flashing, “—get the job done.”
Jess was delighted. “God, this is better than daytime TV.”
You pointed the rag at her. “You started this.”
“And I’m thriving.”
Eddie ignored her completely, eyes still locked on yours. There was something sharp and curious under the teasing now. Something that made your stomach pull tight.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that. Like you’re taking notes for later.”
His grin spread slow and wicked. “Baby, I’ve been taking notes for months. This is just the first time the subject’s come up in conversation.”
Jess actually clapped. “Oh my god.”
You felt your face go hot. “Eddie—”
He straightened up, palms raised in mock surrender, but the smirk never left. “Hey. Just saying. If the bar’s this dead every afternoon, maybe we should start a support group. I can lead the hands on portion of the presentation.”
You threw the wet rag at his chest. He caught it one-handed without even flinching, laughing under his breath as the damp fabric slapped against his shirt.
“You’re the worst,” you told him.
“And yet,” he said, tossing the rag back onto the bar between you, “you keep looking.”
Jess made a delighted little noise and stage-whispered, “I live for this shift.”
Eddie just winked at you—slow, deliberate—and turned back to the bottles like he hadn’t just set the entire afternoon on fire.
The next two hours crawled by in that special brand of dead-bar purgatory where every glass you washed felt like a personal insult. A couple of regulars drifted in, ordered cheap beer, and left again. Jess kept shooting you meaningful looks every time Eddie got within ten feet, which was constantly, because the universe had decided you two were stuck on the same side of the bar for the rest of the shift.
He waited until Jess disappeared into the back to change a keg before he started.
“Alright,” he said, voice low and conversational as he dried a pint glass with unnecessary care. “Pop quiz time. You ever come from oral? Like, someone actually knowing what they’re doing down there.”
You nearly dropped the bottle of vodka you were restocking. “Eddie.”
“What? Scientific inquiry. I like to learn.” He tapped his temple with one ringed finger. “Answer the question.”
You glanced toward the empty booths, then back at him. “No. Not really. It’s usually… fine. Then they get bored or their jaw starts hurting and they switch to something else.”
He made a soft, wounded sound like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “Christ. The bar is in hell. Next question—missionary. Ever gotten there that way?”
“No.”
“Doggy?”
“Eddie—”
“Answer.”
You exhaled through your nose. “Once I thought I was close. Then he asked if I was okay because I went quiet and the whole thing died.”
Eddie actually stopped drying the glass. He stared at you for a second, then set it down very carefully. “I’m going to need a list of names. Ban them from the bar. They're never allowed in your presence again.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m invested,” he corrected, leaning a hip against the counter. The afternoon light caught on the silver at his knuckles. “Okay, reverse cowgirl. Ever tried that one?”
You gave him a flat look. “You’re just listing positions now.”
“It’s a thorough survey. I’m a thorough guy.” His mouth curved. “What about when you’re on top and you actually get to control the angle?”
Heat crawled up the back of your neck. “Still no.”
“Against a wall?”
“No.”
“Bent over something?”
“Eddie, oh my god.”
He held up both hands, rings flashing, but he was grinning like a man who’d just found a new favorite hobby. “Okay, okay. Solo work. You can get yourself there, right?”
You hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. That’s… the only reliable method, honestly.”
Something shifted in his expression—still playful, still teasing, but there was a new sharpness underneath it. Like he’d just filed that particular answer into a mental drawer labeled Important.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “So the equipment works. The operators just suck.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
He reached past you for a clean stack of coasters, close enough that you caught the faint scent of leather and stale tobacco. His voice dropped even lower. “How do you do it, then? Fingers? Toys? Pillow humping like a teenager?”
You shoved a coaster into his chest. “I’m not answering that.”
“Coward.”
“Voyeur.”
“Guilty.” He caught the coaster before it fell and spun it between his fingers. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll just have to hypothesize.” He tilted his head, studying you with that same intense focus he’d given the whiskey bottles earlier. “I’m guessing fingers. Two, maybe three. Slow at first, then faster when you get close. You go quiet. Bite your lip. That soft little sound you make when you’re frustrated with the register? Probably the same one.”
Your face went hot enough to fry an egg. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m observant.” He flicked the coaster onto the bar with a soft clack. “And currently constructing a very detailed theory about what it would take to fix this tragic situation.”
You turned away to grab a new bottle of well tequila, mostly so he wouldn’t see the way your mouth wanted to smile. “You’re plotting.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re thirty-six. Shouldn’t you be plotting, I don’t know, retirement or something?”
Eddie barked a laugh. “Baby, I’m in my prime. And right now my prime is extremely focused on the fact that you’ve never been properly ruined by another person and that is a personal offense to me as a man who takes pride in his work.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “Your work.”
“I’m a multi-talented individual.” He winked, slow and filthy. “Bartending is just the day job.”
Jess chose that exact moment to reappear from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. She took one look at the two of you—Eddie’s smug expression, your flushed face—and grinned like Christmas had come early.
“Oh, this is gonna be a great closing shift,” she announced.
Eddie just hummed, turning back to the glasses with the air of a man who had all the time in the world and a very specific plan forming behind those dark eyes.
The night stretched on like it had a personal grudge.
By eight the place finally woke up—college kids with fake IDs, regulars who lived three stools down from alcoholism, a table of guys who kept trying to get Jess’s number and failing spectacularly. You and Eddie moved around each other like you’d been doing it for years, hips brushing when the space got tight, fingers grazing when you both reached for the same bottle. Every time it happened he shot you a look that said noted, and every time you pretended not to notice.
He waited until you were both stuck behind the bar during a rush to lean in close, voice low under the music.
“So when you’re alone,” he said, pouring three shots of Jameson without looking, “how long does it usually take?”
You nearly over-poured the vodka in your hand. “I’m not answering that while I’m making someone a vodka soda.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Eddie.”
He slid the shots down the bar with a practiced flick of his wrist and turned just enough that his mouth was near your ear. “I’m building a timeline. Important data. Is it a ten-minute situation or a ‘I’ve got the apartment to myself for an hour’ situation?”
You shouldered him back an inch. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet you’re still answering.”
“I’m not.”
“You will.”
By eleven the crowd thinned enough that Jess could handle the floor alone. That left the two of you restocking the back bar, bodies close in the narrow space between the ice well and the speed rack. Eddie handed you bottles one by one, rings clicking against glass, and every time your fingers touched he held on a second longer than necessary.
“Okay, new category,” he said, passing you the triple sec. “Toys. Yes or no.”
You set the bottle down harder than you meant to. “I’m going to kill you.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s a none of your business.”
He grinned, slow and sharp. “So yes. What kind? The little bullet ones that die after six months or the fancy ones with remote controls that costs like two weeks pay?”
You stared at him. “How do you even know about those?”
“I have lived a full and varied life, sweetheart.” He leaned past you to grab a fresh stack of napkins, chest brushing your shoulder. “Also I have internet access. Shocking, I know.”
“You’re still this much of a menace. That’s actually impressive.”
“Thank you. I try.” He paused, then added, quieter, “You go quiet when you’re close, don’t you? Even by yourself. I’ve seen the way you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re concentrating on the register. Same energy.”
