formerly fruityfour-rp

The sound of your door opening and then closing alerts you that someone either left or came in here. You peek out from under the covers and find yourself alone in the room. Someone was in here watching you sleep? Seriously? What the fuck is going on.

You try to get up but your movements are too quick for your aching body and immediately the world starts spinning. You're going to throw up. You fucking hate throwing up.

You run to the bathroom, flinging the door open and running towards the toilet, throwing up every last drop of alcohol that had entered your system tonight. You think you're just going to stick to smoking from now on. No matter how much you smoke you'll never feel this god damn awful. 

Your head is still in the toilet when you hear two sets of footsteps enter the bathroom. Fucking fantastic. You don’t really need people seeing you like this. Especially if it’s two people who are just trying to find a room to hook up in. 

You try to lift your head but instead somehow even more puke comes thrusting out of you. Suddenly though your hair is being gently pulled away from your sticky face and your back is being rubbed. The other mystery person in the room is running the shower, steam slowly filling up the room. You can hear them step out but you can still feel a protective hand on your lower back. You feel awful, you could use a shower and you think you're still a little drunk too but definitely not as bad as before. Your stomach is in knots and all you want to do is go back to sleep but you don’t see that happening any time soon.

You finally lift your head up out of the toilet and open your eyes. Eddie is kneeling beside you and he cradles you into his arms. You can take in your surroundings now and the bathroom looks like a war zone. Blood covered gauze litters the floor, your fishnets lay ripped and discarded and squashed joints lay in a pile next to everything. You look down at yourself and yeah, your fishnets are missing and there’s a huge piece of gauze covering half of your shin. Upon seeing it, the pain decides to reappear and a whimper escapes from your mouth. Eddie still has you in a bear hug on the floor, trying his best to soothe you. The pressure of his body against yours feels really safe and you're glad that he’s here. The other mystery person comes back in from your bedroom and it’s Steve? What are Steve and Eddie doing in the same room? Did they make up? What the hell did you miss?

“Hey sweetheart, you feeling any better? Kinda had me and Harrington scared there for a second.” Eddie’s voice is soft in your ear.

“Mmm, still feeling a little woozy. Could definitely use a shower. Definitely don’t remember much from the last couple of hours.”

Steve bends down and sits on the floor opposite of us. “What do you remember?”

“I remember doing my makeup. And Robins. And Vickies. I remember before the party. I remember people coming early and going downstairs. I remember smoking and having a really great time. Then I started drinking and I can’t really tell you what happened from there. What happened to me? Was it embarrassing? I can’t go back down there if it was embarrassing.” You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

“Well honey, you somehow got really drunk within like, an hour. I wasn’t with you when you started drinking but you were with Robin and Vickie..” You cut Steve off from his retelling of the night.

“Is Robin okay? Where is she?” You feel panicked at the mention of your best friend's name. You were supposed to be around for her the whole night.

“Buckley’s fine. So is Vickie. They’re downstairs with the stragglers from band in the living room. They’re pretty much asleep right now on the couch. There’s not many people left to be honest but it’s late so that’s a good thing right?” Eddie plays with your hair as he speaks to you.

“Okay so.. What fucking time is it? Jesus Christ. I feel like I missed everything.”

Steve shifts his body to take a peek at the clock in your bedroom. “It’s almost 3 AM. You’ve been asleep for a good two hours. Maybe a little longer. I don’t know. I’ve been going back and forth from your room to the party trying to make sure everything else is good. I can get you Robin if you want me to though honey.”

“No no.. if she’s comfortable and with Vickie leave her.. Did the party go well? Were people happy?” You're more concerned with everyone else rather than yourself. Your leg is throbbing in time with your head. 

“Yeah sweetheart. People definitely had fun. We uh, certainly have a lot of cleaning up to do but I can help you out with that.”

“Me too.” Steve agrees with Eddie.

“Okay rewind here. What the fuck is up with you two? And what the fuck happened to my leg?”

“Ah well, you were plastered and you ran away from me into the woods. Tripped on a tree branch and got yourself that nasty little cut there. Used my lifeguard knowledge to patch you up good as new! Well, as good as I can. You’ll be fine.” Steve lets out a small laugh as he tells the story to you.

“And what the fuck happened with you two?” You say with emphasis. If you weren't in such a miserable state you'd think they were, dare you say, friends?

“Yeah that… Uh.. We’re just worried about you sweetheart. Steve has been on guard duty with you and I’ve stayed downstairs. Made sure no one got too out of hand. I never knew some of those people could party that hard. Got a lot of people to leave like an hour ago with it being so late. Steve uh, came and grabbed me when he heard you wake up. You hit your head pretty hard on the tile after you puked for the first time. Both of us were here for that so uh, yeah. We’re just here for you. That’s it.”

“That’s it? I didn’t miss some gnarly reunion between you guys?”

“You uh, you missed something… But not much of a reunion…” Steve stands up and rubs the back of his head, starting to pace around the bathroom. “I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow if you want, when you’re feeling better.” Eddie nods along with Steve’s words. “But uh… Did you want to take a shower? I know I started it before asking you but I figured you’d want to wash everything from tonight off of ya…”

You untangle yourself from Eddie’s arms and try to get back up. Your legs fail you and you almost stumble back down before Steve reaches out and grabs a hold of you. Eddie is up on his feet in seconds and takes the other side, both of them guiding you over to sit on the toilet for now.

“She can’t take a shower by herself, she’s going to drown herself man.” Eddie looks down at you and you feel so small at this moment. You can’t believe you got this messy. 

“Yeah yeah I know.” Steve is curt with his words. The pleasantries between them only happen when it comes to directly talking to you.

“I can take care of myself.” You interject.

“No you really can’t sweetheart. I’ll help her out okay? You go downstairs and get rid of the rest of them. Party is officially over.” Eddie grabs the chance to help before Steve can do anything.

“Fine. Robin and Vickie are staying over, right honey?” Steve looks pissed that he missed his chance to keep helping you but you're not getting in between the two of them right now. You're too tired and in too much pain to deal with the dick measuring contest in the state that you're in.

“Mhmm. Steve, can you make sure that she’s okay? You did a wonderful job at taking care of me tonight. Seriously. I’d probably still be in the woods crying and bleeding if you didn’t save me.” You try to reassure him so he doesn’t feel so bad.

“Yeah of course. I told Robin I’d be taking care of her as well anyway tonight. She thought that Vickie would still be upright with her to help out. The two of them have been inseparable all night, just so you know.” 

That makes you really happy. You give Steve a cheesy smile as he leaves the room and closes the door. The hot water is still running and all you want to do is be under it to clean off the layer of dirt and grime that covers you from the events of the night.

“Eddie, help me?”

“Certainly.”

He leaves you sitting on the lid of the toilet and gingerly lifts your dress over your head. If the shower hadn’t warmed up the room, him doing that would’ve warmed you up immediately. You try to hide the new hickey that Steve made on your neck, you think you passed it off to Robin earlier as part of the burn makeup but Eddie catches it right away and looks a little forlorn. It’s kind of obvious that it’s new when all the others from him have faded significantly in the last week. You can still feel them all when they’re pressed on, a little reminder that he’s still with you. But this new one sticks out like a sore thumb and you don’t think you can pass it off as makeup.

He removes your bra and normally you'd be super excited but you're just honestly so tired. Your nipples perk up with the sudden change in temperature and you swear Eddie notices but he doesn’t say anything. He takes his costume off piece by piece and you just follow his movements with your eyes. His tattoos make me feel feral whenever you lay your eyes on them. He leaves his underwear on though and holds his hand out to you. You take it and try again to stand, this time successfully. We just stand there for a second, time tends to feel like it’s frozen when you're with him. He leads you to the shower and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the fogging mirror. You look like absolute shit. Your eye makeup is smeared all down your face. Black streaks run from your eyes down to your chin. Your burn makeup is gone? You don’t even remember taking it off. You shake your head at yourself, trying to brush off the embarrassment that you're feeling. Eddie doesn’t seem to care what you look like right now. Steve has seen you under worse circumstances so you're not worried about that.

He pulls the shower curtain aside for you and you bend down to discard your underwear. Wet clothes skeeve you out and it’s nothing that he hasn’t seen yet. He gets in first, still in his boxers and holds his hand out again for you to join him. You get in slowly and then take a seat in the tub. You're happy right now that it’s a big bathtub because both of us would not fit if it was any smaller. He takes a seat behind you, his legs stretching out past your scrunched up form. The water is beating down on your head and you just want to sit here forever. Eddie’s arms wrap around you and you lean back into his chest, closing your eyes. This feels like it could be home.

We just sit together in silence for a minute, just existing with each other. You could fall asleep here if it was socially acceptable to just fall asleep in the shower but alas it’s not. You feel Eddie shift behind you and you know you need to make this quick. You lean forward to grab the shampoo and pour some into your hair. He takes his hands away from your chest and starts to scrub your hair for you. His long fingers run through your hair and you hum at the feeling. He carefully tips you back forwards and washes out the suds for you. You grab your conditioner and we repeat the cycle. No words are exchanged between us but what he’s doing is saying enough. He leans over and grabs the soap for you this time and you grab the wash cloth that’s hanging off the side of the tub. He really thought of everything for you. He lathers it up and runs it over every part of your body.

When he gets to your breasts he freezes, muttering something under his breath. You didn’t catch it but it probably had something to do with the growing hardness you can feel pressing into your back. He tries to ignore it as he moves down, washing your stomach off, but it doesn’t get better. It’s actually getting harder as he progresses. He completely bypasses your core and moves down to your thighs, trying to wash you off as the water washes away any trace of the soap touching you. He can’t reach anything else so you take the cloth from him, extending your legs out so you can see. 

The gauze on your shin is bloody and sopping wet at this point so you peel it off to inspect the damage. Steve cleaned you up pretty good but you got yourself bad. You're usually not much of a klutz but the wound on your leg says otherwise. Old blood drips down as it mixes with the water, stinging slightly when you try to clean around it. Your other leg has a few scratches and bruises but nothing too bad. You can feel Eddie peaking over your shoulder and he lets out a sigh. He must be exhausted too at this point.

You throw the wash cloth into the corner of the tub and lift yourself up so you can stand again. The shower sobered you up enough to be able to stand properly now. Eddie stands with you and turns off the water and gets out before you do, grabbing two towels and wrapping one around you before wrapping the other around himself. He bends down to grab his discarded clothes to put them back on. 

“Eddie, do you need some clothes? I should have something around here. You can’t just put your costume back on… and you’re staying here. I’m not letting you drive. Nope.”

“Sweetheart, I’m perfectly capable of driving. Besides, Steve probably doesn’t want me here…”

“I don’t give a shit what Steve has to say about it. I want you both here. Besides, he’s downstairs taking care of Robin and Vickie. Come lay with me tonight… Please?” You led him by the hand back to your bedroom. He stands in the middle and contemplates what he is going to do. Before he can even tell you no, you're digging into your drawers and find Steve’s sweatpants. It won’t hurt to give him those to borrow… right?

He sighs and peels off his wet boxers. His still hard cock springing free of its wet prison. He turns around quickly when he sees you staring and reluctantly puts on the sweats. You throw on a pair of underwear and a big t-shirt and crawl into bed, patting the spot next to you so he can join. He climbs under the covers next to you, laying flat on his back so you can rest your head on his chest. His one arm wraps around you and the other lays lazily behind his head. You throw your arm around him so you can hold him.

He leans forward and gives you a soft kiss on my forehead. “Eddie?” You whisper into his chest. “I hope you don’t leave.”

“Sweetheart, you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Content with that answer, You fall asleep listening to the sound of his heart beating. His arms wrapped around you like they’re home.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Sunlight filters in through your window and you look over at your clock and see it’s nearly ten in the morning. Fucking hell. Your whole body still hurts and you still can’t remember much of last night. You remember before the party. You definitely remember what you and Steve did before the party. His sinful tongue bringing you to new heights that he’s never brought you before. You let your fingers wander up to your neck, pressing down on the hickey that he so lovingly left you. You remember getting high with everyone and drinking with Robin and Vickie. That’s where it gets fuzzy. You can only really remember waking up in the middle of the night with Eddie and Steve taking care of you. Taking a shower with Eddie while he washed off all of the dirt from the night's activities. Shit. Eddie.

You roll over and he’s still asleep on the other side of the bed. Soft snores emanating from his sleeping form. He looks so peaceful lying there. His soft curls fall lazily around his face and you can swear he’s smiling in his sleep. He’s still shirtless and his tattoos are all in full view right now. You fucking love those tattoos. You scoot your body next to his and lay your head down on the soft pillow that’s squished under his arm. Without thinking you trace the tattoo of a spider on his chest and he stirs, one eye opening to look at you.

“G’morning Sweetheart. How are you feeling?” His other hand takes yours and pulls you on top of him. You gasp as you feel his morning wood wishing you a good morning as well. There’s only two thin layers between us and you absentmindedly grind down on top of him and start kissing the nape of his neck.

“Fuck– Jesus Sweetheart,” he moans softly into your ear. “You keep doing that and we’re gonna wake up the whole hou–”

The door bursts open and Robin is there with a bottle of water and some Tylenol.

“Fucking hell you two!” She throws the items onto your bed. “Everyones awake. Come downstairs, Steve's gonna make waffles.” She pauses before she walks out of the room. “Don’t make me have to come up here a second time!” You throw your pillow at her and your best friend shrieks and runs back down the stairs. You hear her stumble on the last one and scream out “I’M OKAY!”

Eddie groans and you laugh at his annoyance in the little interruption. You really do owe him for taking care of you last night but that will have to happen another time. We get out of bed and you throw on some pajama pants and throw him another one of my oversized shirts. We get dressed in silence and share the Tylenol, each of us grieving the night in our own ways. You excuse yourself to use the bathroom and he sits down on your bed, not daring to go down into the unknown without you.

It takes you a minute to get used to the harsher lights in the bathroom. You use the toilet and then it’s time to face the music and see what the damage is like. Your mirror always feels like it’s lying to you. Showing you someone who looks an awful lot like yourself but it never feels like you. Your hair is all out of place from sleeping on it while wet. Your eyes are glazed over and you can see little popped blood vessels from all the throwing up you did last night. Eddie did a good job at scrubbing your makeup off last night but remnants of mascara still speckle your face. You think your torso has been untouched from the throes of last nights misadventure so you roll up your pant leg to really see the damage that you did. A nice gash sits on your lower shin, Eddie didn’t cover it back up last night so that it can “breathe”. It’s starting to scab over at the edges and you run your fingers over it, wincing at the pain.

A knock takes you out of your trance.

“Hey uh, I have to piss real bad and I think if we take any longer Buckley’s going to come up here and pull us back down by our ears.” 

You open up the bathroom door and give him a little grin. “She wouldn’t do that to me! Maybe you. Most definitely you. But she wouldn’t touch a hair on this pretty head.” 

“Hey I’m terrified,” he shrugs, “She’s your best friend. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to kick my ass.”

You give him a quick kiss on the cheek as you pass him in the doorway. “She’s scary alright. Wait ‘till you really get to know her. She’ll scare the shit out of you.”

“Who’s gonna scare him?” Robin pops up out of nowhere, making you jump out of your skin.

“Jesus Robin. Where the hell did you come from?”

“Downstairs. Waffles are almost ready. My head hurts so bad Y/N. What did you doooo to meeeee.” She drags out her words for a dramatic flair and grabs onto your shoulders, nearly taking you down to the ground. Eddie watches on with amusement.

“Wasn’t me. The vodka got us both. Do you remember last night?”

“Hmm, not much once we started drinking. Woke up on your couch with Vickie and Steve was somehow asleep sitting up on your recliner. I see things went well for you last night.” She pokes at the hickey on your neck and your body rapidly becomes tense. You cover the mark with your hand as you feel the embarrassment reach your face. You're not embarrassed that it’s Robin who pointed it out, but that Eddie has to have it unintentionally shoved in his face again. His gaze lowers and he steps inside the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. You take Robin’s hand and lead her out of the room.

“It wasn’t from him.” Your voice is shrill when it comes out of your mouth.

“Then who?” She pauses and looks down the stairs. An imaginary lightbulb pops on above her head. “Oh shit. You didn’t… You did? Where the hell was I? What the fuck happened last night?”

“Robin Anne Buckley. Shut. Up. I will tell you everything when we’re alone. But right now let’s just get through breakfast. Okay?”

Eddie pops out of your room and gives a weak wave, standing awkwardly near you and her.

“Waffles smell good. Wanna eat?”

You nod and make your way down, Robin and Eddie following behind you. The smell of sweet sweet waffles hits your nose and your mouth waters. Your stomach growls, signaling to you that you need to eat before it gets any worse. Steve is standing in the kitchen still in his costume from last night. His perfect hair is tousled and a little unkempt but it’s still so adorable and he runs his fingers through it trying to fix whatever issue he thinks is going on with it. Robin goes over to the kitchen table and takes a seat next to Vickie. You take in your surroundings for the first time and oh boy. You are one hundred percent going to need all hands on deck for this shit.

Cups litter almost every surface in the house. You can’t even see the dining room or the guest room but you shudder at the thought of what went down in there. There’s a visible stickiness coating the kitchen table and the container that held the jungle juice is now empty on the floor. There’s no cigarette butts or roaches from what you can tell but outside is going to be a different story. You walk over to the living room, Eddie trailing behind you once again, and check to see if anything of your parents is broken. Nothing seems out of place. A picture is lopsided here and there but you can fix that easily. If anything had broken your mom would murder you. There’s a mysterious stain on the carpet that you'lll have to get out and you think one of your moms many throw pillows is missing. Fucking hell. You'll deal with that when you have to.