Your face went hot again. “Stop studying me like I’m a lab rat.”
“Can’t. You’re the most interesting thing in this entire shitty bar.”
Midnight came and went. The last wave of drunks stumbled out around one-thirty. Jess clocked out early with a pointed “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” and a look that promised interrogation tomorrow. That left just the two of you closing—chairs up, floors mopped, registers counted in the weirdly intimate quiet of a bar after hours.
Eddie wiped down the last section of the counter while you counted the till. He waited until you were halfway through the twenties before he spoke again.
“Last question of the night. Promise.”
You didn’t look up. “You’re a liar.”
“Probably. But still.” He tossed the rag into the bin and came to lean against the register, arms crossed, watching you. “If someone actually knew what they were doing—knew exactly how to get you there and refused to stop until it happened—do you think you could?”
You paused with a stack of bills in your hand. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the back the ice machine kicked on with a loud clatter.
“I don’t know,” you said finally. “Maybe.”
Eddie’s mouth curved, soft and dangerous all at once. “Good answer.”
You finished the count in silence after that, the weight of his attention sitting warm against the side of your face. When the drawer finally balanced you locked it and straightened, rolling your shoulders. Your feet ached. Your lower back ached. It had been a long-ass day in every possible way.
Eddie was already shrugging into his leather jacket, hair a mess from running his hands through it all night. He held the door open for you as you both stepped out into the cool 2 a.m. air.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, like he hadn’t spent the last nine hours conducting a very public interrogation about your sex life.
You locked the door behind you and turned to face him under the streetlight. “You’re not done with the questions, are you?”
He smiled—slow, crooked, full of intent. “Not even close.”
The next day Eddie walked in looking like he’d made an actual effort, and it threw you off so hard you nearly dropped the stack of clean glasses you were carrying.
He’d clearly showered. The usual faint haze of cigarette smoke and bar soap that clung to him was gone, replaced by something warmer, cleaner—like cedar and maybe sage? underneath. His hair was still long and messy, but it looked deliberate this time, pushed back from his face like he’d actually run a comb through it. Black jeans, a soft worn black shirt that fit a little too well across the shoulders, and those same silver rings. He looked… intentional.
Jess noticed first. She mouthed what the fuck at you from across the bar the second his back was turned.
You just shook your head and tried not to stare.
He didn’t launch into the interrogation the second the shift started. That was the weirdest part. No pop quiz. No filthy little comments under his breath every time you bent down for a bottle. He just… worked. Smooth, quiet, efficient. When the bar got busy he moved around you like he’d memorized the shape of your body in the space, hand settling briefly at the small of your back when he needed to slip past, voice low and easy when he called out drink orders.
It should have been a relief.
It felt like standing too close to an open flame.
You floated through the night in a strange, charged quiet. Every time your eyes met across the bar something tight pulled low in your stomach. He caught you looking more than once and just smiled—small, private, like the two of you were sharing a secret no one else was in on.
Closing came faster than it should have.
Jess clocked out with a pointed look and a whispered “text me if you die” that made you want to throw a lime at her head. Then it was just the two of you again, stacking chairs in the low light, the jukebox finally silent.
Eddie wiped his hands on a towel and glanced over.
“You wanna come smoke?”
The question was casual. The way he said it wasn’t.
You usually said yes. Half the time after closing the two of you ended up on the back steps sharing a joint and talking shit about customers until the sky started getting light. Tonight the air between you felt thicker. Like the question meant something else entirely.
You still said, “Yeah. Okay.”
He nodded once, like he’d expected that answer, and grabbed his jacket.
You followed him out to the employee lot after locking up. His van was the same beat-up black thing it had always been, but even that felt different under the streetlights. He unlocked the passenger side for you without a word, then climbed in himself. The engine rumbled to life. Neither of you spoke for the first few minutes of the drive.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was loaded.
Eddie’s place was a small rented home ten minutes from the bar, the kind of place that looked like it had seen better decades. He parked in the cracked driveway and killed the engine. For a second he just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring at the dark porch like he was deciding something.
Then he looked over at you.
“You good?”
You nodded. Your pulse was doing something stupid in your throat. “Yeah.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, almost to himself. “Cool. C’mon.”
You followed him up the steps. The porch light was out. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside so you could walk in first. The living room smelled like him—leather, weed, stale cigarettes. A couple of amps in the corner. Records stacked in uneven piles. A couch that had definitely seen better days.
Eddie tossed his keys on the side table and shrugged out of his jacket. The clean scent of whatever he’d put on earlier drifted toward you again.
He glanced over his shoulder, that same small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You wanna sit outside or in here?”
The question hung in the air between you, heavier than it should have been.
You met his eyes.
You nodded toward the dark backyard. “Outside.”
Eddie grinned like you’d given him the exact answer he wanted and jerked his head for you to follow. The backyard was small and overgrown, a couple of mismatched plastic chairs near the fence and a milk crate that clearly doubled as a table. He dropped into one of the chairs with a satisfied groan and pulled a little tin from his pocket.
“Got some really good shit tonight,” he said, already breaking up a dense little nug between his fingers. “Friend of a friend. Sticky. Smells like a forest fucked a skunk and they both loved it.”
You snorted and took the other chair. “Poetic.”
“I try.” He packed the bowl with practiced ease, silver rings flashing under the porch light that barely reached this far. When he lit it the first hit made him cough once, sharp, then he laughed and held it out to you. “Careful. This one sneaks up.”
You took it. The smoke was thick and sweet and immediately made your head feel softer around the edges. You passed it back and watched him take another hit, the way his throat moved when he held it in.
A few quiet exhales later you tipped your head, studying him.
“What’s up with the get-up today, by the way?”
Eddie blinked, all faux innocence. “What get-up?”
“Don’t play dumb. You smelled different. Looked different. Like you actually owned a bottle of real cologne instead of just rolling in whatever was on the floor of the van.”
He waved a hand, smoke curling around his fingers. “I showered. Revolutionary concept, I know. Sometimes the hair gets washed. Sometimes the shirt isn’t the same one I wore three days in a row. It’s called being a functional adult.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. Zero effort. Pure coincidence.”
You took another hit and exhaled slowly, watching him over the rim of the bowl. “Well… I liked it.”
The change was instant. His whole posture shifted—shoulders loosening, that slow, pleased grin spreading across his face like you’d just handed him a trophy. He sat up a little straighter, eyes bright even in the dark.
“Yeah?” he said, voice warmer. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to. You walked in smelling like you had somewhere better to be.”
Eddie laughed under his breath, low and a little giddy, and ran a hand through his hair like he couldn’t help himself. “Shit. Okay. Noted. I’ll keep that in the rotation then.”
You passed the bowl back, lips curving. “I like normal you too, though. The regular version. The one who smells like your van and talks too much and leaves guitar picks in the tip jar.”
He went quiet for a second, turning the bowl between his fingers. When he looked at you again the playfulness was still there, but something heavier sat underneath it.