Your stomach growls again, reminding you that it’s time to fucking eat. You emerge back in the kitchen with Eddie and Steve gives us the once over, his brows furrow in annoyance. Shit. Eddie’s wearing his damn sweatpants. Maybe if you just ignore that tid bit then everything will go smoothly. Eddie must feel Steve’s stare boring into his soul and he coughs and sits down, leaving a seat between him and Robin for you to join them.

“Made your favorite. Thought that you might need a pick me up after everything yesterday.” Steve places a big plate of waffles down in the center of the table. He moves to the cupboard and grabs the maple syrup and tosses some forks over to us. Robin and Vickie both miss theirs and nearly bonk their heads when bending down to pick them back up. You catch both of the ones meant for you and Eddie, Steve is still trying not to acknowledge his presence. He sits down and joins everyone, leaving a seat between him and Eddie.

A silence falls over the table as everyone grabs their food. It’s almost at the point of awkwardness when Vickie decides to speak up. “So did everyone have a good time?” She’s usually very reserved but she’s happily munching down on some waffles with us all, trying to keep the peace in an ever changing silent situation that she doesn’t even know anything about. “How’s your leg Y/N? I heard you fell last night.”

“Oh it’s okay I guess. Steve patched me up pretty good last night. I can’t believe I did that. I don’t even really remember falling to be honest…” 

“Seriously?! I don’t really remember half of the night either!” Vickie laughs and tries to cover her full mouth.

“Steve Harrington. What was in that vodka? You better not have drugged us!” Robin quips.

“Hey if the vodka was drugged then I wouldn’t remember the night either and I remember everything, even if I don’t want to.” Steve sighs and furrows his brows. We all collectively decide to ignore the look and keep talking about the events from the night before that we do remember. Eddie stayed quiet in his seat and focused more on scarfing down as many waffles as he could rather than talk. Everyone’s plates are eventually clear and stomachs are satisfied. You get up to grab everyone’s plates so you can add them to the overflowing pile of dishes. You guess you somehow ran out of cups at one point and people were using the ones from the pantry. You don’t particularly love that but what's done is done. 

“Okay. It’s now or never. Who wants to clean what?” You turn around and put your hands on your hips as you receive a collective groan from the group.

“I’ll go outside and gather trash.” Eddie replies first.

“I’ve got the living room!” Both girls volunteer at the same time.

“I’ll take care of the kitchen. I know how much you loathe dishes. Gimme some gloves and I’ll take care of everything in here. Besides, I contributed even more to the mess this morning.” Steve stands up as you bend down to get him some rubber gloves from under the sink.

“I guess I’ll go everywhere else. I am so not looking forward to seeing the state of the guest room.” You grab yourself your own pair of gloves and hand everyone garbage bags, leaving the box on the kitchen table in case anyone needs any more, and we all split off to get to work.

The dining room isn’t so bad. Cups are meticulously placed on the table where beer pong was so obviously played here. Stacks of cups litter the small bar cart in the room and you thank my earlier self for stashing the rest of your parents' alcohol in the locked part of the cabinet. You retrieve the key from the hiding spot and start putting everything back where it belongs. You’ve decided to work on garbage first, then tackle any stickiness from spilled alcohol, then any stains, and finally a good once over. This room was easy as it is relatively cozy compared to the rest of the house. The hallway has a few cups on the ground that you pick up as you make your way to the dreaded guest room. Opening the door and peering inside it doesn’t look so bad… yet. A few cups here and there and the bed needs to be remade. You put on your gloves and lift up the blanket. You start shaking it out, trying to discard anything that might be hiding in there when a used fucking condom falls on your leg and you scream, more surprised than anything.

You hear the sounds of footsteps descending and fast. You turn your head and Steve and Eddie are standing in the doorway with bewildered looks on their faces. “What the hell are you yelling about?” Eddie pants. He’s breathless from making the run from outside to here. He is obviously not a runner.

You return their looks with your own look of mortification and point to your leg where the thing is still stuck to you. Both boys burst out laughing, not even bothering to hide their amusement.

“Sweetheart you fucking scared me! Heard you from all the way outside. Really? A condom scared ya?” Eddie smirks and you hear two more sets of footsteps approaching. Robin and Vickie peek their heads in the room and join the laughter.

“Ha ha very funny everyone. Now will someone get this thing off of me? I can’t believe someone just left this here.” They’re too busy laughing to do anything and it’s ticking you off.

“If no one grabs this I swear to god I’m going to fling it from my leg over to you guys and hope it explodes.” You huff and Steve walks over with his still gloved hands to grab it by the tied off tip.

“If you had done that I would’ve returned the favor and puked on you this time honey.” He tosses it in the trash bag along with his contaminated glove and laughs as he walks back to the kitchen while everyone disperses back to where they came. The day went by so fast and by the time we all converged in the kitchen it was nearly three o’clock. The house is almost back to normal thanks to everyone.

“Hey did you guys want to smoke? Celebrate a job well done? My treat?”

“I think I’m actually going to get back to my house if that’s okay Y/N. I don’t really smoke anyways… I was going to take Rob too but if you wanna stay it’s up to you.” Vickie nudges Robin who was absorbed at looking into the side of her face and she turns to look at you now.

“Yeah I uh, I was going to catch a ride back with Vic but if you need me to stay then I totally will.” 

“Nah, go with her.” You gave her a look of approval and silently ushered her out with your eyes. You know she wants to be alone with Robin as much as she can and you're not going to stand in the way of that. Even if it leaves you in a very precarious situation. “I’m thankful you guys even stayed this long to help. I really do appreciate it.”

“Hey I’m the one who basically forced this upon you. I’m just glad you had fun and don’t hate me for doing this.”

“Can’t hate you Rob. Go get your stuff together! Not kicking you out, I just know you’ll be here forever if you don’t get up now.” You give her a light shove and she gets up and goes upstairs to your room to gather her things. Steve and Eddie sit at the table with you and Vickie as we wait for Rob to get back. She reemerges and grabs Vickie by the hand and off they go. Vickie gives you a big wave from the door and then they’re gone and you are in what you think is both of these guys' own personal hells.

“Sooo…. Still wanna smoke?” You try to cut through the weirdness in the room.

“Yes please.” Both of them answer at the same time. “We’re not using your weed though.” Eddie replies. They both get up from the table, Steve going out to his car to find more of his stash and Eddie going upstairs to grab his lunch box.

When he calls to say he’s stopping by your place on his way home from work? Surely it’s just a coincidence that you’re always fresh out of the shower when he arrives, wearing only a towel and asking him to rub lotion on your back because your hands can’t reach that far.

You know…normal friendly stuff.

And the whole time he goes along with it all, trying to shove down his guilt for being attracted to his sweet and unsuspecting best friend. He feels like a terrible person, filled with shame and self-loathing every time he touches himself while thinking about you (which happens a lot).

Things continue on like that until one night when you give him a lingering kiss goodbye, and as your sweet lips press against his, it finally dawns on him—is it possible something else is going on?

He's never been close with any other girls, so maybe he’s reading too much into things? Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on his part and you act like that with all of your friends? But at the same time, he’s been around you and some of your girlfriends on occasion, and he’s pretty sure you don’t give each other back rubs in your underwear.

Something just isn’t adding up.

Confused and conflicted, it all gets to be too much, so he vows to go cold turkey—no more time alone with you until he can figure things out and get his head on straight.

No more late night movies in his bed. No more tickling or massages or lotion applications. He’s going to avoid any and all situations where things with you might cross the line.

And to your dismay, his plan works. A little too well. He hardly ever comes around to see you anymore and you miss him. The loneliness is almost too much to bear.

So one day you call him up in desperate need of his assistance, hoping he’ll be willing to help you. He’s always said he would do anything for you.

You tell him that you got asked out by this really great guy who’s super handsome and you need Eddie’s opinion on the lingerie you bought for your upcoming date. It’s a bit more risqué than what you usually wear and you want to make sure it doesn’t look too trashy. You don’t want to give this totally-real-and-not-made-up guy the wrong impression, after all.

“As long as you don’t mind?” you purr into the phone while he grips onto his kitchen counter for strength. “All of my other friends are busy and, I mean, you’re practically one of the girls.”

And Eddie’s no fool. He knows it’s a bad idea to agree to your proposal. Being alone with you in that way sounds…dangerous. But at the same time, you need his help. You’re practically begging and he doesn’t want to let you down.

When he gets to your place a short while later, the lights are low and you answer the door in a silky robe that doesn’t leave much to his imagination.

“Thanks for getting here so fast, Eddie.” You smile. “You’re such a good friend, and I could really use your help.”

And he helps you—down on his knees with your soft thighs pressed on each side of his messy head, those trashy little panties pulled aside to let his thick tongue curl and dive through your dripping cunt.

With his plush lips wrapped around your needy clit, he finally hears you sigh his name out loud, the way he always imagined it would sound in his dreams. And when your legs start to shake and you cum for the first time on his tongue in a flood of sticky sweetness? It isn’t quite enough. He still comes back for more.

After all, what’s a best friend for?

🎶 maybe i’m delusional and the way you act is usual 🎶

hi…just emptying the drafts of some drabbles + imagines 🤍 sometimes i write these as little mini fics with a plan to flesh them out later as a full fic with dialogue and detail. there is a longer version of this in progress but i’ll probably never finish it ;)

It felt real to you, and that’s what pulled you back to him every single time. Your friends knew that you knew better than to let yourself fill Steve’s needs for a while, but every time he tells you that he needs you, you’re already sprinting out of your front door, making a twenty minute walk a ten minute one instead.

You knew what you were to Steve, you were too aware of it. A temporary placeholder for him to clear his head, a craving for physical closeness. The physical closeness was nothing compared to the distance emotionally. Once he rolled to his side of the bed, all the sweet words were taken back, and they suddenly meant nothing.

What lingered in your mind was how aware you were that you were actively being compared to his ex, Nancy. He never said anything about her, but he didn’t have to for you to know. Sometimes he would whisper her name to you, completely unaware, and you’d lay there staring at the ceiling, wishing that it was your name that he was mumbling.

Between the gentle brush of his lips against yours and the quiet grunts, you pushed all the regret to the back of your mind, because the best you could do was pretend. It was all an act, the sweet talk and the quiet ‘I love you’ that would accidentally slip from his lips when he was getting close.

You weren’t sure what hurt more, the whole performance he put on for you, or how you weren’t ever really his, and that wasn’t a thought in his mind, it was always Nancy. To make it worse if that was possible, Nancy is one of the sweetest girls, and you can see exactly why he’s so stuck on her.

The only sound filling the bedroom is your heavy breaths combined, and you glance over at him, watching as he tilts his head back against the pillows, his hands rested on his bare chest. Every time it gets to this part of the night, you can’t help but want more from him so that you don’t have to face the distance and the change in his behaviour, and so that you can feel something somewhat close to love, closeness.

“Pretty good.” He mumbles, the two familiar words that you have gotten used to hearing from him. He’s already slipping his shirt back on, pulling his jeans back up.

You hum, glancing around the room as he gets changed. For some reason, you can’t get yourself to look at him when he’s changing, as if he wasn’t just bare and on top of you moments before.

“Yeah, pretty good.” You repeat quietly, turning to slip your clothes back on, staring at the wall blankly.

The rustling beside you pauses, and it’s followed by his voice after a minute. “You’re quiet tonight.”

A breathless laugh falls from you, not an amused one, mostly to fill the silence. “Just exhausted today, that’s all. Long day.” You lie.

“Work?” He asks.

“Yeah, customers pestering me and whatever. Just the usual.” You whisper, turning your head to face him.

He nods, and silence follows, uncomfortably. To fill the silence, you let words flow from your mouth without putting too much thought into them.

“Is it going to stay this way?” You ask.

“Stay what way?” He asks, completely oblivious.

You sigh. “Me coming here for a while and then leaving straight after.”

“This isn’t anything to me or to you. Don’t get too comfortable.” He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Right, yeah.” You nod.

You slip out of his bed, sliding your jacket on before making your way out of his bedroom. The walk out of his bedroom was always the worst part, because you knew that you would be back to do it all over again. It wasn’t because you had to, and you knew you were putting yourself through it all, but you were just like him, you craved the closeness too.

You’ve barely let the night before process before you’re back in his bed again, underneath him as he pants against your shoulder. Your hands slide up and down his back, trying to memorise every part of him as if it’s not going to hurt you even more doing so.

His voice breaks, softer, like you’ve never heard before. “I love you.”

Hearing those words should make you feel something, and you shouldn’t even have to think that much into them, but you do. He doesn’t mean it, he never does. Those words are carelessly thrown around like he doesn’t really know what love feels like.

“I love you.” You whisper, but it’s genuine, something that he could never be. Your hands slip through his damp hair from the sweat.

His hands grip your hips, keeping you close to himself as he stills inside of you, shuddering. He collapses on top of you, brushing his lips against your neck before he slowly pulls back, rolling to lay beside you, breathless. The regret washes over you immediately, and the emptiness spreads inside of you.

“Steve?” His name comes out sweet.

“Hm?” He raises his eyebrows, resting his head on his hand.

Your eyes flick over his face. “Do you mean it?” You ask.

“Mean what?” He asks, putting on that clueless act again.

“Don’t do this.” You sigh.

“Do what?” He asks.

You huff, pushing yourself to sit up. “You’re doing it again. You know exactly what you’re doing.” You pause before speaking again. “You keep telling me that you love me.”

“Do I? I haven’t noticed that I do.” He shrugs.

“Every single time.” You sigh, shifting to tuck your legs under yourself.

“It doesn’t mean anything. Just some words, y’know.” He says carelessly, grabbing his shirt and slipping it on.

You blink at him, shocked at how careless he is. “Just some words?” You repeat.

“Yeah, words. Heard of them before?” He asks.

A surprised laugh leaves your lips, and you shake your head. “You throw them around like this means something to you.”

“Well, it doesn’t. Stop getting yourself wrapped up in all of this. You’re digging too much into this.” He mutters.

“Why do you do this, Steve? You’re really sweet to me when you’re on top of me, and as soon as we’re done, you’re a completely different person.” You admit, glaring at him as tears prick at your eyes.

He simply shrugs at you, and you stare at him, slowly shaking your head.

“Is she still engraved into your mind? You’re so far gone for her.” You say in disbelief.

He scoffs. “Do not bring her up like this.”

“No, because this is what this is.” You laugh breathlessly.

“It’s not.” He glares.

“Keep telling yourself that, Steve.” You mumble, turning your back to him, slipping your clothes back on and walking out of his bedroom without another word, leaving him alone to think about what you told him.

It was a little relieving finally managing the words out to him, not that he showed much care for it anyway. You got your answer, just not the one you wanted.

No argument could stop you from running back to him, because you were too far gone in the process to let it hold you back. You kept going back to his house, every night, like you were proving a point to him that he couldn’t accept. He continued to whisper sweet words into your ear, but it felt more forced, like he was trying to bring the reaction out of you.

It turned into something that was built up from anger instead of craving closeness, and it only boosted the two of you more. Either the room was filled with tense silence, or you would be arguing straight after, bringing Nancy up even though he claimed that her name was forbidden in his room.

The more that he tried to deny you, the more you were trying to fuel his anger. It had turned into a competition that only you and Steve were aware about.

“Am I doing good for you, Steve?” You ask from underneath him with a sweet smile. “Do I bring you as much relief as she did?”

He rolls his eyes, pressing his lips to yours to quieten you down, your words making him quicken his pace. “Stop talking.”

That only made you grin, knowing that you were getting to him. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“You’re ruining the moment.” He grunts, burying his head into your shoulder.

“Oops.” You grin, quietening down, dragging your nails through his hair, tilting your head back.

Your questions were relentless, and you constantly brought it up, not letting his mind live free for one moment. He was okay with the distance, so you added to it more, creating an even bigger gap between the two of you. You started to leave straight after, not even bothering to make small talk with him like he usually does.

He starts to catch onto the distance, and you notice immediately. Not that he says anything, but you watch as his face drops every time you get up to leave. You started to act like the careless one and the distant one instead, because that was better than feeling everything all at once.

It was freeing not feeling regret every time you walked out of his bedroom, and you started to shut him out instead. The only way to stop it was to stop caring. He started to pull you closer. His hands rested on your lower back like he didn’t want you to leave him alone, like he really did want you. He started to slow his pace, dragging out your time together as much as he could.

One night he had enough, and as soon as you tried to stand up to get back into your clothes, he gently grabbed your wrist, tugging you back towards himself. You blinked at him slowly, trying to process what he’s doing.

“No.” He shakes his head.

“What do you mean?” You ask cluelessly.

He squints at you. “Why are you leaving?” He asks.

An amused laugh leaves your lips. “Such a pathetic question. I leave every time, Steve. That’s what you want, so I’m respecting that.”

“Says who?” He asks.

“You, Steve.” You roll your eyes.

He blinks at you a few times. “What?”

“Don’t worry, I used to be just as shocked as you when you told me to leave.” You laugh breathlessly, trying to shift away, but he doesn’t let go. “Why, do you want me to stay?” You ask.

“I never said that.” He mumbles.

“Oh, so you’re okay if I leave now then?” You ask.

“No.” He says quickly.

You roll your eyes. “You’re too confusing.”

His mood shifts, and he almost has a desperate look in his eyes, something unfamiliar. “Stay.” He whispers.

“Why?” You ask.

“You’re suddenly shoving me away.” He sighs.

“Okay? Why does this matter all of a sudden? I can recall you doing the exact same thing to me.” You hum.

He huffs, brushing his thumb over your wrist. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Clearly.” You mumble, earning a roll of his eyes from him.

“I wasn’t looking for this to be anything at that point.” He whispers, slipping his hand onto your side, resting there. “I mean, you were right.”

“About what, exactly?” You say, more just so that he can admit it to you.