“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rougher now. “I just wanted you to notice the effort. Because if I ever get my hands on you…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours. “I want you to know there’s gonna be full effort there too. No half-assing it. No getting bored halfway through. I’m talking dedicated. Thorough. The kind of focus that makes you forget your own name for a little while.”
The air between you went tight.
You raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, and let a small, challenging smile pull at your mouth.
“That a promise or just talk?”
Eddie stared at you for a long second. Then he laughed—quiet, almost disbelieving—and shook his head like you’d just dared him to jump off a roof.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice full of dark delight. “You’re gonna regret asking me that.”
Eddie set the bowl down on the milk crate with a soft clink, still grinning like you’d just handed him the best idea he’d ever heard. Before you could even process the shift in his expression he was out of the chair and in front of you, hands already sliding under your thighs.
“Wait—Eddie—”
Too late. He hauled you up in one smooth, practiced motion and tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. The world tilted. Your hands flew to his back for balance as he started walking toward the house, one arm locked firm around the backs of your legs.
“Eddie, put me down—” you laughed, smacking the solid muscle of his shoulder. “You’re such an asshole, oh my god—”
“Mm. Keep talking. It’s cute.” His free hand settled on the back of your thigh, fingers spreading possessively as he carried you up the porch steps and through the open door. “Been thinking about doing this since you told me no one’s ever gotten you there properly. Figured I’d start with the logistics.”
You twisted, trying to push yourself up enough to see where you were going, still laughing. “Logistics? You’re manhandling me—”
The sharp, open-handed smack landed right across your ass.
The sound cracked through the quiet house.
You went completely still.
The laughter died in your throat. Heat flooded low and fast, a sudden, traitorous pulse between your legs that made your breath catch. Your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. You didn’t make a sound.
Eddie stopped walking.
You felt the way his whole body went alert underneath you—the slight pause, the way his hand stayed right where it had landed, palm warm against the sting he’d just left.
“…Oh,” he said, voice dropping into something darker and deeply pleased. “There it is.”
He adjusted his grip and kept walking, slower now, like he was savoring every step. You could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.
“You went quiet real fast, sweetheart. That little problem of yours just get a whole lot more interesting?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your face was burning and the ache between your legs had gone from nothing to urgent in the span of one single slap.
Eddie carried you down the short hallway and into a bedroom that smelled like the real him. He bent and deposited you onto the mattress with surprising care, letting you slide down his body until you were sitting on the edge of the bed looking up at him.
He stayed close. Close enough that you had to tip your head back. One of his hands was still resting on your waist like he hadn’t fully decided to let go yet.
His eyes were darker than they’d been outside. The playful edge was still there, but it was sharper now. Focused.
“Yeah,” he murmured, thumb stroking once over your hip. “I saw that. Felt it too. You clenched up the second my hand landed.” He tilted his head, studying your face with open, hungry curiosity. “Interesting reaction for someone who’s never come with another person. Almost like your body already knows something your brain hasn’t caught up to yet.”
He leaned in just enough that his next words brushed warm against your mouth.
“We’re gonna fix that.”
Eddie stayed right there between your knees, looking down at you like he’d already decided how the rest of the night was going to go. His hand was still warm on your waist, thumb tracing idle little arcs against the fabric of your shirt.
“Alright,” he said, voice light but serious underneath. “Before I do anything irreversible—you got a safeword?”
You blinked up at him, then huffed a soft laugh. “Jesus. You’re old. I’ve never needed one.”
His mouth twitched. “Charming. Really making me feel great about the age gap right now.”
“I’m just saying. Never came up.”
“Well it’s coming up now.” He reached past you, grabbed a pillow, and tossed it further up the bed like he was already planning ahead. “Pineapple. That’s the word. You say pineapple, everything stops. No questions, no attitude, I back off immediately. Clear?”
You stared at him for a second, then broke into a genuine laugh. “Pineapple? That’s the best you could do?”
“It’s memorable. And you’re not gonna forget it when you’re—”
You didn’t get to hear the rest of the sentence.
His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he closed them in a firm, controlled fist. The pull wasn’t rough—just deliberate enough to tip your head back so you had no choice but to look straight at him. The sudden shift in control sent another low pulse of heat straight between your legs.
Eddie’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. His voice came out quieter. Rougher.
“How do you like it?”
The question sat heavy between you. You swallowed. Your scalp tingled where he held you.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. Honest. A little breathless. “No one’s ever… asked. Or stuck around long enough to figure it out.”
Something dark and satisfied moved through his expression. He leaned in closer, the grip in your hair keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
“Then you’re getting the whole experience,” he murmured. “Every version. Hard. Slow. Filthy. Whatever makes that pretty little problem of yours finally give up.”
He closed the last inch and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft. It was deep and immediate, mouth open, the kind of kiss that felt like a claim. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting you further into it while the one in your hair stayed locked, holding you in place as he licked into your mouth like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. You made a small sound against his lips and he answered it with a low hum, pressing closer until your knees had to part wider around his hips.
When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his voice was wrecked already.
“Yeah,” he said against your mouth. “We’re gonna take our time with this.”
Eddie kissed you down into the mattress like he’d been holding himself back and finally ran out of reasons to. The weight of him settled over you. His mouth never left yours for long, only breaking long enough for both of you to drag in air before he was back, deeper, hungrier.
Your hands found the hem of his shirt at the same time his found yours.
Fabric got shoved up between frantic kisses. You both laughed once against each other’s mouths when your arms got tangled, then the shirts were gone—his tossed somewhere toward the floor, yours pulled carefully over your head so he didn’t catch it on your hair. The second your bare skin met the cooler air of the room, Eddie went still.
His eyes dropped.
The tattoos you’d kept hidden under work shirts and bar aprons sat dark against your skin—delicate lines and soft shading that only showed when the fabric came off. He stared like he’d just been handed something private and important.
“Fuck,” he breathed. One hand hovered, then settled lightly over the ink on your ribs, thumb tracing the edge of a design. “You’ve been walking around with these under those little black tanks this whole time and never said a word?”
You felt heat climb your throat. “Didn’t come up.”
“It’s coming up now.” His voice had gone lower, almost reverent. He leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your chest, right between your breasts, then another a little higher. The metal of his rings was cool against your side as his hand slid up.
He paused there, mouth still brushing your skin, and looked up at you through his lashes.
“Can I take this off?” His fingers rested at the back clasp of your bra, waiting. Not moving until you answered.
You nodded.
Eddie kissed the same spot on your chest once more—soft, almost grateful—before he reached behind you. The clasp gave easily under his fingers, like he’d done it a hundred times and still treated it like it mattered. He drew the straps down your arms slowly, letting the fabric fall away, and sat back just enough to look.
The way his expression changed was quiet and thorough. No teasing. No smirk. Just open, focused appreciation as his gaze moved over you.
“Look at you,” he murmured. One hand came up to cup the side of your breast, thumb stroking once beneath it like he was learning the shape. “Hiding all this under work clothes every night. Perfect fucking girl. Trying so hard not to let anyone see.”
He leaned back down and pressed a slower kiss to the soft curve of one breast, then the other, voice still gentle against your skin.