“I needed an escape from her.” He says with a guilty look. “But it hasn’t felt like that in a while. A very long time.”

“How do I know that you’re being honest when all you’ve done is throw words around?” Your voice cracks, and you finally let down the act that you’ve been trying to hard to keep up.

His face shifts into something softer. “I know that I was careless with what I would say to you, but I really mean what I say now. I want you to stay instead of leaving. I hate watching you leave this room.”

You shake your head, averting your gaze away from him. “I don’t know.”

“Please.” He whispers, sliding his hand through your hair. “This isn’t all I want from you at all.”

“How am I supposed to know if you’re still stuck on her or not?” You ask.

“I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you if I was stuck on her.” He says, tangling his hands into your hair. “Look, I know I’ve been a dick about this for a while, but I can’t pretend that I love seeing you leaving me every night.”

“Yeah, you have been a dick about this.” You repeat back.

He nods quickly. “I know.”

“What do you suggest we do then?” You ask.

“We can do something that doesn’t consist of you coming into my bedroom. I want to take you out somewhere special. I want to get to know who you really are. Not who you are when you’re in my bed, but who you are outside of this.” He says, sighing and resting his forehead against yours.

You let silence follow for a moment. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” He says, sounding more relieved than he’s ever been. “I’ll make this all up to you. You’re more than just a girl that gets in my bed, you’re so much more than that. You’re a really special girl to me.”

“You’re more than just a boy’s bed that I get into.” You laugh, letting your head drop to his shoulder, and he carefully pulls you down beside himself.

“I’m glad.” He whispers.

steve harrington had spent so much of his life believing that wanting something badly enough would eventually make it real.

when he was younger, it had been easy to imagine the rest of his life as a neat little picture painted in soft colors and warm light.

a house with a porch and a little garden that never quite stayed tidy. a kitchen that always smelled like coffee in the morning and cookies in the afternoon. noisy children running through hallways with scraped knees and bright laughter. a wife who knew him so well she could tell what kind of day he’d had just by looking at him.

a life that felt full.

a life that felt loud in the best possible way.

a life that made the silence in his parents’ house seem like a distant, ugly dream instead of the thing he had grown up inside of.

his parents had always been there, technically. they had paid for the house, the clothes, the school, the kind of life that looked good from the outside if anyone ever bothered to glance their way. but steve had never really felt raised by them so much as maintained. like something expensive that had to be kept in decent condition.

he learned early how to be easy to love in theory and impossible to know in practice. he learned how to smile when people expected it, how to be charming when it suited him, how to become the version of himself that made other people comfortable before he even knew what made him comfortable at all.

so when nancy wheeler came into his life, it had felt like a door cracking open in a locked room.

he had been young, stupid, and desperately in love with the idea of being seen.

maybe that was what made it so dangerous.

maybe that was why he had let himself believe so completely in her, in them, in the future he started building in his head before he had any real proof that it could exist.

he loved her in the loud, awkward, aching way that only teenagers can.

with all the confidence of someone who had never actually been broken before and with all the hope of someone who thought love would fix the emptiness he'd carried around for years.

and for a little while, it had almost been enough.

he imagined her in every version of his future.

the woman beside him at the kitchen counter. the mother of his kids. the person who would finally make the house feel alive. he imagined growing old with her in a way that felt almost sacred, like love was something solid and permanent if you held it tightly enough.

but then the cracks came.

then the lies, the distance, the things unsaid and the things said too late, and suddenly the dream he had been holding in both hands split apart right in front of him.

nancy had broken his heart in a way he never really admitted to anyone, not even to himself, because naming the hurt would've made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could survive.

so, he boxed it up instead.

shoved it in the back of his mind with all the other things he had never figured out how to say.

he finished high school. barely. he took a shitty job. he let his life narrow into a shape that was easier to manage than hope.

and when the years kept moving and nothing magical happened, steve started to wonder if the dream had died with nancy.

maybe that was what life had decided for him. maybe some people were built for grand love stories and some people were built to watch them from the outside. maybe he was the kind of man who got close to happiness only to be reminded that it was never really meant for him in the first place.

by twenty one, he had learned how to pretend he was fine with it.

he stopped sneaking drinks in sweaty basements and started buying them at bars where the lights were low and the music was loud enough to drown out thoughts if he let it. he bought clothes that fit properly, nice enough to make him look like a guy who had his life together even though he absolutely didn't. he moved out of his parents’ house and into a small apartment that was barely more than four walls and a handful of bad decisions, but it was his.

that mattered more than he liked to admit.

his own furniture, his own dishes, his own front door to close behind him at the end of the day. he should've felt proud of that, and sometimes he almost did.

mostly he felt lonely.

there were nights when he’d come home, keys in hand, shoulders sore from work, and stand in the doorway for a second too long just listening to the silence settle around him.

no television in the background. no soft laughter from another room. no smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom.

just the hum of the fridge, the faint traffic outside and the weight of a life that was technically his and yet still somehow felt unfinished.

-

he still told himself things at bars, of course.

tonight’s the night.

i’m gonna meet someone tonight.

i’m gonna talk to someone tonight.

he said it with enough confidence that he even almost believed it, at least until the moment came and went and he was still alone with his drink, pretending not to notice the couples at the corners of the room. pretending not to notice the girl by the jukebox smiling at some guy who clearly knew exactly what to say. pretending not to notice that he'd become very good at standing in places where something could happen and then leaving before it did.

the worst part was that he wasn’t even sure he was doing anything wrong.

he was trying, he really was.

he was just trying in the way a man tries when he's already started to assume the universe isn't on his side.

that was what made the night you came into his life feel like a mistake at first.

not because you did anything wrong, because you didn’t.

you were just there.

standing in the doorway of a bar he had almost left ten minutes earlier, the cold of the outside air still clinging to your coat, your cheeks faintly pink from the wind.

you looked around like you were deciding whether the place was worth staying in, and for one impossible second steve had the absurd thought that he knew exactly how that felt.

you were carrying a bag over one shoulder and had a look of quiet determination that made you seem like the kind of person who didn’t waste time on things that weren’t worth the trouble.

he noticed that first.

then he noticed the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you scanned the room, the small crease between your brows when the music got too loud, the way your eyes softened when the bartender pointed you toward an open seat.

it was nothing.

it was everything.

it was the sort of ordinary moment that should have passed by without making any kind of impression and yet somehow lodged itself deep under steve’s ribs before he had even told himself to look away.

he did anyway.

or tried to.

you took the stool near the bar instead of one of the crowded tables, set your bag on the empty seat beside you, and ordered something with the kind of calm confidence steve had always secretly admired in people.

he couldn’t hear what you said over the music, but the bartender smiled like you were a regular, or maybe just the sort of person that was easy to like. you took off your coat. you glanced around again. and then, for the briefest second, your eyes landed on him.

steve froze.

not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would have noticed, just enough for his fingers to tighten around his glass and for some old, painfully familiar instinct to flare up inside him.

don’t get caught staring. don’t be obvious. don’t make it weird.

he’d spent enough of his life being the pretty guy at the center of attention to know exactly how dangerous it was to be seen looking like he wanted something.

but you didn’t look away immediately.

you held his gaze for a beat, maybe two, with a kind of unreadable calm that made his stomach twist in a way he absolutely didn't appreciate.

there was no smile. no flirtation. no embarrassment. just a moment of shared awareness, as if you had both quietly registered the other one and decided, for reasons not yet explained, that the moment meant something.

then you looked back down at your drink.

steve should've left it there.

he should've gone on with his night, maybe ordered another beer, maybe pretended the strange little jolt in his chest was nothing more than boredom.

instead, he found himself watching you again and again without meaning to.

not in a creepy way, he told himself. not like that. just… noticing.

noticing the way you spoke to the bartender with your head tilted slightly to the side, the way your expression changed when the song on the jukebox shifted into something older and sadder, the way you seemed both perfectly at ease and a little far away at the same time.

there was something about you that made him think of winter mornings, of warm light, of doors being opened to places he had never quite let himself hope existed.

which was ridiculous.

steve was not the kind of man who believed in signs. not anymore. not after everything.

but there was something almost insulting about how quickly his attention kept returning to you, as if his own mind had decided to betray him on the first night of a random week in a random bar with a random stranger who had absolutely no business looking that interesting.

you stayed in your seat for a while. long enough for steve to tell himself about six different times that he wasn’t going to say anything. long enough for the bartender to slide your drink across the counter and for you to thank them with a small smile. long enough for him to take one more sip and still not decide what to do with the weird, restless feeling building under his skin.

and then the universe, apparently, got bored of watching him suffer in silence.

because someone bumped into the table behind you, and your bag slipped off the seat with a quiet thud that made your head snap down at the exact same time steve moved to catch it before it hit the floor.

his hand got there first.

yours met his over the strap.

for a second, both of you just stared.

then you looked up at him with a kind of startled politeness that made his heart do something embarrassingly stupid.

close up, you were even prettier than he'd already decided, which felt unfair.

he saw the shape of your mouth when it parted slightly in surprise, the faint shimmer of your eyes under the low lights, the little breath you took like you had just been caught off guard by a very small, very human moment.

“sorry” you said, and your voice was softer than he expected.

“no, uh, it’s fine” steve said at the same time. “you good?”

you blinked once, then looked down at the bag in his hand before looking back at him. there was the smallest ghost of a smile at the corner of your mouth, like you found his question slightly ridiculous in a way that was not unkind.

“yeah,” you said. “i think so.”

he nodded like he hadn’t just lost every coherent thought in his brain.

“cool. great. good.”

you laughed then, quietly, and it was the kind of laugh that hit him somewhere deep and unexpected.

it made him smile before he could stop himself, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like fate and more like one accidental step in the wrong direction that somehow landed on the right path anyway.

“thanks” you said, taking the bag from him.

“yeah, no problem.”

you hesitated, one hand still resting lightly on the strap, and something in your expression shifted as if you were deciding whether or not to keep talking.

steve, who had spent years convincing himself he wasn’t the kind of man to hope too quickly, found himself hoping anyway.

“are you here alone?” you asked.

the question was simple. harmless, probably.

it still made his pulse jump.

“yeah,” he said, “i mean, not like- not because i’m weird or anything. just, you know. alone.”

your smile widened a little. “i didn’t say weird.”

“right. yeah. sorry.”

you turned slightly on the stool so you could face him more fully. it was such a small movement, but it changed the air between you. made it feel less like two people near each other by accident and more like something had quietly begun.

“i’m not judging,” you said. “i just noticed.”

“good to know.”

“are you always this charming, or am i just lucky tonight?”

there it was, the opening.

the small, shimmering crack in the wall he had spent years building round himself.

steve should've taken the easy route. should have flirted back the way he had with dozens of people before, should have made some smooth comment and followed it with that lazy smile he knew worked on most people.

instead, what came out was a little more honest than that.

“i’m usually better at it” he admitted.

you gave him a look that was equal parts amused and curious. “better at what?”

he shrugged, suddenly aware of how much he wanted this conversation to keep going. “talking to people.”

“that sounded suspiciously like a lie.” your laugh came again, and this time it was easier, warmer.

he leaned his elbow on the bar and glanced at your drink. “so what are you drinking?”

you told him.

he ordered you another one before you could object.

and when you opened your mouth to protest he raised a hand and said, “please let me have this. i almost died saving your bag.”

“you did not almost die.”

“emotionally, i did.”

that got another laugh out of you, and steve had the completely unreasonable urge to keep making you do that forever.

it scared him a little, how quickly his mind was leaping ahead, how easily some part of him had started imagining a future that hadn't yet earned the right to exist.

but maybe that was the thing about loneliness.

maybe it made even a brief kind smile feel like a promise.

you introduced yourself then, and when he repeated your name under his breath, he felt something shift in him that he didn't have words for.

maybe the first real crack in all that hopelessness he had worn like armour for years.

the bartender set your drink down between you and steve found himself watching your fingers wrap around the glass.

he tried not to stare. tried not to look too eager. tried not to let the night become more than it was. but you kept talking, and he kept answering, and somehow the hours began to peel away around you both like old paint.

you were funny in a dry, unexpected way that made him catch himself smiling when you were speaking.

you asked questions and actually waited for the answers. you didn’t seem impressed by his name, his looks, his usual empty bravado, and that in itself was almost enough to fascinate him completely.

there was no performance in the way you listened. no fake interest. just steady attention, as if he were a person first and a pretty face second, and steve was so unused to that he almost didn’t know what to do with it.

he found out where you worked. he found out you were new to town, which explained why he hadn’t seen you around before. he found out you hated tequila, preferred colder weather to hot, and had a habit of collecting old books from secondhand stores if the covers looked interesting enough.

he told you about the video store. he told you about robin, making you laugh when he described her as “the most annoying genius i’ve ever met.” he told you about family christmases that felt too large and too empty at the same time, about his apartment, about the long, stupid loneliness of adult life that no one warned you about when you were younger.

you listened to all of it without making him feel pathetic for saying it.

that alone should have been enough to make him fall for you a little.

it almost was.

by the time the bar started thinning out and the music changed to something slower, steve had stopped pretending this night was just another night.

he didn’t know what you were looking for. he didn’t know if you were waiting for someone, if you had come here on a whim, if you were the kind of person who flirted with strangers just because you liked the conversation. he didn’t know if there was any chance at all that what he was feeling was mutual.

but when you looked at him, really looked at him, something in your expression told him he was not imagining the way the air seemed to pull tight between you.

and that was terrifying.

because steve had built his life around surviving disappointment.

he knew how to laugh things off. knew how to make the joke first so nobody else could hurt him with it. knew how to leave before he got attached, how to keep things light, how to turn longing into something manageable.

but you were standing there with your hand around a half finished drink, looking at him like he might actually be worth staying for, and all his old defences started to feel flimsy in the face of something he hadn't let himself want in years.

a person.

a real one.

someone kind, someone warm, someone who might sit beside him on the couch in that tiny apartment and make the silence feel less enormous. someone who might laugh at his terrible jokes and know when he was pretending to be okay. someone who might touch his shoulder in passing and make him feel, for the first time in a very long while, like he wasn't built only for being left behind.

the thought hit him so hard it almost made him angry.

not at you, at himself.

at the stupid, aching hope that had survived in him even after he had spent years trying to kill it.

you were saying something then, something about the record store downtown, and he realized he had missed the first half because he had been too busy staring at the shape of your mouth when you spoke.

he cleared his throat, cursed himself silently, and said, “sorry, what was that?”

you tilted your head. “nothing important. just wondering if you were actually listening.”

“i was listening” he said, too quickly.

you looked at him for one long second, then smiled in a way that made him think you didn't entirely believe him but were willing to let it go for now.

“good,” you said. “because i asked if you’d ever been there.”

“the record store?”

“yeah.”

“uh,” steve said, suddenly scrambling for a memory. “probably. maybe. once?”

“that is the least convincing answer possible.”

“i’m aware.”

you laughed again, and he wondered, not for the first time that night, whether you knew what you were doing to him.

whether you could see the way he kept leaning a little closer when you spoke. whether you noticed how careful he was becoming with every word, as if something in him had started to believe that this mattered.

the thing was, it did.

he didn’t know it yet. not fully. not in the way that would eventually settle deep into his bones and refuse to leave. but something about you had already begun to move through him like the first warm air after a long winter.

and maybe, just maybe, that was how it happened.

maybe love arrived like this instead. in a crowded bar on an ordinary night. with a dropped bag and a crooked smile. with a stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger for long. with a man who had spent years convinced that nothing good was ever going to stay and a person who looked at him like staying might be the most natural thing in the world.

steve didn’t know your name was going to become the first thing he thought about in the morning.

didn’t know your laugh would start living in his head like a song he couldn’t turn off.

didn’t know that one day, when he was standing in his empty apartment again, he would remember the warmth of your hand over his and feel something in his chest answer back like it had been waiting all along.

all he knew was that the night was not over.

and for the first time in a very long time, that didn't feel like a threat.

-

it happened so gradually that neither of you really noticed it at first.

one phone call became two.

two became every other night.

every other night became every night.

and suddenly steve couldn't remember what his evenings had looked like before you.

he'd get home from work exhausted, smelling faintly like dust and videotapes and whatever cheap cologne he'd sprayed on that morning, toss his keys onto the counter, kick off his shoes, and before he'd even fully settled onto the couch the phone would ring.

or he'd call you first.

sometimes neither of you had anything particularly important to say.

those ended up being his favorite conversations.

you'd spend hours talking about absolutely nothing.

books you'd found. movies you'd watched. customers that had annoyed you. customers that had made you laugh. memories from childhood. stupid theories about life. things neither of you had ever told anyone else because they seemed too insignificant to matter.

except somehow they mattered now.

steve had never realized how much loneliness could sneak up on a person until it started disappearing.

for years he'd gotten used to silence. he'd gotten used to empty apartments and eating dinner alone and nobody asking how his day was. he'd convinced himself that was adulthood, that everyone eventually stopped expecting more.

but then there was you.

calling him because you'd found a book with a ridiculous title and needed someone to laugh about it with. calling him because you'd gotten lost on the way somewhere and somehow thought steve harrington was the best person to ask for directions. calling him because your shelf was crooked. calling him because you couldn't decide what to make for dinner. calling him because apparently he was now your designated emergency contact for every minor inconvenience in your life.

and god.

he loved it.

he absolutely loved it.

it became the highlight of his day.

there was something embarrassingly satisfying about hearing your voice say his name followed by some variation of, "i need your help."

sometimes he worried it made him sound pathetic.

robin certainly would've said it did.

but steve couldn't help it.

he liked being needed. liked knowing that when something happened, good or bad or completely insignificant, he was one of the people you thought to call.

one evening he'd spent nearly forty minutes helping you assemble a bookshelf over the phone.

forty minutes.

he hadn't even been there.

you'd read the instructions out loud while he attempted to make sense of them.

"okay," you'd said. "so i've got three wooden pieces left."

"how many are there supposed to be?"

"i don't know."

"what do you mean you don't know?"

"i threw the box away."

steve had nearly choked laughing. "you threw the instructions away?"

"they were confusing."

"the instructions are literally the most important part."

"well that's your opinion."

"that's everyone's opinion."

he could still remember sitting alone in his apartment, grinning like an idiot at nothing while listening to you argue with him.

it had hit him then that he hadn't felt lonely once during that entire conversation.

and maybe that shouldn't have felt so monumental. maybe normal people experienced that kind of comfort all the time.

but steve didn't, he never had.

which was probably why he found himself asking increasingly dangerous questions, questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to.

does love come around or does one come around to it?

he thought about that a lot, late at night mostly.

when the apartment was dark. when your voice wasn't filling the silence. when he was lying awake staring at the ceiling.

because maybe people talked about love all wrong.

maybe it wasn't lightning, maybe it wasn't destiny, maybe it wasn't some magical thing that appeared out of nowhere and knocked you off your feet.

maybe it was this.

slowly finding yourself looking forward to someone's calls. memorising the sound of their laugh without meaning to. learning their coffee order. knowing exactly what kind of mood they were in from a simple hello.

maybe love wasn't something that arrived, maybe it was something you arrived at.

and god.

if that was true.

he thought he was getting dangerously close.

there were still bad nights, of course. steve wasn't suddenly fixed. you weren't some magical cure for years of disappointment and loneliness.

there were nights when he'd sit in the dark and all those old thoughts would creep back in.

nights when he'd remember every failed date, every conversation that went nowhere, every person who'd eventually left.

there were nights when he'd think maybe he was being stupid again. maybe he was building castles out of nothing. maybe he was setting himself up for another heartbreak before anything had even started.

because really, what was this?

you weren't dating, you hadn't talked about feelings, you hadn't kissed.

hell, you hadn't even properly gone out together.

you were friends, just friends. very good friends. friends who talked every single day. friends who occasionally flirted. friends who somehow knew more about each other than people who'd been together for years.

friends.

right.

and then the next day he'd get home from work, the phone would ring, you'd tell him about some weird book you'd found or ask him for help choosing paint colors or call because you'd burned dinner and wanted sympathy.

and suddenly everything would feel okay again.

you had this strange ability to make life seem manageable.

like maybe it wasn't always working against him. like maybe happiness wasn't some exclusive club he'd never been invited into.

sometimes steve would catch himself smiling in public because he'd remembered something you'd said three days ago. sometimes he'd laugh to himself while stocking shelves because he'd thought of a joke you'd appreciate. sometimes robin would stare at him from across the store and look genuinely concerned.

"you're smiling again."

steve looked up.

"what?"

"that weird smile."

"i don't have a weird smile"

robin narrowed her eyes.

"did she call?"

steve immediately looked away which answered the question.

robin groaned.

"oh my god."

"what?"

"you are so gone."

"i am not."

"steve."

"i'm not."

"you literally just smiled at a copy of ghostbusters."

"it's a good movie."

she'd laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen over.

the problem wasn't that steve liked you, he'd accepted that part, the problem was what came next.

asking you out.

every time he considered it, he immediately talked himself out of it.

what if he made things weird? what if you'd only ever seen him as a friend? what if he ruined everything? what if he finally got lucky enough to have you in his life and then managed to lose you all by himself?

that possibility terrified him more than rejection ever could.

because right now?

he had you, maybe not exactly the way he wanted, but he had you.

he was the first person you called when something happened. the person you trusted. the person you reached for.

and selfishly, desperately, he wasn't sure he could risk that.

not yet.

so for now he settled for smaller victories.

baby steps.

movement.

he started calling first sometimes which had taken an embarrassing amount of courage.

the first time he'd done it he'd spent nearly five minutes staring at your number.

just staring.

before finally dialing.

you'd answered on the second ring.

"hello?"

and immediately every thought had vanished from his head.

"uh."

smooth, very smooth.

"steve?"

"yeah."

a pause.

then a smile in your voice.

"did you call me?"

he'd felt ridiculous. "yeah."

"everything okay?"

"yeah."

"then why are you calling?"

steve had opened and closed his mouth.

because honestly?

he hadn't had a reason, he'd just wanted to hear your voice. which sounded far too pathetic to say out loud so he'd settled on the truth adjacent version.

"i saw something funny and thought you'd laugh."

your silence lasted half a second.

then came the softest, warmest laugh.

"okay."

and somehow that had been enough.

because you hadn't questioned it, hadn't made fun of him, hadn't treated it like it was strange, you'd just stayed on the phone with him for three hours.

three whole hours.

and afterward steve had sat alone on his couch staring at the wall with the stupidest smile imaginable.

because for the first time in years, maybe ever, something in his life felt like it was moving forward.

and maybe he still didn't know how to ask you out. maybe his heart still jumped every time you laughed. maybe he still spent half his time wondering whether he was imagining the occasional flirtation between you. maybe he was still scared.

but for once the fear wasn't winning, for once hope was.

and steve had spent so many years without hope that even the smallest amount felt revolutionary.

especially when it sounded so much like your voice on the other end of the phone.

-

the first time you met steve in person outside of the bar, it was supposed to be simple. that was the lie you both told yourselves.

nothing about the two of you ever stayed simple for long.

at first it was little things, the kind that looked harmless from the outside.

he started showing up where you were with the kind of frequency that was easy to excuse. with coffee, a ride, a book he thought you’d like, a spare key he claimed he was only giving you in case of emergencies.

and then one day you went grocery shopping together, because steve had complained loudly and dramatically enough about needing to do it that you offered to come along just to keep him from whining the entire time. he accepted too quickly, which should.ve been a warning.

it was, in retrospect, one of the strangest and most perfect afternoons of his life.

the store should have been boring.

fluorescent lights, crowded aisles, a list tucked into his pocket, the usual dull tasks of adulthood that most people tolerated and nobody romanticized.

but with you beside him, it became something else entirely. you walked too close when the aisle got narrow, bumped your shoulder into his when you thought he was being too serious about brands of cereal, and laughed at him when he stared at the produce like he was personally offended by every lemon in the bin.

“why are you holding the avocado like that?” you asked.

steve glanced down. “like what?”

“like it might bite you.”

“i don’t trust it.”

you laughed so hard you had to stop walking, and he stared at you for a second too long before turning away with a grin he couldn’t hide if he tried. he hated how easy it was for you to turn a stupid errand into a memory. hated it because he loved it too much.

by the time you reached the cereal aisle, he’d already forgotten half the list. by the time you were arguing over which pasta sauce looked less depressing, he’d stopped caring about the list altogether and started caring about the way you leaned your hip against the cart like you belonged there. like you belonged beside him. like it was the most natural thing in the world.

and maybe that was the problem.

because the more time he spent with you, the more his brain betrayed him.

he stopped doing this years ago. stopped imagining girls in his future. stopped picturing dinners and holidays and apartment keys left in a bowl by the door and someone’s laugh spilling out of the bathroom while they got ready for work.

after nancy, he made a quiet little burial ground out of all those thoughts and called it moving on. he convinced himself it was easier not to hope, easier not to attach pictures to people, easier not to let his head wander into places that only ever hurt him.

but with you, the pictures came anyway.

one second you were holding a box of mismatched screws and telling him the instructions made no sense, and the next his mind had already placed you like that permanently. but instead, in his kitchen, years later, barefoot and annoyed and laughing as he tried to assemble something unnecessarily complicated.

it was so vivid it almost made him dizzy.

the first time you came over to his apartment, you took one look around and made a face.

“wow,” you said, setting your bag down. “this place needs help.”

steve blinked. “hello to you too.”

you looked around slowly, taking in the couch, the shelves, the sad little lamp in the corner, the blank walls.

“no, seriously. this place needs help.”

he crossed his arms. “i didn’t invite you here to insult my home.”

“good,” you said. “because i’m not insulting it. i’m saving it.”

“from what?”

“from looking like a single man with unresolved issues lives here.”

he stared at you. “i am a single man with unresolved issues.”

“right.”

he laughed despite himself, already shaking his head, and before he knew it you were opening cabinet doors, asking where the spare nails were, and telling him he needed better curtains.

he should have been offended. instead, he watched you pace around his apartment like you had an opinion about every corner of it and found himself impossibly, stupidly charmed.

and then you started helping.

really helping.

not the fake sort of help people offered when they wanted to feel useful. actual help. sleeves pushed up, hair tucked back, concentration pinching your brow as you tried to figure out what could go where.

you grunted when a piece of furniture refused to cooperate. you muttered under your breath when a screw dropped under the couch. you asked him for a hand without hesitation, like it was the easiest thing in the world to include him in what you were doing.

that part got him every time.

he would have carried boxes for you across town, fixed anything in your apartment, driven across state lines if you’d asked him with that same open trust in your voice. it felt good. better than good, it felt like purpose.

and the terrible thing was that you seemed to know that.

not in a manipulative way, never that, just in the way you noticed things.

in the way you handed him one end of a shelf and smiled like you were quietly offering him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

the day stretched long and easy between the two of you.

music played low in the background. a chair got moved three times before you both agreed it looked best by the window. he found an old photograph tucked behind a drawer and made fun of himself for it. you laughed. he made you lunch in the middle of the chaos, and you told him his cooking was surprisingly good, which made his chest feel strange in the best way.

by evening, his apartment looked less empty, warmer somehow. not because of the rearrange, though that helped. because of you moving through the rooms like you belonged there.

that was the part that haunted him afterward.

the fact that you made his place feel lived in.

like a home could be made out of ordinary things if the right person was standing beside him.

and then there were the little surprises.

he’d complain offhandedly about something, barely thinking it mattered, and you would show up later with the exact thing he’d mentioned.

a rug, because he’d laughed once and said the one in his living room had a stain on it that probably counted as a permanent resident. you arrived at his door with a rolled-up rug tucked awkwardly under your arm, nearly toppled by the sheer inconvenience of carrying it, and he had to physically catch the thing before it knocked into both of you.

“are you trying to injure yourself on my behalf?” he’d asked, laughing as he helped you lower it to the ground.

you huffed. “it was on sale.”

“you bought me a rug because it was on sale?”

“because you needed a rug.”

“i didn't need a rug that badly.”

“steve, your old one looked like it had survived a war.”

he stared at you, then down at the rug, then back at you. “you spent money on this?”

you lifted your chin, unapologetic. “yes.”

“you didn’t have to do that.”

“i wanted to.”

that was worse. that was always worse.

because steve could handle kindness from strangers. he could even handle affection from people who liked giving it freely. what he didn’t know how to handle was the kind that felt thoughtful. the kind that remembered offhand comments and turned them into actions. the kind that said i listen to you, i notice you, i want your life to be a little better just because i’m in it.

it made his throat tight.

it made his heart feel too big for his ribs.

it made him think, more than once, that he was going to ruin this if he wasn’t careful.

so he kept trying to be careful.

he kept meeting you halfway, kept letting things unfold one small piece at a time, kept pretending he wasn’t completely undone by the way your smile changed when he opened the door.

he kept telling himself he wasn’t ready to ask you out, that the timing had to be right, that he couldn’t risk messing up something this good, that friendship was still better than nothing.

that he should be grateful for what he had.

and then one day, after a hard shift that left him sore and irritated and closer to snapping at a customer than he liked to admit, he came home and found your name on his answering machine.

he stood in the doorway for a second, key still in hand, just listening.

“hey, steve. it’s me. i figured i’d call and see if you were alive. if you are, call me back. if you’re not, haunt someone else. okay, bye.”

his chest ached.

he called you back before he could talk himself out of it.

you answered on the first ring this time.

“hey.”

and there it was again, that impossible steadiness in your voice. not pity. not obligation. just you.

“hey,” he said, sinking onto the couch. “you called just to check if i was dead?”

“mostly.”

he laughed, long and tired and real. “that’s kind of sweet.”

“don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to maintain.”

he smiled at the wall, at the ceiling, at the empty room around him that no longer felt quite so empty when you were on the other end of the line. “you busy?”

“not really.”

“good.”

“good?”

“yeah,” he said, then exhaled and let himself be honest. “i kind of wanted to hear your voice.”

there was a pause.

then your voice came back even gentler. “you can always call.”

it was such a simple thing to say which was probably why it wrecked him.

you had no idea what it did to him when you said things like that. how much hope could fit inside a single sentence. how easily you could make a hard day feel survivable. how every tiny kindness from you seemed to settle into his chest and stay there.

a few nights later, you showed up at his apartment in pajamas with a paper bag in one hand and a small smile on your face.

he opened the door, looked you up and down, and frowned. “are you okay?”

you shrugged one shoulder. “you sounded bad.”

he stared at you. “i sounded bad over the phone and you decided to come over in pajamas.”

“yes.”

“with food?”

“obviously.” you walked past him and into the apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world. “you were having a rough night, and i thought you could use company.”

steve shut the door slowly behind you, heart in his throat, and for a second he couldn’t move. couldn’t think. couldn’t do anything but watch you pull takeout containers from the bag and set them on his coffee table like you belonged there, too.

“you do this on purpose” he said quietly.

you glanced up. “do what?”

“show up and act like you know exactly what i need.”

your expression shifted, just slightly. softer now. “maybe i do.”

he looked at you, really looked at you, and something in him finally cracked clean through.

because this wasn’t luck.

this was you.

showing up. staying. making him feel chosen in ways he’d never been chosen before.

and after enough days and nights of that, enough accidental dates disguised as errands and drive thrus and shared meals, enough of you reaching for him without fear and enough of him falling a little harder every single time, steve finally thought fuck it.

if he waited any longer, he was going to explode.

so he asked you out in the front seat of his car with takeout balanced between you, the engine off, the night quiet around both of you.

he had rehearsed it three different ways and forgotten all of them the second he looked at your face.

you noticed him staring. “what?”

he swallowed.

“i need to ask you something.”

you went still.

he almost panicked.

“okay” you said slowly, but you were smiling a little now, like you already knew where this was going and were trying not to scare him.

steve dragged a hand over his mouth, then let it fall to his lap. “i know this is probably going to come out badly, but i, uh..” he laughed once under his breath, nervous and disbelieving that he was really doing this. “do you want to go on an actual date with me?”

your eyes widened.

for one horrifying second he thought he’d ruined everything.

then you smiled, really smiled. the kind that made the whole world narrow down to just your face in the dim car light.

“yes” you said.

steve blinked. “yes?”

“yes.”

he let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years. then another. then he laughed, helpless and stunned, and had to lean back in his seat because he genuinely thought he might float out through the roof of the car if he didn’t stay put.

“oh my god.”

you laughed too, delighted now, and he covered his face with one hand like a man trying very hard not to lose his entire mind in front of you.

“that went better than i expected” he admitted.

“you expected me to say no?”

“i expected you to laugh in my face.”

you looked scandalised. “steve.”

“what?”

“i would never.”

he glanced at you through his fingers, smiling despite himself. “you definitely would if you thought i deserved it.”

you pointed at him. “okay, yes, maybe a little. but not about this.”

his heart felt absurdly full.

there were a thousand things he wanted to say after that. a thousand different ways he wanted to tell you how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him, how long he had spent wanting exactly this without daring to reach for it.

instead, because he was still steve and still at least a little terrified of sincerity, he said, “cool.”

you laughed again and nudged his shoulder with yours.

and that was that.

somehow, miraculously, that was that.

-

after that, everything got easier and harder at the same time.

easier because you were no longer pretending. harder because now he had a reason to be afraid of losing you. but mostly it was beautiful in the painfully ordinary way he had once thought only existed in daydreams.

date nights where you ordered two meals and shared because you were both annoyingly indecisive. afternoons spent browsing records, where you’d lean close enough to smell his cologne and he’d forget entire sentences. evenings where you sat on his couch in soft clothes and let the silence rest between you without it feeling empty. mornings where he woke up with your head against his shoulder and had to lie perfectly still because he didn't trust himself not to cry from happiness.

you asked for little.

just enough to let him love you in the ways that came naturally to him.

help carrying things. help with directions. help deciding what to eat. help fixing something small. help choosing between two nearly identical shirts. help with the kind of things that made him feel useful, needed, wanted.

and you asked him on purpose.

“you do that” he said, voice going strange and quiet.

you looked up from the counter. “do what?”

“ask me for things.”

your brow furrowed a little. “i mean, yeah. because i need help sometimes.”

he shook his head, smiling even though his chest hurt. “no, i know. i just.. i know you could do a lot of this stuff yourself.”

you went still, reading the look on his face with a kind of soft intelligence that always made him feel seen right through. “steve.”

he laughed once, shaky and disbelieving. “you do it because you know i like it.”

there was no point trying to hide it from you. not anymore.

you crossed the kitchen slowly and stopped in front of him. your expression had gone warm in that quiet, devastating way it always did when you were being tender. “yeah,” you said. “i do.”

his throat tightened.

“because you deserve to be needed too” you added softly.

that nearly finished him.

he stared at you for a long second, then reached out like he couldn’t help himself and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. you smiled up at him, and he thought, absurdly, that this was what a miracle must feel like.

the gentle, impossible fact of being loved by someone who understood you.

the first time you kissed him, he swears he forgot how to breathe.

it happened at the end of a date that was not technically a date anymore because by then the word didn’t even seem big enough for the way you were together.

the two of you had spent the evening sharing fries, making fun of a bad movie, and arguing over whether a joke in the restaurant had been funny or just deeply stupid.

when he walked you to your door, neither of you seemed in any hurry to say goodnight.

the air between you felt charged with something quiet and inevitable.

you smiled at him from the steps and said his name like you were already halfway to touching him.