“Gonna take my time looking at every single thing you’ve been keeping to yourself.”
He stayed right there, mouth and hands devoted to your breasts like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Soft, open kisses trailed across the full curves, lingering under the weight of them where the skin was most sensitive. His tongue flicked once over a nipple before he closed his lips around it and sucked—gentle at first, then deeper when your back arched. The whole time he talked, voice low and warm against your skin.
“So responsive,” he murmured, switching to the other side. “Look at the way you push up into my mouth. You’ve been starving for someone to just… stay here and worship these for a while.” Another slow suck, a quiet hum of approval when you made a soft sound. “Perfect tits. So fucking perfect.”
You were soaked.
You could feel it—heat and slickness gathering between your legs until your underwear clung uncomfortably. You didn’t think you’d ever gotten this wet before. Not from kissing. Not from anything. Every drag of his tongue, every quiet, filthy-sweet word made the ache worse.
Eddie kissed lower, across the soft skin just beneath your breasts, then lifted his head. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his voice stayed careful.
“Can I take these off?” His fingers rested at the button of your jeans, waiting.
You nodded.
He popped the button and drew the zipper down slowly. You lifted your hips so he could work the denim down your legs and toss it aside. The second the cool air hit you, his gaze dropped—and locked onto the dark, obvious wet patch soaking through the center of your underwear.
His whole body went still.
You watched the thick outline of his cock twitch hard against the front of his jeans, straining against the fabric like it was trying to get to you on its own.
Eddie exhaled a rough, almost pained sound. “Jesus Christ.”
You swallowed, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “Fair is fair. Take yours off too.”
He didn’t argue. He stood just long enough to shove his jeans down and kick them away, leaving him in dark boxer briefs that did almost nothing to hide him. The outline was obscene—long, thick, heavy against his thigh, the head clearly defined where it pressed against the cotton. Even confined like that he looked massive.
Your mouth went a little dry.
“Holy shit,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.
Eddie glanced down at himself, then back at you, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his mouth even as his voice stayed soft.
“Yeah,” he said, climbing back over you. “We’re gonna take this real slow, sweetheart. I’m gonna need you nice and open for me.” His hand settled on your hip, thumb stroking the edge of your soaked underwear. “But first I’m gonna make sure this pretty little problem of yours never stands a chance.”
Eddie kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he was trying to pour every filthy intention he had into your mouth. You couldn’t help the way your hips rolled up against him, seeking friction, grinding the soaked center of your underwear against the hard line of his cock. The second you did it he groaned into the kiss, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh and hold you there for a second longer.
Then he pulled back.
“Greedy,” he murmured against your lips, almost fond. “Alright. I hear you.”
He started kissing down.
Your chest first—lingering again on the soft undersides of your breasts, tongue tracing the curves he’d already learned—then lower, across the plane of your stomach. Every open-mouthed press of his lips made your muscles jump. He nuzzled the soft skin just above the waistband of your underwear and exhaled like the scent of how wet you were was doing something to him.
You lifted your hips without being asked. Together you worked the soaked fabric down your legs until it was gone. The second you were bare, Eddie went quiet.
He sat back on his heels between your thighs and just looked.
His hands settled on the insides of your knees and slowly pushed them wider, eyes locked on the slick, flushed mess of your cunt. You were so wet it was almost embarrassing—glistening along your folds, dripping down toward the sheets. He stared like he was trying to memorize every detail.
“Fucking perfect,” he said, voice low and rough with sincerity. “Look at you. All pretty and shiny and soaked just from me playing with your tits. You’re beautiful like this.” His thumbs stroked higher along your inner thighs. “I’m gonna take such good care of you. Promise.”
Then he dove in.
No teasing. He flattened his tongue and dragged it through your center in one long, filthy stripe, collecting everything you’d made for him. The sound he made was almost pained—hungry and relieved all at once—before he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked.
Your whole body arched.
Eddie hummed against you like the taste of you was exactly what he’d been after all night, and settled in like he planned to stay there for a very long time.
He started slow—long, flat strokes of his tongue from the bottom of your cunt all the way up to your clit, gathering every bit of slick that had already collected there. The sound was wet and filthy every time he dragged through you. He hummed low in his chest like the taste of you was something he wanted to memorize.
“Fuck, you taste sweet,” he murmured against your folds, voice already rough. “So wet for me already. Been dripping since I smacked that pretty ass, haven’t you?”
His hands stayed firm on your inner thighs, holding you open exactly how he wanted. When he focused on your clit he did it with devastating patience—soft, circling licks that barely gave you pressure, then firmer ones that made your hips twitch. Every time your thighs tried to close he just pressed them wider and kept going.
You were already shaking.
Eddie noticed. Of course he did. He lifted his mouth just enough to speak, lips shiny, eyes dark and focused.
“That’s it. Let me feel it. You’re allowed to get loud, sweetheart. Nobody’s here but me.” He dipped back down and sucked your clit between his lips, gentle at first, then harder when your back arched. “Good girl. So sensitive. I can feel you throbbing on my tongue.”
He worked you in waves. Soft and teasing until you were rolling your hips up against his mouth, then deeper—tongue pushing inside you in slow, filthy thrusts while his nose pressed against your clit. The wet sounds filled the room. Your hands found his hair and twisted, not sure if you were trying to pull him closer or survive it.
Eddie groaned like he loved the sting.
“There you go,” he praised, voice muffled against you. “Use me. Grind on my face if you need to. I’ve got you.” He sealed his mouth back over your clit and sucked in a steady, relentless rhythm while two fingers finally slid inside you—curving, searching, pressing up into that spot that made your vision blur. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me already. So tight. So needy. Gonna make this little cunt come so hard for me.”
He didn’t rush the build.
Every time you got close he eased off just enough to keep you hovering—switching to broad, messy licks, kissing the insides of your thighs, murmuring soft filthy things against your skin about how pretty you looked spread open and dripping for him. Then he’d return to your clit with single-minded focus, fingers working you open, tongue relentless.
Your stomach started tightening. The pleasure turned sharp and overwhelming. You could hear how wet you were—slick sounds every time his fingers moved, every time his mouth sealed over you again.
“Eddie—I can’t—”
“Yes you can,” he said immediately, voice low and certain. He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers curling in steady, perfect strokes. “You’re right there. I can feel it. Let it happen. Give it to me.”
The orgasm hit like a wave you couldn’t stop.
Your whole body locked. A broken, high sound tore out of you as the pleasure crashed through—your cunt pulsing hard around his fingers, slick gushing out of you in warm, uncontrollable pulses that coated his mouth and chin and dripped down onto the sheets. Eddie moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted and kept going through it, licking you through every spurt, every tremor, drinking you down like he was starving for it.
He only slowed when your thighs started shaking too hard to stay open.
Even then he didn’t pull away completely. He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive clit, your folds, the dripping mess he’d made of you, voice wrecked and reverent.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured against your cunt. “Look at that. Fucking beautiful. You came so hard you made a mess of me.” He licked a slow stripe through the wetness still dripping from you and groaned.
Eddie sat up just long enough to shove his boxer briefs down and kick them off the bed. His cock sprang free—a heavy thump against his stomach. After everything he’d just done to you, he looked almost painfully hard.
He crawled back over you and kissed you deep.
You tasted yourself on his mouth immediately—sharp and sweet and filthy. The knowledge that he’d just had his face buried between your legs made your stomach flip all over again. He licked into your mouth like he wanted you to taste how hard you’d come for him, one hand braced beside your head, the other stroking slowly along your side.
When he pulled back, his voice was quieter. Careful.
“Still sure you want this?” His eyes searched yours. “I already made you come. We can stop here if you need to. No pressure.”
You didn’t answer with words.
You reached up, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him down into another kiss—harder this time, open-mouthed and certain. Your other hand slid down between your bodies and wrapped around the thick length of him. He was so hot against your palm, so heavy, the skin soft over the rigid hardness underneath. Eddie groaned into your mouth like the simple touch of your hand almost undid him.
“Okay,” he rasped against your lips. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
He reached down and wrapped his own hand around his cock, guiding the broad head through the soaked mess of your cunt. The first drag of him against your oversensitive clit made your hips jerk. He did it again—slower—slicking himself up with everything you’d already given him, the fat head catching against your entrance every time he passed over it.
You were so wet the sound was obscene.
Eddie braced himself on one forearm and looked down between your bodies, watching the way the blunt head of his cock pressed against you. His breathing had gone uneven.
“Gonna go slow,” he promised, voice strained. “You’re tight as hell and I’m not exactly small. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He pushed.
The stretch was immediate and intense—thick pressure that forced you open around him inch by careful inch. You could feel every ridge, every vein, the way your body had to give to take him. Your mouth fell open on a broken sound. Eddie’s forehead dropped against yours, a low, punched-out groan spilling out of him as the head finally slipped inside.
“Fuck—look at that,” he breathed, hips trembling with the effort of holding still. “Taking me so well already. You’re soaking my cock baby girl.”
He gave you another inch. Then another. The burn of the stretch mixed with the leftover sensitivity from your orgasm until your thighs were shaking around his hips. You could feel how deep he was already getting, the heavy weight of him filling you in a way nothing else ever had.
Eddie kissed the corner of your mouth, sweet even as his voice went filthy.
“That’s it. Just like that. Let me in, sweetheart. Gonna fill this pretty cunt up until you forget anyone else ever tried.”
“Move,” you whispered.
Eddie exhaled like he’d been waiting for permission. He drew his hips back slowly—just an inch or two—then pushed back in just as carefully. The thick slide of him forced another soft sound out of your throat. You felt everything. Every ridge. Every subtle pulse of his cock as he sank deeper. The way your walls had to stretch and flutter around the heavy girth of him just to take it.
He kept the pace almost gentle.
Long, controlled strokes that let you feel the full drag of him pulling out and the slow, relentless push back in until he bottomed out against you. His forehead stayed pressed to yours. His voice never stopped.
“That’s it,” he murmured, breath warm against your mouth. “Feel how full you are. Taking all of me like you were made for it. S' tight. S' perfect around my cock.” Another slow thrust. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Letting me open you up.”
The sweetness of it almost undid you more than the stretch.
Every praise landed low in your stomach. Every careful roll of his hips sent sparks up your spine. You could feel how wet you still were—slick sounds filling the quiet room every time he sank back in. But the longer he stayed that measured and deep, the more something restless started building under your skin.
You needed more.
Deeper. Harder. Something that matched the ache he’d already put in you.
Eddie must have felt the way your hips started chasing him, because he pulled back just enough to look at your face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his voice stayed soft.
“I know,” he said. “I can feel you getting greedy again sweetheart.”
He sat back on his knees, still buried inside you, and hooked his hands behind your knees. In one smooth motion he pushed your legs up and open, folding you nearly in half until your thighs pressed against your own chest. The new angle made him sink impossibly deeper on the next slow thrust. You gasped—sharp and high—as the thick head of him pressed against something that made your vision spark.
Eddie groaned low in his throat and held the position, hips rolling in the same unhurried rhythm, only now every stroke dragged against that deeper, more intense place inside you.
“There we go,” he praised, voice rough with restraint. “That’s what you needed, huh? Deeper?” He thrust in again—slow, deliberate, grinding against the end of you. “All folded up and still sucking me in. Perfect girl. Just keep breathing for me. I’ve got you.”
He never sped up.
He just kept fucking you deep and steady, sweet words spilling out of him the entire time, like he had no intention of stopping until he’d ruined you completely.
Your voice broke on a high, frustrated sound.
“Eddie—please—harder. I need it harder, I can’t—”
He didn’t make you beg twice.
The second the plea left your mouth his whole demeanor shifted. The careful restraint he’d been holding onto snapped. His grip on the backs of your thighs tightened and he started fucking you properly—long, powerful strokes that drove him deep enough to punch the air out of your lungs every time his hips met yours. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the room. Your body jolted up the mattress with every thrust until he dragged you back down by the hips and kept going.
“Anything,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Anything you want. You need it harder? It’s yours. Need me deeper? Take it.” He snapped his hips in harder, the thick length of him dragging against that spot inside you on every stroke until your eyes rolled. “Fuck—listen to you. Whining for my cock like you were made for it. I’ve got you. Gonna give you everything.”
The intensity crashed over you too fast to stop.
Your second orgasm hit with almost no warning—sharp and overwhelming, your cunt clamping down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses as pleasure ripped through you. You cried out, nails digging into his arms, thighs shaking violently in his grip while you came on his cock alone. The wet rush of it made every thrust louder, messier. Eddie groaned like he could feel every flutter and kept fucking you through it, never slowing, praising you the whole time in a broken stream of words.
“That’s it—come on my cock, just like that. Fucking beautiful. You’re soaking me. Squeezing me so tight I can barely move. Good girl. Perfect fucking girl.”
He only eased up when the aftershocks left you trembling and oversensitive.
You could still feel how hard he was inside you—thick and throbbing, nowhere near finished. The realization made something determined spark low in your stomach. You reached up and pushed weakly at his chest.
“Want to ride you,” you managed, voice hoarse. “Please. Let me.”
Eddie went still. His eyes searched your face, dark and concerned even as his cock twitched deep inside you.
“You sure?” he asked, already breathing hard. “You just came twice. You’re shaking. We can slow down—”
“I’m sure.” You held his gaze, stubborn and flushed and still pulsing around him. “I want to. Let me.”
Something hungry and soft moved through his expression all at once. He carefully pulled out of you—both of you hissing at the sudden emptiness—then rolled onto his back in one smooth motion. His cock lay heavy and glistening against his stomach— pulsing.
He looked up at you, hands already settling on your waist as you straddled him.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and rough with restraint. “It’s yours. Take whatever you need.”
You braced one hand on his chest and reached down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around the thick base of him. He was still soaked from you—slick and hot against your palm. You lined him up and sank down slowly.