“what?” he asked softly.

you looked at his mouth then you stepped closer, and suddenly all the fear, all the years, all the old loneliness that had once lived in him so deeply it felt permanent just fell away.

your hand touched his cheek.

he leaned into it without thinking.

and when you kissed him, it was so gentle it almost hurt. so certain it made every part of him go still.

he felt it down to the marrow of his bones, like the whole world had finally clicked into place and his body had been waiting his entire life for that exact moment.

when you pulled back, he was staring at you like you had performed actual magic.

you laughed softly. “hi.”

he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sigh at the same time. “hi.”

“was that okay?”

he stared at you in horror. “okay?”

“i mean, i just-”

he kissed you again before you could keep apologising for something so perfect.

after that, he stopped pretending he was only dipping a toe into this.

he let himself fall.

freely and completely.

and the worst part, the most beautiful part, was how easy it was.

he realised you were his first real love, and somehow you made that fact feel less like a wound and more like a gift.

you knew him in ways he'd never been known before. not because you were trying to fix him, but because you were paying attention. because you loved the parts of him he'd once thought were too much and not enough all at once. because you looked at his softness and his awkwardness and his need to be useful and his habit of filling silence with jokes, and instead of making him ashamed, you made him feel cherished.

he stopped worrying, mostly, about whether you'd leave.

not because the fear vanished entirely. he was still human. still steve. still someone who had been taught by life to brace for loss.

but because you were there.

because you kept being there.

because one night turned into a week, and a week turned into a month, and before he knew it he was waking up beside you and listening to you talk about your dreams before the sun came up, and it didn’t feel temporary. it felt like home.

that was the thing he had always wanted most.

not a perfect life, not a flawless one, just a life that felt full.

with laughter in the kitchen. with your shoes by his door. with your voice in his ear. with your hand in his. with a future that no longer felt like a blank wall he had to stare at alone.

he still thought about marriage sometimes. still thought about kids. still thought about the little house with the porch and the bright, noisy rooms and the warmth that would come from somewhere deeper than furniture or decor or good luck.

but now those thoughts didn't hurt.

now they glowed.

because he knew. he knew, with the kind of certainty that settled quietly and stayed, that he hadn't been doomed to loneliness after all.

he'd just been waiting for you.

and now that you were his, the world felt different.

steve, who had spent years thinking he was unlovable, was loved instead.

and you loved him so naturally that it rewrote everything.

he wasn't lonely anymore.

not when you were beside him talking his ear off in bed. not when you reached for him in the dark. not when you smiled at him over dinner and asked him to pass the salt.

he once thought high hopes were something that happened to other people.

now he knew better.

now he knew they were something he could have, too.

something he could build. something you had built together, one small choice at a time.

and when he looked at you, really looked at you, he felt it with painful, beautiful clarity.

you were his girl. his whole world.

that was not a dream that hurt to hold, it was real.

-

When you woke up the next morning with the mess of files you had made cleaned up (and missing, you might add) as well as bundled up in a blanket, you knew something had shifted.

The smell of coffee draws your gaze to the kitchen, where Steve is standing with his back to you. His bare back. You watch the muscles in his shoulders move as he reaches for a mug from the shelf and have to force your stare away.

Max certainly hadn't been the one to tuck you in with a blanket, considering she had been staying at her friend's house. The only plausible answer was standing in the kitchen.

You pad over to the kitchen, adjusting the straps of your tank top, rubbing the sleep from your eyes all in one go.

"Hey, have you seen my-" You stop in your tracks, seeing your files spread out all over the countertop.

"Oh, hey," he glances at you, then pulls a second mug from the cabinet. "Sorry about that, I was just looking over your notes."

You take one of the pages into your hand, noticing that Steve's messy handwriting now accompanies yours.

"And adding your own? You have your own copies, you know?" You ask. "Did you sleep at all?"

He pours a mug and tops it with sugar and cream, stirring it with a spoon. You watch him decide it's not the right color and add a bit more cream. It turns a light tan, and he decides it's good enough before sliding it to you.

"Thank you," you eye the mug, noting it's exactly the way you take your coffee.

"I slept a bit, but I was going through your notes-"

"You didn't ask me if you could do that."

Another glance at the page, and you have to nearly squint to read his messy handwriting.

"I should've. But you were asleep, so..." he sips from his mug and then sets it on the counter, resting his palms against the edge. "This is good stuff, Hollywood. I mean... you've thought of everything."

"Well, it's kind of my job." You furrow your brows at him, taking a seat on the barstool. It's hard to accept the compliment coming from his lips when he usually prefers terms like "know-it-all" or "pretentious".

"Yes." He nods once. "Anyways, what I'm getting at is that I want to work together."

"That's what we already do, Steve." Or try to.

"I mean that-" he lets his head drop, taking a deep breath, and you once again watch the muscles tense in his shoulders before he looks up at you again. "I know I'm difficult, alright? But we have to win this case. You've thought of absolutely everything from theories to dialogue to what you make me for breakfast in the morning.

"We need to convince this guy that we're actually the disgusting humans you've painted us in your head. I want to sell it. We need to sell it."

"Joyce gave us the handbook. I'm just adding to it. These things have to be fleshed out. No cracks. No slip-ups." You tell him.

He has sleep in his eyes like he's still waking up. His hair isn't styled yet, and you find yourself loving how messy it is. You almost wish he'd let you run your fingers-

Stop.

Not this.

He hates you. And you hate him.

"We can do this." He says in almost a pleading manner.

"I know we can."

Your heart isn't in your reply. A part of you believes this could work, that everything will go according to plan, and you'll rescue the girls before anything worse can happen to them.

Then there's the part of you that believes that either you or Steve could slip up. Get a single minor detail wrong that derails the entire mission, putting you and the people you love in danger.

✩

The next few days are spent working more closely with Steve than you ever had before.

You were set to meet with Henry tomorrow. You'd been in several arguments over the past few days, three of them happening within the last hour.

"Danny just wouldn't say that," he says to you, his hands placed on his hips.

Today, he's wearing a pair of glasses that had you feeling slightly weak in the knees until he opened his arrogant mouth.

"Steve wouldn't say that. Danny would." You toss the folder to him, and he opens it to the page you had been fighting over.

"'I've got a fortune to withhold to support my wife. She's got expensive taste.' Blah blah blah. I get it. I just think it's a lame excuse for trafficking kids." His tone isn't one you enjoy, but one thing he never does with you is raise his voice.

"Well, why does anybody traffic kids, Steve? Money."

"Yeah." He stops like he had more to say, then rubs his chin, "Yeah. I guess you're right."

"I know," you smile, earning a glare from him as he plops back into his chair.

✩

"What's for dinner? Woah-" Max halts, seeing yours and Steve's mess all over the kitchen counter.

"Hey, kiddo." Steve looks up from the papers in front of him with a pen in his mouth.

"Hey, Steve. I asked Dustin if he wanted to swing by for dinner, but he seemed pretty pissed," Max tells him.

"Dustin?" You inquire.

"He's my friend from school. Steve is his-"

"Guardian of sorts."

"Wait, what?" This was news to you. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"To be fair, I only just found out," Steve puts his hands up in defense. He gives you a look as if I'll tell you later. You leave it for now.

"Steve, do you want to join us for dinner?" Max asks.

Steve ponders, looking over at you as he starts gathering the case files. "If it's cool with your sister."

"Of course it is," it comes out too quickly, but nobody seems to notice.

Steve assists by chopping the onions and garlic for a chicken dinner he saw on The Cooking Channel once. He doesn't exactly remember what it was or what it's called, but he remembers the "gist" of it, and that's enough for you and Max.

Max does her part by boiling the rice, and you're grateful she's so good at it. For some reason, whenever you do it, it either comes out crunchy or like mush.

You're in charge of the chicken, and Steve stands next to you, telling you what seasonings to add.

Cooking is something you're well-practiced in, and Max knows it, but you stand there and let him tell you anyway. His shoulder brushes yours every once in a while, and your fingers tighten around the knife you're using to cube the chicken each time. Steve absolutely notices, but keeps it to himself.

It took you a moment to realize, but both of your wedding bands are sitting on the edge of the kitchen sink next to each other. Something about the visual makes your heart unwillingly swim. Max catches it too, and a smile tugs at her lips. You shoot her a look that only makes her smile widen.

Steve and Max set the annoyingly large dining table while you finish the last touches, and then Steve helps you carry everything to the table.

"Should we toast to family?" Steve asks, raising his beer.

"Don't push it."

As he sets his glass down, the glimmer of his wedding band catches your eye. Yours was exactly where you left it on the edge of the kitchen sink, but he was quick to put his back on.

"This is nice, you know," Max says, pushing her empty plate away from her.

"What?" You ask.

"You two not hating each other," she says with a smile that reaches her eyes.

"Oh, we still hate each other," Steve says, but for once it sounds like he may actually be joking.

The three of you sat around the dinner table for another hour, just talking about anything and everything. Max and Steve get into an argument about whether the Midwest or the West Coast is better, to which Steve eventually yields.

It feels normal. Like maybe the three of you in a far-off parallel universe are actually a family.

Sleep is difficult to find after the three of you tag-team cleaning the kitchen. Your mind races a million miles an hour thinking about how you'll be meeting Henry tomorrow.

As you step into the kitchen around two a.m, you're surprised to find Steve sitting at the island in low lamplight, a few pages sprawled in front of him. He's shirtless again, with dark hair across his chest and down his soft stomach. You have to force your eyes away before he notices.

"What are you doing up?" he asks. His voice is low, thick with sleep, and your chest tightens.

"I could ask you the same thing." You reach for a glass that's just a few inches out of reach. Before you can move to climb onto the counter, Steve's presence fills your space. His chest is so close to your back that if you breathed any differently, he'd be pressed against you.

He reaches above you and retrieves the glass, handing it to you. In the process, your fingers brush his.

You brush some hair behind your ear nervously, clearing your throat as you move to the fridge to fill it up. He leans against the counter and watches you carefully.

"I was just going over the notes one last time," he says before admitting, "I'm nervous."

"Me too," you reply before taking a long sip of water.

"We'll be okay," he nods. "I just keep telling myself that."

Another moment of silence passes.

"So, you're a 'guardian of sorts'?" You say after a few beats.

"Dustin's a troubled kid, you know? When he found out we were all packing up and leaving Indiana, he didn't take it too well."

"'We?'" you tilt your head.

Steve takes a deep breath and folds his arms. It takes everything in you to keep eye contact.

"Joyce has another kid, Will. Nancy has a brother, Mike. Hopper has a kid named Jane. They're friends with Lucas and Dustin. They're all close friends. And they've been through some fucked up shit together, we couldn't just separate them all. It would've done more harm than good."

"Lucas Sinclair? Max's boyfriend?" Your jaw drops. "Why did nobody tell me?"

"I don't think any of us realized until recently that Max was making friends with our kids. But, if anything, it's a good thing. She doesn't have to keep anything a secret." He shrugs, like it's no big deal.

Our kids.

"I mean..." your words trail off as you process the information, "I guess it's nice she's surrounded by kids that understand our jobs."

"That's the best way to look at it," he nods. "The move was hard on all of them, but they've adjusted. Max will too with their help."

"How did you all end up here then? What happened to make you all move here at the same time and end up on the same team? It sounds impossible," you question.

He pauses like he's debating whether or not he should tell you. It happens for a split second, and you watch his microexpressions in the dim glow of the lamp.

"Story for another day, Hollywood," he tsks and then tucks the files back into the folder, "We've got a big day tomorrow. Should probably get some rest."

"Steve?" He turns to look at you, "Thanks for being so good to Max."

✩

"She's a good kid. You're doing a good job with her."

Nancy arrived in the morning to help you dissect the massive, fully stocked closet in the bedroom that was supposed to be shared by the Andersons. The closet, Grace's closet, was the size of your bedroom at your real home.

"How are things here? I'm surprised the house hasn't imploded yet," Nancy said, going through the hangers.

"Decent, I suppose," you say, from the other side of the closet, "I think we've accepted our lives and others depend on our ability to work together."

"That's good, I guess." Nancy pulls a flowy blue dress from the rack and turns around to show you, "What about this?"

"I don't know if a dress is too much. But then it feels like anything less isn't enough," you sigh and pull a pair of light wash jeans off the rack to show her.

"White feels wealthy," she says, and turns to only shuffle through white items of clothing. "I know you and Steve got off on the wrong foot, but he's not a bad guy. He's one of the few good ones, actually."

"I never did anything to him; he just decided to hate me right off the bat," you keep your back to her, finding a white button-up to pair with the jeans.

"He's a complex guy, I'll admit. I think you both just misunderstood each other," she turns with a pair of the most gorgeous black heels you've ever seen.

"Those are beautiful, oh my god," you meet her in the middle of the closet and take them from her hands.

"These with a simpler outfit like jeans and a white button could imply quiet luxury. Maybe the black purse with it," Nancy says.

"I think you're right," you nod.

She helps you with your makeup and hair, leaving you sitting in the mirror with your thoughts. She and Eddie had to go prepare to sit outside the gallery. Joyce, Hopper and Robin come over for an extremely brief meeting going over final details for your first official meeting of the unsub.

There's a rap at your door, and you stand up, gathering everything you need to put in your purse. "Come in."

Steve enters the room, and you have to do a double-take at him. He's wearing a pair of black trousers and a white T-shirt tucked in. He's got a cardigan draped around his shoulders, the sleeves tied around his chest. He's wearing loafers, and that's what sends you into laughter.

"Alright, alright," his jaw clenches, and you have to fight to keep your laughter in.

"No, you look good. Really, you do. Like you're on your way to class at Harvard," you pull the bag over your shoulder and cross the room.

Steve pauses, glances over you once, like he usually does in the office when you arrive. Ignoring him, you double-check that your wallet is filled only with pieces of your alias. Credit cards, IDs, and even an old student ID from Yale.

"Can you even walk in those things?" He tilts his head, eyeing the expensive heels you have on.

"Let's just hope we don't have to make a run for it on our first day, yeah?" You sling the purse over your shoulder.

Four cars sit in the driveway at the Anderson house, and Steve chooses the BMW to drive, one that is apparently a newer model of the one he drives he tells you. d

"Can I drive?" You ask.

"Danny drives," he says, opening the passenger door for you.

"It's not specified who drives," you reply.

"Why would the trophy wife drive?" The bite returns.

"Let's get one thing clear," you step into his space, "Grace has a degree from Yale and is the CFO of Danny's company. She's not a fucking trophy wife."

"Get in the car," his voice is low as you two stare each other down, sizing each other up. He's much taller than you, but that doesn't stop you from holding your own.

Just when you think you two might be heading in the direction of being cordial, you take three steps back.

"Asshole," you mutter before climbing into the car.

Nothing frustrates you more than the entire car ride spent in silence. The two of you had done so well in working together, coexisting in the same house, all for it to be thrown away.

He was one of the most impossible men you've ever encountered in your life. The switch of his mood was so unpredictable that it nearly gave you whiplash.

"We're early," Steve says when he parks the BMW outside the gallery. It was a nice, yet unsuspecting building. You'd never guess the horrors going on within the four walls. You spot the old van parked down the street, the one you know Nancy and Eddie are in.

"To be early is to be on time," you say, your eyes scanning the outside of the building.

"Let's give it five, then head in," he says. "Anything you want to go over before we go in?"

"Can you remember that you're supposed to actually like me, maybe?" Your tone is harsh, but it's the same one he's used to giving you.

"What's your problem today, hm?" He retorts, turning to face you.

"You've been a dick all morning. Actually, scratch that, you've been a dick since I got here, Steve-"

"It's not like you've been all that pleasant, either." He cuts you off.

"I didn't even do anything," you argue, "What switched overnight? I thought we were fine."

"We are fine."

He leaves it at that, not giving you time to respond. He gets out of the car and walks around the front of the car to open the door for you.

The two of you walk to the front of the gallery, where a man steps out, large and dressed in all black. This must be who Robin had been in contact with, Henry's assistant of sorts.

"Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, we're pleased to have you at the Creel Art Center." he bows his head in a polite greeting and then opens the door for you. "We appreciate your timely arrival."

"Thank you for having us," Steve answers. It's so him and so not. The way he switches into the persona of Danny is instantaneous. He's done his research, thank god.

"We're excited to explore a potential partnership," you say.

The man glances at you and then looks down at his pager, "He'll be down shortly. Feel free to take a look around."

Steve's hand finds your lower back and guides you to an eye-catching statue that sits directly in front of a large window, basking in the sunlight. It isn't one you recall being listed on his website.

It's a gorgeous statue, a crouching Venus, that much you know. There's no plaque detailing anything about its origin, but by the looks of it, it's ancient.

"It's nice," Steve says. You do your best not to tense at the way his thumb brushes circles into your back.

"It's a style that dates back to Roman times," you tell him.

"Very good."

The two of you turn around as your unsub, Henry Creel, walks down the marble stairs of the gallery. You don't realize it, but your hands are slightly shaking, adrenaline pumping through your veins, and you put on your best smile.

Steve slides his hand into yours, lacing your fingers together, squeezing three times, letting you know he's right there.

"I bought this at an auction fairly recently," he begins, circling the statue. Just the way he speaks makes your skin crawl. "Tell me, Grace. Do you believe this piece to be ancient?"

"I do," you answer confidently.

"The seller was selling it for a much lower price than what it's worth. But I have an eye for pieces like this. You see, this seller had somebody tell him that this piece wasn't ancient.

"Something unique about this painting is that it came with a provenance. Its history of ownership is documented for the past century, and every seller before him believed it was ancient. So why did this seller believe it not to be?"

Henry stops circling the statue and looks to you and Steve.

"I'm not sure," you say. "I knew right away that it's ancient. It looks either first or second century."