The stretch punched a broken sound out of your throat. Even after everything, taking him from this angle felt deeper, heavier. You had to work yourself down inch by inch, thighs trembling, until you were finally seated flush against him with his cock buried to the hilt. Your head dropped forward. Eddie’s hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking soft circles like he was grounding you.
You swallowed, voice already shaky.
“What do you like?”
His eyes were almost black looking up at you. A breathless little laugh left him.
“Anything that makes this pretty cunt of yours cream all over me,” he said, rough and honest. “You want to grind slow and deep until you’re shaking? I’ll lie here and take every second of it. You want to bounce on my cock like a desperate little slut until your legs give out? I’ll hold you up and thank you for the privilege. Use me. Ruin yourself on me. I’m yours.”
So you did.
You started rolling your hips—slow at first, grinding him deep so every movement dragged against that spot inside you that made your stomach tighten. The wet sound of it was filthy. Eddie groaned under you, head tipping back against the pillow, hands sliding up to cup your breasts as you moved. You found a rhythm and stuck to it, lifting up until only the thick head remained inside you before sinking back down and taking every inch again.
“Fuck—look at you,” he growled, voice strained and filthy. “Stretching that tight little hole around my cock. I can feel you fluttering every time you bottom out. So wet you’re dripping down my balls. That’s it. Fuck yourself on me. Show me how badly you needed to get filled.”
Your thighs started burning sooner than you wanted. The deeper angle made every bounce more intense, the stretch relentless, pleasure building sharp and overwhelming all over again. You kept going anyway—determined—until your legs began to shake so hard you could barely lift yourself. A frustrated little sound slipped out of you.
Eddie felt it immediately.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped.
His hands locked hard around your waist. In the next breath he planted his feet on the mattress and started fucking up into you—powerful, upward thrusts that drove his cock deep enough to punch broken moans out of your mouth every time. The new rhythm was relentless. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room as he slammed up into your soaked cunt, using his grip on your hips to pull you down to meet every stroke.
“That’s it—take every fucking inch,” he snarled, eyes locked on where he disappeared inside you. “Sit on my cock and let me ruin you. This greedy little cunt is sucking me in so deep I can feel it in my spine. Dripping down my stomach like a slut who finally got what she needed.” He thrust up harder, the force of it making your tits bounce. “You feel that? That’s me splitting you open. This is what was missing every time some useless asshole couldn’t make you come. A real cock. A man who knows how to use it.”
Your arms gave out. You collapsed forward onto his chest, face buried against his neck, while he kept pounding up into you without mercy—praise and filthy encouragement spilling out of him in a continuous, wrecked stream.
“Come on. Squeeze me. Cream all over this cock while I fuck you stupid. You’re taking me so well I can barely think. Perfect fucking girl. My perfect fucking girl. Gonna keep this up until you forget how to walk straight.”
Eddie kept fucking up into you in hard, relentless strokes, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. Your body jolted with every thrust. He was so deep it felt like he was rearranging you from the inside.
His voice came out rough against your ear.
“Touch yourself. Play with that pretty clit while I fuck you. I want to feel you gush on my cock again.”
Your hand slid down between your bodies without hesitation. The second your fingers found your clit—swollen and oversensitive—you cried out. The dual sensation was almost too much: the thick, brutal drag of his cock splitting you open on every upward thrust and the tight circles you rubbed over your clit. Slick coated your fingers immediately. You were so wet it was obscene.
Eddie groaned like he could feel the way your cunt fluttered harder around him the second you started touching yourself.
“That’s it. Good girl. Rub that clit for me. Make a mess. I want to feel you soak my cock.” He snapped his hips up harder, the force of it punching broken, high sounds out of your throat. “Fuck—you’re gripping me so tight. This greedy little cunt doesn’t want to let me go. Come on. Give it to me. Third time’s the charm, sweetheart. Ruin yourself.”
The orgasm tore through you violently.
Your whole body locked up. A broken sob left your mouth as you came hard—cunt clamping down in strong, rhythmic pulses while a fresh gush of wetness flooded out of you around his cock. It was messy, uncontrollable, soaking his stomach, his hips, the sheets beneath you in a warm rush that just kept coming with every thrust he forced through it. The wet sounds turned filthy and loud. You shook apart on top of him, fingers still moving weakly over your clit as the pleasure dragged on and on.
Eddie cursed low and filthy, fucking you through every spurt until your thighs were trembling too hard to stay upright.
He didn’t stop moving, but his rhythm turned slightly more erratic—hips stuttering as he chased his own edge. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise.
“Where do you want it?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Tell me. Mouth, tits, stomach—where?”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes, still pulsing around him, still dripping.
“Inside me.”
Something raw and hungry flashed across his face.
“Fuck—okay. Anything you want.”
He pulled you down flush against him and buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as he finally let go. A long, guttural groan tore out of his chest as he came—hot, thick pulses flooding your cunt in heavy spurts. You could feel every throb, every rope of it painting you deep inside. He kept you locked there, hips pressed tight, cock twitching as he emptied everything he had into you with broken, filthy praise spilling from his mouth.
“Take it—take every drop. Filling this perfect cunt up. Made for this. Made to take my cum.” His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Fucking perfect. You’re perfect.”
He stayed buried deep as the last aftershocks faded, still pulsing weakly inside you, holding you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
You collapsed onto his chest like every bone in your body had given up at once.
Eddie stayed inside you for a few more long seconds, one hand stroking slowly up and down your back while the other cradled the back of your head. His heartbeat hammered under your ear. When he finally moved, he did it carefully—rolling you both onto your sides, then easing out of you with a soft, wet sound that made you flinch. You felt the immediate rush of his cum starting to leak out of you and made a small, incoherent noise against the pillow.
“I know,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and slipped out of bed. You heard the soft sounds of him moving around the dark room—drawer opening, water running in the bathroom—before he came back with a warm washcloth. The mattress dipped as he climbed back in.
Eddie was gentle about it. He wiped between your legs with slow, careful strokes, cleaning up the mess the two of you had made without any teasing. When he finished he tossed the cloth toward the hamper and stretched out beside you, pulling you in until your head was on his chest and one of his arms was locked securely around your waist.
You were barely able to form words. Your body felt heavy and loose and thoroughly used. Every muscle hummed with leftover sparks. You managed a soft, exhausted sound against his skin and that was about it.
Eddie let the quiet sit for a while, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. Then, eventually, the familiar edge of amusement crept back into his voice.
“…So.”
You made a questioning noise that didn’t quite become a word.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, clearly trying and failing to sound casual, “for someone who claimed she’d never come from a dude before, you just came two times on my cock and gushed all over my face like it was your job. I’m feeling pretty fucking proud of myself right now.”
You managed a weak, breathless little laugh against his chest.
“There she is,” he said, sounding deeply satisfied. “Thought I broke you for a second.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, thumb stroking behind your ear. “You good? Need water? A trophy? I’m open to suggestions.”
You pinched his side weakly. Your voice came out rough and quiet.
“Shut up.”
“Can’t. I’m having a moment. Do you understand the historical significance of what just happened in this bed? I should call Jess. Let her know the little problem has been thoroughly, scientifically solved.”
You groaned into his chest. “If you call Jess I will actually kill you.”
Eddie laughed—low and warm and completely unrepentant—and pulled you closer, tucking the blankets up around both of you.
“Fine. No phone calls. But I reserve the right to be unbearably smug about this for at least a week.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, voice dropping softer even as the teasing stayed. “You did so good for me. Seriously.”
You didn’t have the energy to argue.
You just let him hold you, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, while the last of the aftershocks faded and the witty, insufferable version of him settled back in like he’d never left.
Two days later the bar was dead again—same sticky counters, same half-hearted jukebox, same mid-afternoon quiet that made the whole place feel like it was holding its breath.
Eddie had been insufferable since the second he walked in.
He didn’t say anything outright. He didn’t have to. It was in the way he moved around you—closer than usual, hand lingering at the small of your back every time he slipped past, that permanent little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he was replaying the entire night on a loop. Every time you caught his eye across the bar he just raised an eyebrow, slow and filthy, and went back to polishing a glass like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire understanding of sex in his shitty little bungalow.
Jess lasted maybe forty minutes before she cracked.
She leaned across the bar while Eddie was restocking the back, voice low and delighted. “Okay. What the fuck happened.”
You kept wiping the same clean section of counter. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit. He’s been floating around like he invented the orgasm and you keep turning the color of a stop sign every time he looks at you. Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill.”
Eddie chose that exact moment to reappear, carrying a case of beer like it weighed nothing. He set it down, glanced between the two of you, and the smirk widened.
“Talking about me?” he asked, all faux innocence.
Jess pointed at him. “You. Explain why you’re walking around like— like that."
Eddie leaned his elbows on the bar right next to you, close enough that his arm brushed yours. He smelled like the same cologne from the other night. “No idea what you’re talking about. I’m just in a good mood. Weather’s nice. Tips were decent yesterday. Life is beautiful.”
You shot him a warning look. He ignored it completely.
Jess’s eyes narrowed, bouncing between the two of you. Then something clicked. Her mouth fell open.
“Oh my god.”
“Jess—” you started.
“You didn’t.”
Eddie examined his rings like they were suddenly fascinating. “Didn’t what?”
“You fixed the little problem,” she said, voice climbing with glee. “You actually fixed it. Look at her face. Look at your face. Holy shit.”
You dropped the rag and pointed at both of them. “We are not talking about this.”
Jess clasped her hands under her chin. “I need every detail. Immediately. Was it good? Was it life-changing? How many times did you—”
“I will quit,” you said flatly.
Eddie made a thoughtful sound, tilting his head. “Y’know, I’m happy to provide a full report if she’s too shy. In the interest of science. And friendship. And the betterment of women everywhere who’ve been suffering under subpar—”
You shoved his shoulder hard enough that he laughed and had to catch himself on the bar.
“Do not.”
He held up both hands, still grinning like the cat that got everything it ever wanted. “Offer stands. Jess, you just say the word and I’ll give you the entire play by play. ”
Jess looked like Christmas had come early. “I’m listening.”
You grabbed the rag again and turned away, face burning, but you couldn’t quite hide the smile pulling at your mouth.
“Just so we’re clear,” he said, loud enough for only you to catch the undertone, “I’m available for follow-up research whenever you want.”
oh my god please do a part two of “caught in a lousy web”!!! it was delicious
Oh my god STOP IT, I’m literally screaming?! 😭 you have no idea, I was sweating bullets and practically shaking when I hit post, I was SO terrified everyone was gonna hate it 🙂↕️ the way that everyone's really liking it is making me lose my actual mind right now!!!
And fine, ugh, I GUESS if everyone is literally forcing my hand... 😩👀 I suppose I can start writing part 2 (@rip-quizilla we're getting back to the drawing board)
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SUMMARY. . . You'd made a habit out of chasing Spider-Man across the city, phone in hand with your heart in your throat, just to catch a glimpse of him. Peter knew it was stupidly reckless. He also knew he should have stopped encouraging it. But when you look at him in that way, something in him gives way.
pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader
content warnings: reckless behavior, kinda stalker-ish behavior, reader repeatedly chasing active crime scenes, danger, explosions, injuries, blood, peter parker being chronically stressed, near-death experience, protective spider-man, arguing, down bad pining, emotional vulnerability, identity secrecy, tracking apps, disastrous flirting, light hurt/comfort, panic and fear, bruises and minor injuries, kissing, making out, masked kisses, peter parker's severe boundary issues & reader's even worse self-preservation instincts, accidental emotional confessions, possessive undertones, references to violence and crime, PLEASE MDNI! 18+, smut. creampies, cockwarming, degradation/praise, dirty talk, doggy style, dry humping, groping, hair pulling, marking/biting, missionary, multiple rounds, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, secret identities (mask stays ON! until it doesn't), sensory deprivation (m!&f!), sensory overload (m!&f!), slight manhandling, teasing, unprotected p in v sex, lmk if i missed anything!
comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 13k (she's a big girl im sry </3)
a/n: big credits to @rip-quizilla who gave me the idea for this, and all my other friends/moots who helped me spent so long watching me lose my mind over finishing this. guys, please do NOT do anything you see in this fic, this is purely for fictional purposes sakes 😭
The first time you saw Spider-Man in person, you hadn't meant to follow him.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You had been two blocks from the laundromat, carrying a plastic bag of warm clothes against your hip while your phone buzzed violently in your hand. The tracking app had lit up with a sudden red pulse near Delancey, a messy little cluster of comments flooding beneath it.
SPIDEY NEAR ESSEX. CAR CHASE??
NO WAY HE JUST FLIPPED OVER A BUS!
You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.
You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.
Then something had swung overhead.
A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.
You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.
He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.
Spider-Man pushed off the wall.
Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.
You had run.
Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk.
By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.
He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human.
Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.
You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.
He turned his head.
For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.
You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.
Still, your stomach dropped.
Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.
You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.
After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.
You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.
Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.
Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.
Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.
Lucky meant hearing him talk.
That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.
“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”
The guy swung at him.
Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped toward you.
You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.
Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.
Then he pointed at you.
“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears.
Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”
“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”
A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.
“You noticed?”
His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”
You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”
“You are practically dating the damn tape.”
“I respect boundary lines!”
His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”
The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”
“That is relatively worse.”
It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.
Before he left, he looked down at you again.
“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder.
You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”
There was a pause.
Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.
“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”
Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.
Peter remembered you after that.
He didn't mean to.
He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.
But you, you became hard not to notice.
You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.
He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.
That made his stomach twist.
The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from.
Peter hated them in the abstract way he could.
He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.
He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.
Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.
It was relief.
Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.
“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.
You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.
Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”
Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”
“So am I.”
He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”
Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”
“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”
You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”
His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”
That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.
“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood.
He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”
You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”
You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”
“No.”
A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”
Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”
You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots.
You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly.
“Do you ever get tired of doing that?”
“Bleeding?”
“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time.
Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.
Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.
“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.
Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”
Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”
A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”
“Eventually is not good enough.”
You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”
“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.
The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.
Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.
Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”
“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more.
He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”
You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”
Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”
He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.
You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.
That was the lie at the center of it.