"Second." He nods with a smile that makes your skin crawl. "Because of my good eye, I paid $15,000. This piece here is worth a minimum of $300,000."

"You're a very lucky man," you tell him with a smile.

"You have a good eye, Mrs. Anderon." he steps toward you and lifts your hand into his, kissing the top of it. The urge to recoil is beyond anything you can comprehend. Steve's hand tenses around yours, and you brush the back of his hand with your thumb.

"I've always loved art. All kinds of it," you turn to Steve, "I've converted Danny into being an appreciater of the arts as well, right darling?"

"She tries, that's for sure," he laughs. "My eye isn't as good as hers."

"Don't be modest," you chastise him playfully.

He glances at Steve, then back at you, "A partnership between us might be valuable. I could use your eye."

"I believe that to be true," you nod, knowing he's not talking about the art.

"Surely you'll be of value as well, Daniel." Henry holds his hand out, and Steve shakes it. Steve's act as Danny doesn't falter; the smile stays plastered to his face.

"He will," you smile, resting your hand against Steve's chest, leaning into his side a bit more. Your hands stay laced between you. His thumb brushes circles into the back of your hand, either to soothe himself or to soothe you.

Henry looks behind you, surely at his assistant, before looking back at you, "I do hope you cleared your evening. I'd love to host you in the garden for wine."

"Oh, that's very kind of you," Steve says. "We'd love to."

You eye each piece as Henry leads you through the gallery. Some of them you recognize from the gallery's website; the ones you know are attached to the names of missing girls in your town. It makes you sick.

The garden is strikingly beautiful, tucked away behind the gallery. There's an assortment of flowers and greenery that is so vast, you're not sure how far it extends. A small pond sits directly in the middle, and in front of it, a table lined with glasses and an assortment of wine bottles.

Henry takes his seat, and Steve pulls out the chair for you before taking his. Steve takes your hand in his and rests your intertwined fingers in his lap.

"This is beautiful," you say honestly, and then turn to Steve. "We should do something like this at home."

"I spent years perfecting this garden," Henry uncorks a wine bottle and then pours glasses for the three of you. His assistant looms in the corner, you notice. You also pinpoint every potential exit in case of an emergency. "Tell me about you. Where did you meet? How long have you been together?"

You and Steve both go to speak at the same time, and he squeezes your hand. You both laugh it off, and you look to him to let him talk.

"We always knew each other from home, back in Connecticut, but never really shared the same friend group. Somehow, we both ended up at Yale, studying different things, but it was nice to have someone from home. We started hanging out, and finally, I asked her on a proper date."

"He proposed in a garden quite like this one, actually," you note as you look around, "Somewhere in Southern Italy."

"We only just eloped a few months ago, back to Italy. But it's been almost four years," Steve says.

"You two are young," Henry says. He leaves it at that. You dissect the tone and his microexpressions. He thinks you're too young to enter his line of business.

"I can assure you we're more than qualified," Steve beats you to it. He's always been good at reading people.

"And why are you interested in my line of business? Surely, you know the art we deal here is... special."

"We're aware," you lean back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other. You swirl the wine in the glass and then take a long sip, never breaking eye contact. "Why are you interested in your line of business?"

"There is nothing more beautiful than humanity, isn't that right? Especially within certain ages," Steve's grip tightens on your hand. "Humanity is the most delicate and destructive thing on the planet. What we do here proves that in and of itself."

Your blood boils, but you stay calm. That's his reasoning for trafficking humans? Not just humans, kids.

"Of course, the paychecks are nice as well." Henry says it with a laugh, like he's brushing off everything he just said. You and Steve laugh as well.

You spend another hour indulging in different wines that Henry presents to you. He walks you through each one, telling you where it's from and when it was bottled in extreme detail.

You're halfway through the gallery on your way out when Henry's assistant pulls him away.

"I do want to walk you out, just give me a moment to handle this. Do feel free to look around the gallery," he tells you before hastily walking away.

"Come on," Steve whispers.

"What?" You barely have time to answer before pulls you in the direction they walked.

"I wanna know what was so urgent," he says quietly, pulling you behind him. You have to somehow walk on your toes with your heels off the ground to avoid the clacking sound.

Steve grips your hips and pushes you gently into the wall, "There are cameras."

You look over his shoulder as his arms slide around your waist, "What are you doing?"

"Do you trust me?" He looks down at you, your faces inches apart.

Steve may be one of the most difficult men on the planet, and he may not like you very much, but at the end of the day, he wouldn't let anything happen to you. You know deep down that he'd never let you get hurt.

"I do," you reply.

You can hear Henry and the assistant's voice, whose name you wish you knew, echoing from down the hall. You're far enough that it would be a coincidence if they found you there, but luckily enough, sound carries through the gallery with ease so you can hear every word.

Steve pulls your body flush with his, keeping you caged against the wall. He buries your face in your neck, and his lips brush against your skin.

"Be my ears," he says quietly. The pads of his fingers dig into your waist, and he presses his lips to your neck, trailing kisses from your collarbone to your ear. A gasp leaves your lips as you clutch his shirt between your fingers.

"I don't care what his excuse is. He's had plenty of time," Henry sounds upset. You don't have to strain to hear him as much as you figured you would. "Tell him he needs to bring in something of value, or we're going to have a problem."

"He knows you're upset, sir," the assistant says, "He wants to scout the club for you. He thinks he can make it up to you."

"Club is off limits to him until further notice," Henry says, and the sound of footsteps approaches. "Warn him that he'll be replaced if he can't meet my demands."

"They're coming," you tell him quietly.

Steve wraps his fingers through your belt loops and pulls your hips into his. He peppers kisses from your collarbone all the way to your jaw. You slip back into the persona of Grace and let yourself giggle with each kiss.

He cups your jaw with one hand, and before you can react, his lips are on yours in a kiss so needy that it nearly makes your knees buckle. His lips move against yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth effortlessly. Your hands are in his hair, his are all over you, leaving you breathless. His lips are surprisingly soft, his kiss hungry like he'd been waiting for it all night.

If you didn't know any better, you'd believe he meant it.

"Find the Andersons for me," you vaguely hear, but your mind is so wrapped around Steve's mouth against yours that you barely process it.

"Apologies," the assistant says as he rounds the corner, "They're here."

You and Steve pull away from each other like two teenagers caught by their parents. "No, no. We're sorry."

You laugh nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "We should head out."

Your cheeks burn not from embarrassment, because your intention was to get "caught", but from the heat pooling in your lower belly.

"Before you go," Henry appears as if out of thin air next to the assistant, "I'm hosting a client luncheon next week and would love it if you joined. I think you two should meet some of our buyers."

"We'd be honored," Steve says.

"I'll be lucky to have you," Henry nods. He shakes both of your hands one last time and walks you to the front of the gallery.

You and Steve descend the steps hand in hand, and just because you know Henry is watching, Steve presses a kiss to your head as you walk.

The car ride home is painfully silent, the air so thick you can feel it.

Max is gone when you and Steve arrive back at the house, a sticky note left on the fridge reading "Sleepover at Jane's. See you after school tomorrow. -Max"

"Good job today," Steve says, pulling two glasses from the cabinet. He drops a teabag into each and fills a kettle with water.

"You too," you say, opening your notebook to jot down things from the meeting.

Another silence befalls you.

"I'm sorry if I crossed a line-"

"No, not at all," you cut him off. "It's fine. We're married, remember?" You raise your hand, the light reflecting off your wedding band.

"Right," he nods and pours the steaming water into the mug and slides it over to you. "Honey?"

"Yeah?" You look up from your notebook.

"Do you want honey?" He slides the honey bottle to you, and your cheeks flush red, forgetting you don't have to be Grace right now. You swear you can see the corner of his lip threatening to tug into a smile.

"Thank you," you answer.

Steve rounds the corner and takes the seat next to you, his knee bumping yours. He looks over your shoulders are you scribble notes down.

"What are you feeling?" He asks, his brows furrowed. He's slightly leaning into you, trying to get a better read on your writing.

"I'm feeling like he gave us absolutely nothing," you huff, tossing the pen down.

"It's gonna take time for him to earn our trust. We're meeting buyers next week, that's a great thing. And..." he trails off, shaking his head, with a hand through his hair.

"And what?"

"He likes you." Steve says, and you roll your eyes, "He does. He thinks 'you have a good eye,' or whatever. He sees value in you."

"He sees it in you, too," you reply, "You have the business mindset of it all."

"He connected with you over the art," he says, looking at you. Your faces are once again too close for comfort. "How did you know that stuff anyway? Joyce's handbook doesn't say anything about Grace being an art lover."

You take a deep breath, propping your head up on your hand, your elbow resting on the counter, "Mine and Max's parents used to take us to the museum when they'd open new exhibits. Max never really cared for it, but I loved it. I studied a little bit of art history in school, too, so... yeah. Just me."

"How's your memory so good?" He asks. He's got sleep in his voice, exhausted from the long day.

You shrug and twirl the teaspoon around the mug, "Childhood trauma."

It's meant to be a joke, an honest one, but it doesn't earn a laugh.

"What do you mean?" His tone is soft, one he's never used with you before.

"We don't have to get into that," you laugh lightly, diverting your eyes from his.

"Hey," he says, his knee brushes yours once more.

"Hm?" You look back at him.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, and he's suddenly closer than before. You can feel his breath against your lips, but he waits. He waits for you to lean into him, not wanting to cross the imaginary line he drew for himself, one he already crossed once today.

The hesitation is dense. So many different feelings overwhelm you, and you know this is a mistake.

Steve is your coworker.

That you're currently forced to reside with at the moment in the same house as your sixteen year old sister. Not to mention, you two don't even like each other.

There was always the unspoken rule from the get-go: don't let the lines blur. And on the first day of pretending to be married, you're letting the lines blur.

But he's here in front of you, and his hands have been on you all day, and his lips were so soft... and he's your coworker.

The racing thoughts don't impede your mind long enough for you to consider the consequences when you close the gap between you, pressing your lips to his.

His hand is in your hand within a second, beckoning you closer to him. Your hands fist the shirt he's wearing for the second time today, and you pull him closer to you.

His tongue glides into your mouth, and you can't help but gasp at the feeling. It shouldn't feel as good as it does.

Steve's free hand slides up the outside of your thigh, pulling you to stand between his legs, where he sits on the barstool. Even sitting down, you're just as tall as he is.

He fights the urge to tease you about how much he knows you liked the kiss from earlier. He just focuses on you.

Your arms are around his neck as your mouths move together intoxicatingly.

"This is a bad idea," you mumble against his lips.

"Very bad idea," he agrees, tugging your bottom lip into your mouth.

"We can't. We should stop," you breathlessly reply in between kisses.

He simply shakes his head, his head dipping to your neck, his teeth nipping at the soft skin.

"You smell so good," he mutters against your skin.

The air becomes hot, and you become painfully aware of your surroundings, suddenly pulling away. You cross your arms, leaning against the counter, looking at the ground.

He still has a hand on your waist, squeezing three times, to let you know he's there, a trait he's picked up over the day.

"We can't."

It's the last thing you say before you turn on your heel and disappear into your bedroom for the night.

previous | next

His body curls around yours, with him quietly groaning as he breathes in traces of sunscreen and perfume that still linger on your skin. You drape your arms around his broad shoulders while he presses a series of kisses from your collarbone to your throat. A wet, flick of his tongue earns a sigh of his name and he smiles so saccharine. He drapes his bare leg over yours, as his hairy thigh contrasts with the plushness of yours.

You bite your lip as you think back to earlier that afternoon and how he was sitting so innocently behind the wheel dressed in a pastel striped, linen, button down, undone just enough to offer a glimpse of chest hair. You almost felt faint when you glanced at his practically exposed thighs, as he was wearing possibly the shortest shorts you've ever seen. Suddenly the heat of a July afternoon wasn't the only reason you felt like melting. He was so effortlessly handsome, just cruising along, down the highway, with his hand resting on your thigh while humming along to the radio. It was like something out of a dream, one you wanted to stay in forever.

"You're not fallin' asleep on me, are you?" He asks, nuzzling his nose against yours.

You slowly open your eyes to dreamily meet his gaze and shake your head.

"I was just lost in thought," you reply as a curious smirk forms on his lips.

"About what?"

"You."

"What about me?" He presses, his voice silky and deep.

"How dreamy you are," you reveal, while your fingers toy with the ends of his hair.

"Yeah?" He smiles.

You nod.

You can't tell if he's blushing or if it's a light sunburn that flushes his cheeks.

"Y'know, flattery works on me every time..."

He then reminds, making you giggle.

"I know," you smile. I just think I should tell you more often, maybe not like, twenty times a day, but..."

"Wow, okay, so I compliment my girlfriend too much, cool," he then remarks.

"Steve..." you breathe, pressing your palms to the sides of his face.

"Does it really bother you, though? Because I'll tone it down. I know I can get carried away-" he rambles until you pull him into a kiss.

"Its okay, really," you whisper against his lips.

"I just don't wanna weird you out or anything," he adds, while you press kisses to his cheeks.

"I love you too much for that to happen," you casually reply, between kisses.

"Do you?" He asks, a part of him still in disbelief that you could actually mean it.

"Yes," you answer before pulling him into another kiss.

You feel him melt into it, as his bodyweight presses yours into the blanket beneath you. A slow, hard grind of his hips makes you gasp against his lips, with your hands clutching the collar of his shirt.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he murmurs into a kiss, while every move of his hips has you writhing underneath him. "A goddamn dream..."

He pulls at your shorts, almost tugging them down your thighs when you stop him.

"Someone could see-" you breathe, panicked.

"Its just us here," he assures, tenderly caressing your cheek, "there's no one around for miles. Besides, how do you think the lake got its name?"

You gaze up at him and smile at his dopey grin. You then nod, and he finishes taking off your shorts. He opts to leave your panties on, not wanting to fully expose you. He then quickly takes off his shorts and underwear and tosses them into the grass next to him. He moves your panties to the side, and teases you with his tip before slowly easing himself inside you. His lips are on yours again as his kisses match his slow, deep thrusts.

You work to unbutton his shirt, letting it fall open at his sides while you glide your fingers through the thick hair on his chest. Your touch has him moaning into a kiss, with his hips stuttering slightly before resuming his slow rhythm.

"Fuck, honey..." he pants, his wet lips against your own, "is this... is this what you were thinking about earlier? Having me like this? Buried so deep you'll feel me for days?"

You whimper a soft 'yes,' and he rewards you with another kiss.

"How'd I luck out with someone as pretty and perfect as you?" He breathily asks.

His hips move a little faster, as your hands slip underneath his shirt to grip his strong shoulders.

"I... I think it was when you accidentally knocked a stack of tapes off the counter when asking me out the first time," you breathily answer.

"Oh, that's what did it for you?" He jokes, also breathless.

"That and the green vest," you smile while he playfully rolls his eyes.

"Maybe I should wear it on our next date then," he snarks, his lips brushing yours.

"Maybe you should," you echo, before he kisses you again.

It doesn't take long until you're whimpering and writhing for him again. His thrusts slow, as he's too distracted by your lips. He licks into your mouth with a muffled moan, as he can't help himself. He kisses you so deeply, it borders on sloppy, but you don't care. You find it unbelievably hot, as you cling to him, holding him even closer. You arch your back and shift your hips, desperate for him to move.

"What's wrong, honey? What do you need?" He practically coos, making you want to scream.

"You, Steve, please..." you whine, gazing up at him with pleading eyes.

"Yeah? You need me?" He continues, in the same, sickeningly sweet tone, between kisses.

You nod, unable to speak as frustration builds inside you.

"I need you, too, honey... so fuckin' much..." he breathes, before roughly thrusting into you.

You cry his name and dig your nails into his freckled back, as his hips meet yours over and over. Primal passion consumes him as he fucks you harder than ever before. He rests his forehead against yours, panting with every vigorous thrust.

"You feel so fuckin' good... I don't ever wanna stop... wanna fuck you forever..." he breathes, his lips hovering over your open mouth.

You only whine, as your nails claw at the nape of his neck.

Your hazy gaze settles on his pretty face and notice sweat beading on his upper lip. You flick your tongue over it, before pulling him into a kiss. A gutteral moan rumbles from deep in his throat as he kisses you as passionately as he can.

"God, you're so hot," he pants, between kisses.

Your legs tighten around his waist as you moan his name, so loud, you hope there really isn't anyone around for miles.

"That's it, honey, fuck..." he encourages, feeling how close you are.

He buries his face in your neck, lazily licking and kissing along your skin while he roughly fucks you. You chant his name as pleasure washes over you, leaving you shuddering and spent. He moans your name as his thrusts turn erratic. He then sinks his teeth into your skin, before collapsing on top of you. You comb your fingers through his damp hair while you both catch your breath. He presses a kiss or two to your neck before raising his head. He gazes into your eyes while cupping your cheek.

"I love you," he whispers, with the tip of his broad nose brushing yours.

"I love you, too," you echo, your voice cracking with exhaustion, emotion or both.

He smiles so warmly, you can truly see the love shimmering in his eyes. He leans in but before your lips touch, you each hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

"Shit," he mumbles, before giving you a quick peck on the lips.

He helps to slide your shorts back on before quickly redressing himself. You both then hurriedly gather all your things as the sound of thunder grows closer. After finally reaching his car, Steve pops the trunk and begins haphazardly loading everything in. Its then you notice his chest on display, realizing he forgot to button his shirt.

You stand, frozen in place, as your eyes travel his happy trail down his tan torso, to where it disappears into his shorts. Your brain is so completely focused on him that you don't hear him asking you to hand him the cooler you're holding. He says your name a few times finally getting your attention.

"Are you seriously checking me out right now?" He questions, as your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"Maybe..." you reply, shyly.

"Honey," he begins, moving to stand in front of you. "Y'know, you don't just have to look, you can touch, too." He gently takes your hands and presses them to his chest. His arms then settle around your waist, pulling you to him. His reassuring smile helps you relax in his arms.

"I love feeling your hands on me," he whispers, against your lips, before kissing you deeply.

The impending thunderstorm and everything else around you is completely forgotten as you lose yourself in him. Your hand slips from his chest and moves to his shorts. You palm his bulge through the thin material, making him moan so prettily.

"Easy, honey," he warns, already sounding so wrecked.

"Sorry, I couldn't resist," you defend, with a slight smile.

"Let's just get back to my house first. We'll take a nice, refreshing shower," he pauses to emphasize each word with a kiss, "and I'll order us a couple pizzas and we can have a movie night. What do you say?"

He brushes his thumb across your cheek before you sigh, "Fine."

The mutual pining crept in slowly, then all at once.

It was the little things at first. Kurt would leave coffee made for you on mornings he knew you had early shifts, scribbling shy little notes on post-its: Hope your day isn’t too bad :). You’d catch him staring when you came home from work, still in your barista apron, his eyes lingering on the way your shirt clung from the heat. He’d look away instantly, ears red, mumbling something about editing.

You weren’t innocent either. Late at night you’d lie in bed replaying the sound of his soft voice through the thin walls as he practiced his streams. The way he’d knock gently on your door around midnight, offering half his leftover takeout “because it’s going to go bad anyway.” Your fingers would brush when you took the container, and the spark felt electric. You started wearing shorter sleep shorts just to see if he’d notice. He always did, swallowing hard and finding sudden reasons to retreat to his room.

There were almost-moments. One night after a particularly bad day, you found him on the couch spiraling about his failing channel. You sat close, closer than necessary and rested your head on his shoulder for comfort. Kurt froze, breath catching, but eventually his arm came around you awkwardly. Neither of you moved for nearly an hour. You could feel his heart hammering.

Another time, you walked in on him fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips. He yelped, clutching the towel, but not before you saw the trail of dark hair leading down and the flush spreading across his chest. “S-sorry!” he stammered, but his eyes had dropped to your chest for a split second. You pretended not to notice how hard he was breathing.

The tension simmered constantly, stolen glances in the kitchen, lingering hugs that lasted a beat too long when one of you had a rough day, the way he’d compliment your laugh during movie nights but immediately backtrack like he’d said too much.

Meanwhile, the bills piled up.

Kurt’s rideshare gigs were inconsistent at best. Half the time he came home defeated, muttering about rude passengers or low tips. His streaming channel? Maybe 200 dedicated followers who mostly showed up to troll him. “Kurt Kunkle’s World” wasn’t catching on, no matter how many hours he spent editing in the dark living room, blue light glowing on his anxious face.

Your barista job covered groceries and your half of rent, but barely. Then came the triple whammy: your hours got cut, Kurt’s car needed a $600 repair, and the landlord hiked rent by $200. One night you found him at the kitchen table at 2 a.m., hoodie sleeves over his hands, staring at a final notice from the power company. His laptop showed a rejected sponsorship email.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered when you sat across from him. His voice cracked. “I keep thinking if I just push harder… get the right angle, the right content… but nothing works. People don’t want real anymore.”

You reached across and touched his wrist. He jolted like you’d shocked him, but didn’t pull away. Tension crackled in the quiet apartment, the kind that had been building for months. Unspoken want. Shared desperation. The way his breath hitched when your thumb brushed his skin.

“Kurt,” you said gently, “we’re fucked if we don’t do something drastic.”

He looked up, eyes wide and vulnerable behind his messy curls. “Like what?”

You hesitated. The idea had been floating in your head for weeks, born from scrolling late-night TikTok and overhearing customers talk about side hustles. But saying it out loud to him felt dangerous.

“What if we made an OnlyFans?”

The silence was deafening. Kurt’s face went scarlet. He stared at you, mouth opening and closing, ears burning red. For a moment you thought he’d bolt to his room and never speak to you again.

“W-with… me?” His voice was barely audible. “You mean… like… adult content? Us?”

“Yeah.” You kept your tone casual even as your heart raced. “Roommate stuff is huge. The ‘we’re just friends but the tension is obvious’ angle. You’re naturally cute and awkward on camera — people eat that up. I’m comfortable with my body. We split everything 50/50. No pressure, no strings… unless we want them.”

He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the table. But you saw the way his thighs shifted, the subtle press of his hand against his lap. The tension thickened. Months of stolen glances, late-night conversations where you both danced around the obvious chemistry, nights where you’d lie in bed wondering if he was touching himself thinking about you in the next room. (He was. You’d heard the muffled sounds once or twice.)

“I… I’ve never…” Kurt mumbled. “Not on camera. Not with anyone I—” He cut himself off, flushing deeper. “You’d really let me touch you? For this?”

The vulnerability in his voice made your stomach flip. Not just financial need anymore. This was crossing a line you both had been eyeing for months.

-

The decision didn’t happen that night. Tension simmered for three more days.

Kurt avoided you at first, hiding in his room, editing old footage with headphones on. But the power notice glared from the fridge. You ate cold cereal for dinner. He came home from a bad driving shift soaked from rain, looking defeated. That night you both sat on the sagging couch watching a movie neither of you cared about, the space between you charged like static.

Halfway through, his knee brushed yours. Neither moved away. When you turned to say something, his eyes were already on you, dark, hungry, terrified. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted in a rush. “The idea. You and me. It’s… it’s too much. But we need the money and I… I want to. With you.”

You leaned in slowly, giving him time to pull back. He didn’t. The first kiss was hesitant, soft lips, shaky breath, his hand hovering at your waist like he was afraid to claim it. When you deepened it, sliding into his lap, Kurt whimpered. Actually whimpered. His hands finally settled on your hips, gripping like you were a lifeline.

That kiss stretched into heavy making out, clothes half-pulled aside, grinding and panting until you were both too worked up to pretend it was just “for the channel.” But you stopped before it went further. “Save it for the camera,” you whispered against his mouth. “Make it real.”

Kurt nodded, dazed and painfully hard beneath you. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s… let’s do it.”

-

Before filming, you spent an evening setting up the channel together on your shared laptop. Kurt sat unusually close, his thigh pressed against yours as you created the account.

“We need a good username,” he said, voice still shy but excited. “Something that screams roommate vibes but isn’t too obvious.”

After tossing ideas back and forth, giggling over increasingly ridiculous ones you settled on KurtsWorldWithHer. It kept his original brand vibe while making it clear you were now part of his world.

For the bio, Kurt typed carefully, cheeks pink:

“Two broke roommates turning tension into content. Shy boy meets bold girl in KurtsWorld. Real chemistry, real firsts, real messy feelings. Exclusive videos weekly. 50/50 split but 100% real. DMs open for requests. #RoommateGoals”

You added a winking emoji and made him blush harder.

The profile picture was a carefully cropped shot you took together: Kurt in his black hoodie looking flustered, you in a tank top leaning against his shoulder, both smiling at the camera with just enough skin showing to be suggestive without being explicit. Kurt kept adjusting the crop “so it looks natural but hot.”

By the end, Kurt was vibrating with nervous energy, leg bouncing. “This is actually happening. People are gonna see us. Together.”

You squeezed his hand. “Only the parts we want them to see. And we’re in this together.”

-

The first video took two days to film because Kurt kept overthinking.

He set up the ring light and tripod in the living room like it was a blockbuster production, adjusting angles obsessively. “Lighting has to be flattering,” he muttered, ears pink. “And the framing — people like authenticity but not ugly authenticity.” You wore a thin tank top and panties. He stayed in his black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. The second you stepped into frame, his hands trembled on the remote.

“Kurt,” you said softly, stepping close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “We can stop anytime. This is just us.”

He looked at you like you’d hung the moon. “I’ve wanted this for months. Since you moved in. Every time you laughed at my dumb videos or made coffee for both of us… I felt pathetic for how much I liked it. And now we’re here because we’re broke and I still can’t believe you chose me for this.”

The camera started rolling. Red light blinking.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his burning cheeks. “Hey… kiss me, Kurt. Like you mean it this time.”

He leaned in, lips trembling against yours at first, soft, tentative, almost too gentle. His breath hitched when you parted your lips and invited his tongue. The kiss deepened slowly. Kurt’s hands slid up your sides, shaky but gaining confidence as you moaned into his mouth. He tasted like the mint gum he’d nervously chewed earlier.

“God… you feel so good,” he whispered against your lips, voice cracking. “So warm. I— I’ve dreamed about this.”

You straddled his lap on the couch, grinding down against the obvious bulge in his sweatpants. Kurt gasped sharply, hips bucking up involuntarily. “Fuck— sorry, I didn’t mean to— you’re just… really turning me on right now.”

You tugged his shirt off, revealing his lean, pale chest. Kurt’s hands finally grew bolder, sliding under your tank top to cup your bare breasts. His thumbs circled your hardening nipples, pinching lightly when you arched into him.

“Is this okay?” he asked breathlessly, eyes wide. “They’re so soft… perfect. Can I taste them?”

You nodded, pulling your top off. Kurt latched onto one nipple immediately, sucking greedily while his other hand kneaded the other breast. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his tongue flicked rapidly. You moaned loudly for the camera, threading fingers through his greasy hair.

“Yes, Kurt— just like that. You’re so good with your mouth already.”

He whimpered at the praise, switching sides, sucking harder. His free hand slipped down, rubbing you through your soaked panties. “You’re wet,” he murmured in disbelief, voice muffled against your skin. “For me. Holy shit.”

You slid off his lap and knelt between his spread thighs. Kurt’s eyes were huge as you pulled his sweatpants and boxers down, freeing his throbbing cock, thick, veined, already leaking precum at the flushed tip.

“Fuck, look at you,” you purred, stroking him slowly from base to head. “So hard for your roommate.”

Kurt’s head fell back, a broken moan escaping. “Please— I don’t know how long I’ll last. You’re too hot on your knees like that.”

You took him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the head before sinking deeper, relaxing your throat. Kurt’s hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just gripping desperately.

“Oh my god— your mouth is so warm and wet— fuck— I can feel your tongue…” He panted heavily, hips twitching. “Slower, baby, please— I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that thing with your throat.”

You didn’t slow down. You bobbed faster, hollowing your cheeks, one hand cupping his balls while the other pumped what you couldn’t fit. Kurt’s thighs shook.

“I’m close— I’m so close— can I cum in your mouth? Please let me cum in your mouth—”

You hummed approval around him. Kurt came with a loud, pathetic cry, hips jerking as thick ropes of cum flooded your throat. You swallowed every drop, pulling off with a wet pop and licking your lips for the camera.

He stared down at you, dazed and flushed. “That was… incredible. You’re incredible.”

-

The video titled “Shy Roommate Finally Snaps. First Time Crossing the Line” exploded. $1,400 in 48 hours. Enough to pay the electric bill and buy real groceries.

-

The videos kept coming, each one peeling back another layer of tension. Kurt and you explored all kinds of content: teasing “accidental” walk-in showers where Kurt would get flustered and hard on camera; long, intimate nights of him eating you out on the kitchen counter while wearing his old streaming headset; risky quickies in the car after his rideshare shifts; even soft dom/sub dynamics where you praised him as a “good shy boy” while riding him slow and deep. You guys even tried light bondage with his hoodie sleeves tied around your wrists, sensory play with ice cubes from the freezer, and plenty of creampie-focused videos that fans begged for.

Six months later the channel KurtsWorldWithHer had nearly 200k subscribers. Kurt still got anxious in public when fans recognized you two. Like the time a barista whispered “I love your videos” while handing over coffee, making his face burn crimson as he mumbled a shy “thank you” and hid behind his hoodie. Or when a group of fans at the grocery store asked for a selfie, and Kurt’s hand trembled holding the phone while you laughed and played it cool. He’d get quiet and clingy afterward, needing reassurance that you were still his safe space, but it also turned him on in private, the thrill of being seen with you.

At home he was addicted to you, to the work, to finally being seen. After one particularly intense shoot, he curled into your chest, soft and clingy again. “I love you,” he whispered. “Not just for the channel. For everything.”

You kissed his head. “Love you too, Kurt. My favorite cam boy.”

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

You sat at the dining room table, sealing the very last envelope to a delicate green wedding invitation. In your freshman year of high school you had taking the calligraphy section if your art class very seriously and now, nearly nine years after and graduated from college, you still did wedding invitations on the side. 

"Good morning," your boyfriends deep, rough sleepy voice startled you from your bubble you had been lost in. "Easy princess, didn't mean to scare you." He smiled, bending down to kiss the top of your head. He smelled like the mint toothpaste you two kept in your bathroom mixed with the aftershave he used every morning. 

Once upon a time you had hated the smell of both of those things but after five years of it mingling together on him, it was now a comfort. "Morning," you smiled, placing the last invited in a cardboard box full of the same green paper. "I just finished up. I'll need to take these to the post." 

"I'm off today. I'll take you. We can drop those off then we can stop at that coffee shop you like," Billy propped against the sink, tipping a cup of orange juice up. 

You watched as his throat worked, the vein in his neck bulging as he chugged the drink. You felt your cheeks turning pink. He was so kind but god fuck that coffee shop. All you could think about now was getting him upstairs and, "Hello? You okay?" He interrupted your thoughts, making your skin redden further. 

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Coffee sounds good. You're sooo thoughtful. And so in love with me, huh?"

Billy flashed a smile. Even though you were sure it was the morning sun pouring through the window it felt like his smile warmed the very room. "That I am, princess." 

He sat the glass in the sink, walking over to grab the box. "I'll go put these in the car. How about you get changed and meet me out there?" 

You glanced down at your extremely low cut tank top and pajama shorts that were so short they could probably qualify as underwear. "What? You don't think I should wear this?" You teased. 

A possessive look overtook him, one that still made your stomach do somersault. "No, kitten. You are not going to wear that out. I don't go around picking fights anymore but if someone was to look at you in any kind of way… Well, you remember that party our senior of high school, right?" 

You gulped, standing from the table. You did in fact remember that night. Billy had broken Jason Carver's nose so badly it wasn't the same even after surgery. That had been a terrible weekend. One in which you were sure Neil was going to kill Billy. But, he hadn't. He had come close to it but none of that mattered. 

It had taken Billy years to change, to break that horrible cycle Neil had taught him. But you, ever the patient girl who was in love with him and refused to give up on him like everyone else did waited through it. It was tough. There were fights, tears, breakups, makeup sex… So much whiplash you felt like physical pain wouldn't have hurt as bad but no matter what you had never thrown in the towel. You knew from the moment you met Billy he was yours, he just needed time. 

You hurried upstairs after kissing his cheek, opting for your favorite shirt of Billy's, his Metallica shirt that had been washed and bleach to a thin slip of thing. It was so thin and soft now, you loved to wear it. You pulled on a pair of jeans over your pajama shorts, throwing your hair up quickly. 

Glancing out your bedroom window you could see Billy, standing by his car with the passenger door open. He always opened the door for you, that much had never changed. Not even in the times you had argued. He was leaned against the blue frame, taking a long inhale from a cigarette. You reached for your Polaroid camera, pulling it from your night stand and using two steady hands to capture the photo of him. Just you pulled the camera away from your face Billy looked up, giving you a knowing wink. You sat the camera back down, photo still slowly printing. It would be there when you got home. 

Billy shut the door after you got in but not before making sure your purse was in your lap and not on your side where it would get smashed by the car door. He really was a gentleman. Those years of fighting and begging seemed so far away. He had never been cruel, not really. Just hard to get through. Walls of fucking steel. 

His hand curled around your thigh then the two of you were off. You had always enjoyed doing such mundane things like this with him. Dropping off mail, picking up groceries, anything that seemed like a boring task was made better if the two of you were doing it together.

"I'm thinking of inviting Max, Lucas and Susan over for my birthday this month. I thought maybe we could cook some steaks on the grill and catch up," Billy voice was soft like this admission was hard for him and you knew it was. Growing up with his father Billy had been mean, just like his dad. It took him awhile to unlearn that and apologize to his step-sister, her now husband and his step-mom. It had been a tedious and awkward road but at least he was trying. It had taken Susan two years after Billy moved out to leave his dad. Neil stayed in Hawkins but Susan had moved back to California since Max had been accepted to UC Berkeley. The two of you had moved to San Diego at the behest of Billy. You parents didn't like it at first since the three of you along with your younger brother was close but they knew they couldn't stop you. Besides, you always went back for Christmas. 

You nodded slowly, worried any sudden excitement would scare away the idea like a timid animal. "I think that's a great idea. I can make the potato salad that Susan liked and we can just… Hang out."

"Yeah, that sounds good. And you'll make me a cake too?"

You looked over, giving him a smile, "But of course. Don't I always?" 

Billy pulled the car into the post office, "I'll take these in." Before you could protest he was out of the car, going o the trunk for the box. You watched him go inside, looking at his ass the whole time he walked away. 

When he got back into the car you leaned over the middle, "I love to watch you walk away." 

Billy flashed a smile, "S'that right?" You pushed further up, catching his lips in a kiss. 

He cupped your neck with a free hand, his thumb brushing over your pulse which was quickening. "Not in a post office parking lot in the middle of daylight, you pervert," he warned. 

You groaned sitting back into your seat, "Ever since you got old you're no fun anymore."

Billy snorted, backing the car out of the parking lot. "Since I got old? Yeah right, you're the one in bed by eight every night."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "I'm not old."

"Okay, grandma," he laughed, his hand resting on your thigh again. 

You stared out the window, the view of the water still being one of your most favorite things. "Okay, so. Coffee, then what? What's the plan for the day?"

"Well, we already did the groceries this week. Nothing needs done around the house yet… So, I guess we have a free day. Is there anything you have in mind?"