You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises.
He wasn't invincible.
But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.
You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.
It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.
It was the pauses he had.
The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.
That was what kept pulling you closer to him.
The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.
Your phone lit up.
Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.
SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??
STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.
Your friend stopped talking.
“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.
She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”
“It’s close.”
A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll stay back!”
She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”
The echo of his words should have slowed you.
It didn't.
Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.
Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.
The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.
You froze.
For once, your body understood before your obsession did.
Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.
Peter saw you from the ground.
Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.
His blood went cold.
“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.
You did not.
Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.
Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.
The strand hit your waist and yanked.
Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.
The street exploded white-blue.
Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.
For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.
Spider-Man lifted his head first.
“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you.
You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express.
“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”
The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”
Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”
You emphasized better. “I’m not.”
His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.
He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.
Then, he looked back at you.
You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.
The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.
“Stay here,” he all but demanded
You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so.
He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”
“I heard you.”
“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”
“I’ll stay.”
Peter really didn't believe you.
But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
You stayed.
For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.
“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”
A crash came next.
“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”
Another loud noise of impact.
You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.
The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.
Badly so.
He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.
You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”
Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”
His answer came too quick. “So am I.”
The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his.
He stepped closer.
“What is wrong with you?”
The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.
You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”
Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”
“I didn’t know it was going to—”
“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”
You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.
“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.
Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his.
“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”
Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”
You looked up again quickly with widening eyes.
There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself.
Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.
“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.
Peter forgot how to breathe.
Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.
But that was not how you said it.
You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.
You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity.
You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.
Peter hated how easily that worked on him.
He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.
“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time.
Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”
“Want to know me.”
You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”
“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”
You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”
Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”
You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you don’t want the rest.”
You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.
“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression.
He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge. “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”
The confession landed badly.
You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.
Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”
“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more.
Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”
Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”
“You followed me home?”
He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”
You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”
“I was making sure you were safe.”
Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.
“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession.
Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”
You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”
“I notice threats.”
“You think I’m a threat?”
His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”
“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.
Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.
You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.
“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him.
The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
You let out an exasperated groan, one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”
“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”
Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
“It should be.”
“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.
Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.
He should have left.
He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.
Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m not joking.”
You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”
“Do you?”
Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”
He stepped closer this time.
You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.
Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.
“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.
It mattered.
The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.
“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.
His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”
Your voice hadn't lost its lightness, but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”
Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”
Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.
It was a warning with a pulse.
“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.
You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”
His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”
“When you’re hurt?”
Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”
You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”
He went quiet.
That was answer enough for you.
You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.
But he was still holding your wrist.
And, he hadn't let go.
“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him.
“I did.”
“Tell me again.”
Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist.
Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.
“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away.
Neither did you.
The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.
You reached up with your free hand.
This time, you touched his jaw.
Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.
“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.
Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”
Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”
“No.”
That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.
You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.
Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.
The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.
“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders.
Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”
“To this.”
You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.
“I’m not saying no.”
Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words.
He stopped an inch from you.
The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.
Peter caught your fingers again.
“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning.
Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.
Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.
Only that.
The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.
You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice.
His mouth found yours before you could say anything.
The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.
You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”
“You sure?”
You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”
“You keep saving me.”
Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”
Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”
He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.
“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily.
You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”
His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”
You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”
He answered by kissing you again.
This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.
The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.
When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.
“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe.
The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I get it.”
“You could’ve died tonight.”
You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”
Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.
“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.
There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.
“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw.
For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.
Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in.
You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”
His silence moved over you slowly.
He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.
But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.
“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting.
Your reply came back softer. “At what?”
“Letting people stand this close.”
Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”
You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”
“Great.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s really not.”
You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”
That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.
“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding.
A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”
He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”
“What tone?”
“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”
You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”
Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”
“I think you’re avoiding.”
“I think you’re concussed.”
“You asked if I was hit.”
His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”
You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.
He looked at your mouth again.
You noticed.
This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.
The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.
You gave back as much as he took.
That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.
“Careful,” he said again.
This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”
His hand stilled on impact of your words.
“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again. “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”
Peter listened without interrupting.
That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.
Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”
“I won’t.”
His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”
You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”
He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”
You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”
Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”
“That seems really excessive.”
“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”
You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”
“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”
You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.
Peter did take you home.
Not immediately, though.
The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.
Peter moved differently while carrying you.
Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.
By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline.
Mostly.
He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him.
A laugh escaped you before you could control it. “You really do know where I live.”
Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”
Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”
“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”
The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”
“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils. “Not in a way I’m discussing.”
You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.
The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet.
Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.
You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.
“You’re not coming in?”
Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”
You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”
“You were most of them.”
“Still.”
His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.
You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.
“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong.
Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.
He really should have said no.
But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.
Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.
The room felt too small with him in it.
Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.
“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue.
“I’m injured.”
You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”
Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”
You stepped closer.
He watched you do it.
The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.
Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.
“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly, more hesitant than you'd have imagined.
Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.
“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”
The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.
A low sound left him.
“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer.
Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”
The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”
Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.
His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.
“That hurt?” you whispered against him.
“No.”
A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”
“Maybe.”
Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.
Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.
He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.
“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.
“You keep kissing me.”
His mouth hovered above yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved after that.
The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home.
Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.
“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could.
Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”
Peter pushed. “You swear?”
“I swear.”
“And if you see me on that app—”
You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”
He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”
“Now.”
You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”
Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”
You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.
He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.
It felt strange to let it go.
Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.
You deleted it.
Then the second one.
Then the third.
Peter said nothing while you did so.
When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.
“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite. “Happy?”
“No.”
You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”
“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”
Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”
“I’m known for that.”
You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.
The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear.
He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had.
Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.
His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.
"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."
“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."
“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough.
You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.
Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.
"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"
"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."
Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.
"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"
You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.
"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."
He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.
“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.
"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."
You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.
"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."
"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.
"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"
You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.
"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.
The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.
Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.
"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.
“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.
The mask came off.
You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.
One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.
"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."
“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.
Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.
“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth.
Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands.
The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.
"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.
"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"
“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass.
The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.
"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"
Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.
Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.
Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.
He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.
"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"
You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.
"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."
His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.
"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."
You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"
His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."
The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.
"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"
His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."
“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”
His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.
"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"
You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.
"Fuck—I'm—"
"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."
You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.
"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"
"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"
His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"
The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.
"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."
Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.
"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"
His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."
Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.
"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"
His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.
A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.
"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."
You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"
His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.
"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.
You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.
"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.
Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.
"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."
You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."
Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."
The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.
The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.
You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.
Consciousness returned in pieces.
Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.
Your eyes cracked open.
The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.
You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.
Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.
Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:
P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.
A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.
"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."
Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.
The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.
AHHHHHH you did everything you were wanting to do and MORE😍 I’m trash for this, your characterization of Peter, specifically BND Peter, is absolutely top notch. Good lord, I’m going to be thinking about this for a long ass time.
I keep seeing people saying that peter and frank have a "father/son dynamic" or a "uncle/nephew dynamic" but you are all wrong. They have the dynamic of the older coworker that you are way to close with when you're in your 20s. We've all had that coworker. Thats your best friend kinda. But it only works in a work setting
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