You bit your lip, squeezing yours legs together tightly. "I can think of a few things I'd like to do."

"Hm, that so? Like what?" His voice was more gravely now, he knew exactly what you wanted. 

You turned, letting your hand rest on his jeans. "Can I just show you?"

Billy glanced at you, his eyes seeming to darken. "Show me, princess."

He was turning down a street with less traffic. You unbuckled your own seatbelt, leaning over to kiss his neck before unbuttoning his jeans and sliding down his zipper slowly. He was already getting hard which made you grin. 

You slid your hand the slit in his underwear, pulling him out. Even not fully erect Billy was huge. Your mouth was watering as you pumped him a few times. It was like you feel him growing inside your grasp. He looked down at you and you tutted, "Eyes on the road. You wouldn't want to crash this pretty car, would you?"

You knew that if you gave him time to respond it would have been a smart ass comment so you didn't. Instead you took him into your mouth, hand stroking the length of him as your mouth followed suit. Instead of whatever witty reply you were sure he was whipping up he groaned, letting a soft, "Fuck."

You hummed around him, taking him all the way to the back of your throat. Billy let out the closest noise to a whimper he would ever make because that wasn't something he done. He moved his hand so he could fist your hair, grabbing a tight hold of it. He pushed you down onto him so you were unable to move. You gagged on him, saliva coating your mouth and soaking him. "Good girl," he soothed using his hold on your curls to move your head up then back down.

"Just like that, baby," he voice was low and raspy but he was goddamn controlled, never once swerving on the road. 

You let one of your hands slip between your legs but Billy was quick to grab that hand, letting go of your hair. You continued to move your mouth, speeding up. "Don't even think about it. I'm going to be the one to take care of you. You aren't going to cum without my head between those pretty legs of yours. 

Billy's comment made you moan just as you were pushing his dick back into your throat. You could feel him tightening in your mouth, you knew he was close and you wanted more than anything for him follow through on his words right now. Just the thought of him licking you clean with his fingers inside you made you moan again. 

"Christ," Billy bit out, jerking inside your throat. You grinned around him, waiting for him to finish before sitting up. He looked at you and you winked at him, using your thumb to wipe off your lip. 

"I fucking love you," he said, pulling you over the center of the car to kiss you.

You giggled, pushing his shoulder playfully. "Watch the road you idiot." 

He grabbed your thigh possessively, his other hand tightening on the steering wheel. "You're so sweet," his tone was sarcastic.

You groaned as he pulled the car into the coffee shop. "I thought you said you were going to punish me with that wicked tongue of yours."

"I intend too. But, I told you'd we'd get your coffee." He worked on fastening his jeans before he got out of the car to open your door. He handed you a wad of cash which you took with a smile. "Get me a black coffee, I'm going to smoke."

You nodded, saluting him before turning on your heel. "Yes sir."

The phone rang many times before you picked up, whoever it was, they were insistent.

“Hello,” you said in the voice you normally use for ‘fuck’.

“Sorry to bother you so early darling…”

Not him again. Your boss. The clock was showing 11:15, the button broke in winter, so after daylight savings it was really 10:15.

“I’m fine.” You looked at the bucket by the bed, empty.

“So there’s a basketball game at Hawkins High tonight, a short drive from me, everyone hungry for hotdogs, good cash…”

The voice on the other side was almost apologetic. 

“Why are you calling me now for the 6pm event?” The blood was pounding in your temples, you carefully sat up in the bed, and looked around — at least this is my house. Good.

“I might have eaten most of the stuff from the truck. You will need to restock. Get breakfast on me. Or lunch. Or a hotdog.” He laughed at his own joke. Son of a bitch.

“I’ll get ready and come by. As quick as I can.” That probably meant a few hours, taking last night’s second year high school reunion into account.

You peeked through the blinds at the sunny day outside, squinted, swallowed a pill and went to shower.

6pm In the neighboring town of Hawkins:

Eddie bent over the campaign notes — the map of the dungeon, the encounter tables, dialogue notes. The Hellfire Club was going to walk into the Lair of the Crimson Lich and they were going to suffer, cry and beg and Eddie was going to enjoy every second of it.

He was waiting for the party, reading through the notes again, chewing on the rubber of the pencil, when the door of the drama room slammed open so hard that the window rattled.

Erica Sinclair stood in the doorway, chest heaving, looking like she’d run the entire length of Hawkins without stopping.

Eddie lowered his notes slowly.

“I saw a boy,” she gasped, “eating a girl.”

Eddie stared at her.

She stared back.

He sat up, set his notes aside, and folded his hands on the table preparing to give a sex ed lecture.

“Erica,” he said, in his most patient voice. “What you witnessed is actually a completely natural, if deeply personal—”

“Shut the dumpster.” She looked like she wanted to throw up. “Not like that, you absolute creep, he was eating her brain—”

“Wha—”

“Her actual brain, Eddie—”

“Okay, I hear you—”

“There was so much blood—”

“ERICA.” He was on his feet now. “I hear you. Okay? I hear you.” He crossed to the window and looked out, half expecting to see nothing, half expecting her to be pranking him, because she was absolutely capable of it and he wouldn’t put it past her.

Eddie saw Jason Carver on the sidewalk across the street.

He saw Jason sucking the brain out of some cheerleader’s skull with enthusiasm. Her body flat on the sidewalk, his face covered in fresh blood and brain mass.

He dropped the curtain. Contents of his stomach tried to come up, then again. Eddie put his hand on the windowsill to steady himself.

“Okay,” he said, very quietly, to the wall. “Okay. That’s. Yeah.” He turned around.

Erica was watching him with wide eyes. She was twelve years old and he had no answers for her.

“Lock the door,” he said.

She already had.

They waited for the others.

Mike and Dustin didn’t show. Gareth didn’t show. Jeff didn’t show.

Eddie sat at the head of the table, looking at his campaign notes and listening to the sounds outside getting worse and trying to think. Erica sat across from him eating the last of his chips.

“We have to go,” she said, around a mouthful of Doritos.

“I know.”

“My parents don’t know where I am.”

“I know.”

“Eddie.”

“I know, Erica, I’m thinking—”

“Think faster.”

He looked at her. She looked at him. Outside, something fell over with a wet crash and neither of them looked toward the window.

“Okay,” he said. “There’s an emergency stand at the end of the corridor. We need to make it there, grab the fire extinguisher and run downstairs to the parking lot. Stay next to me.”

Erica sipped her soda and nodded.

Eddie peeked outside the door. The corridor was empty, freshly washed and quiet like always when everyone except the outcasts were at the basketball game.

Halfway through the hall they saw Mrs. Braun, the history teacher Eddie frequently clashed with. Her eyes were whitish, face pale grey and she moved slowly but with the determination of a tank. The sleeve of her pink blouse was ripped off, exposing a deep bite on her arm.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” Eddie froze mid-step, considering running or redirecting.

“Munson.” Erica pulled on his hand.

“Yes, that’s me. Why the fuck is it always me in the middle of the shitstorm?”

“Analyze this later.”

“Okay, I’ll run to grab the fire extinguisher while you go back to the room—”

“Absolutely not. I will distract her while you run. She seems slow and wears those stupid shoes.” Erica didn’t lose her cool, or at least pretended better than Eddie, whose brain was short-circuiting.

“Fine, just don’t get caught, okay, kid?”

Eddie sprinted toward the fire stand while Erica started making noise and moving frantically, trying to distract Mrs. Braun without attracting more zombies. Eddie was almost at the stand when Mrs. Braun lurched toward him clumsily — and he made a sound he will never tell anyone about.

Thankfully, whether it was a zombie characteristic or just a history teacher attribute, she was slow enough for him to pass her and reach the fire stand, where Eddie desperately jerked on the handle before reading — pull the ring. He got to the fire extinguisher just in time to blow a spray of foam in her eyes, then hit her head with the bottom of the container. She fell down hard and splayed on the linoleum either dead or knocked out.

Just as he breathed out and felt the droplets of sweat run down his back, at the other end of the corridor a zombie basketball player emerged.

“Run, Erica!”

She did, but jocks even in zombie form were quick and better oriented. Erica barely made it to Eddie as he was spraying the zombie. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud. Eddie had to sacrifice his belt to tie the handles. The way to the van was clear.

Eddie drove with both hands on the wheel. His jaw set, taking turns he didn’t need to take, avoiding a few scenes of former citizens feasting on brains. I will take her home, then sit in the van and panic. Erica froze in the passenger seat with her arms crossed and her eyes tracking everything with pure horror.

The Sinclair house looked untouched from the outside, which was either a good sign or the cruelest possible joke. The porch light was on. The door opened before they made it up the front path — Mrs. Sinclair saw them through the window and pulled Erica immediately.

“She’s okay,” Eddie said from the porch. “She came to D&D, she was safe the whole time, I brought her straight here—”

“Lucas.” Mrs. Sinclair looked at him clutching Erica. “Lucas went to the basketball game. He hasn’t come home.”

Eddie’s stomach dropped. Lucas was there with Mrs. Braun roaming around, with Jason and whoever else is infected with he has no idea what. His brain was zoning out of the scale of the disaster, just focusing on the next step — getting Lucas out of danger.

Mr. Sinclair appeared in the hallway with a shotgun. Eddie had no idea the Sinclairs even had a gun. Everything shifted into a horror movie mode — elongated shadows, disturbing sounds from the street, and eerie TV static.

“I’ll find him, I have a machete,” Eddie heard himself say.

Everyone looked at him. Eddie wasn’t famous for being a hero.

“I’ll find him,” he said again, trying not to look terrified. “And I’ll bring him back.”

Mr. Sinclair looked Eddie over.

“I knew you were a satanist,” he said.

Eddie opened his mouth.

“But,” Mr. Sinclair added, with the gravity of a man rapidly reassessing his priorities, “given the circumstances, that’s an advantage.”

“Bring my son home.”

Eddie closed his mouth.

“Yes, sir,” he had no time and no desire to argue…

Erica finally cracked and cried in her mom’s arms, looking like a child she was and not a little smart brat she played usually.

“Stay inside, they are slow and dumb.” Eddie instructed no one specifically.

“I’ll watch them,” Mr. Sinclair promised, grasping the gun with an unsteady hand.

Eddie turned back to the van, thinking how the hell he was going to get Lucas out of a gym full of zombies, and lit a cigarette.

You should have gone home.

That was the thought blinking in his head as the van rattled down the empty Hawkins streets. Most cars were trying to get out of the town. Smart. Lucky.

Eddie had nowhere to go except his trailer. The trailer had walls. The trailer had a lock. It theoretically had safety. Wayne should come back in the morning, like he could sort out any of this mess.

Instead he was driving toward Hawkins High with a machete on the passenger seat and exactly one plan, which was:

1. Find Lucas.

2. Don’t die.

3. Bring him back home.

The school came into view. The parking lot looked very dead. The asphalt was streaked dark here and there. Eddie could hear distant screaming echoing somewhere inside the school.

And right in the middle of the parking lot—

Are you kidding me?

You were sprinting between cars while three zombies stumbled after you.

Not screaming. Not crying. Just running with exhausted determination. You vaulted over the hood of a Honda.

One of the zombies grabbed at your jacket and missed by inches. His jaws clicked with an unnatural sound. Your blood ran cold.

Eddie slammed his foot on the gas.

The van roared forward.

“OH SHIT—”

THUMP.

The first zombie disappeared under the tires.

THUMP.

The second spun sideways hard enough to bounce off a parked car. You screamed and covered your face with your hands as the blood splashed on you.

The third turned just in time to get obliterated by the front bumper with a crunch Eddie would absolutely never get over.

You stopped, breathing hard, eyes wide.

Eddie leaned across the passenger seat and shoved the door open.

“GET IN!”

You did instantly, slamming the door behind you.

Eddie peeled away across the parking lot while more figures began emerging near the school entrance.

For about five seconds neither of you spoke.

Then:

“See the hot dog truck there?”

Eddie glanced at you.

“What?”

“It’s mine.” You wiped bloody hands on your apron. “High school basketball game, my boss told me. Great cash. For fuck’s sake.”

Eddie stared.

“You’re taking this weirdly well. We are basically in the Night of the Creeps zombie slasher.”

You shrugged. “I work in food service.”

“— never thought making hotdogs was dangerous.”

“In the end of the shift when crackheads try to steal the cash.”

Eddie opened his mouth and shut it back. He pulled up next to the truck. The side read: DOG DAYS with a smiling cartoon dachshund wearing sunglasses.

“I’m Eddie, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know. Heard your band.” You gave him your name casually, as if it was not on your badge.

“Wait — you went to see Corroded Coffin?” The boy lit up like he didn’t kill four zombies today.

“I went to get a drink. But you were fast. I mean good.”

“Basically the same. Thank you, for real. If the world collapses at least I will be remembered.” Eddie chuckled grasping at the straw of normalcy.

You smiled and disappeared into the truck. A minute later your head reappeared at the service window.

“How do you like it?”

“What?”

“Your hot dog.”

Eddie considered whether he even wanted to eat right now, but then — it might be the last hot dog in his life.

“Everything on it.”

“I’ll even make it double sausage.”

He had no plan and no strategy. Going through the main entrance was suicide. The fire ladder was next to the gym window — a good chance to assess what was going on inside, and possibly a way in through the roof or the window.

“Enjoy.” You interrupted his thoughts. He pulled closer to the window and grabbed a jumbo hot dog dripping with sauce, chips on the side and a can of Cherry Coke.

“Thanks. If this is my last meal, let it be.” Eddie chewed off a quarter of it in one bite.

“What do you mean last meal? Aren’t you driving the hell out of here?”

“I need to rescue a kid from the basketball game.”

You looked at him, questioning his sanity. You were in the high school parking lot, right next to the gym, potentially full of zombies. It was dark already and you swore you could smell the blood in the air.

“How do you know he’s even alive? It’s full of zombies.”

A flock of birds took off the wires making you both flinch. They cautiously approached the zombie bodies Eddie squashed. One of them was still moving.

“I don’t. I accidentally promised his mom and sister. There’s a ladder, I’ll take a peek.” Eddie didn’t sound sure. In fact, he looked lost and terrified.

“I’ll go with you.” You grabbed a crowbar from under the counter and climbed out of your truck without waiting for his response.

“You can’t risk it like that.” He let you in still. “You even know how to use it?”

“Want a demo?”

Eddie read your deadpan and didn’t press.

“Seriously, you barely know me, and you don’t know Lucas, and this is dangerous…”

“You just saved my life. I owe you one. Anyways I was just going to cover your back while you figure it out.”

“You made me a hotdog, we’re even.”

“If we survive, you follow me home and check if there are no zombies around, deal?”

You didn’t buckle up.

“Deal.”

“Drive to the ladder.”

“Bossy, I like that.” He smirked at you, but internally Eddie was grateful not to be alone on this mission.

A shape near the front entrance caught your eye.

“Wait.”

Eddie followed your stare.

A police cruiser sat crooked near the school steps. One of the doors hung open. A body lay beside it in a very unnatural pose. Police uniform. Not moving.

“He might have ammo,” you said quietly.

Eddie swallowed.

“Right. Cool. Awesome. We’re robbing a corpse now. A policeman’s corpse.”

“Welcome to survival.”

You crossed the parking lot carefully, scanning the exits of the building.

The policeman was definitely dead. Not turned, just dead. Eddie tried to look away from the bite marks and broken skull, but the metallic smell crept into his nose and mouth.

You crouched first, checking the holster.

“Got it.”

You pulled the handgun free with surprising confidence and started fiddling with it.

Eddie blinked.

“Have you done this before?”

“I watch a lot of action movies.” You checked the chamber. “Loaded.”

“Great. Fucking amazing…” Eddie groaned and reached for a cigarette.

A distant shriek echoed from somewhere inside the school. Both of you looked up.

The gym doors trembled.

Something slammed against them from the inside.

Eddie gripped the machete tighter. The fire ladder hung off the side just a few steps away.

Eddie took a breath.

“Okay,” he said. “Up we go.”

You cocked the handgun.

Eddie gave you an alarmed glance. “Please tell me you actually know how to use that.”

“Nope.”

“If I get out of this alive I swear I’ll stop dealing.”

You gave Eddie a side eye.

“Normally I would let the lady go first…”

He went up the ladder first as something inside the school began screaming.

To be continued…

@crybabyddl

@jessicafangirl

@alicemarie730

@linllewellyn

So he catches her and sinks his teeth into her neck, drinking her blood, and he's getting harder and harder because all this euphoric energy is filling him like the blood. And he just can't help himself.

So he starts grinding on the reader, trying to satisfy this primal urge, and the reader (who's been desperately in love with him for years, not that he remembers, he also rejected her, he also doesn't remember that) just.. gives in and helps him.

Reader knows they shouldn't... this is wrong, he isn't himself right now, but he's the one who started this! They have hot, steamy, heavenly sex in the woods - specifically that position where only reader's head, neck and shoulders are on the floor and Eddie's holding the under sides of their thighs, fucking railing into reader.

“Uhm, this is Eddie, my boyfriend,” you continue, gesturing to Eddie, who waves a couple fingers that he doesn’t need to support the big box of books, boards, and trinkets in his hands.

“Hey, little dude,” he greets.

“Eddie runs a D&D club at the high school. We were wondering if you’d maybe want to join us for a campaign?”

Your brother stares at you, brow raised and lips tucked back in a sneer that’s between confusion and disgust. He shakes his head, eyes tilting closed.

“Whatever,” he says.

It’s not necessarily the golden ticket you wished for, but you couldn’t really expect much more. What it is, though, is better than you can ask for.

It’s hope.

Surrender to Dreams Taglist: @vampire-kissi3s Stranger Things Taglist: @ggdawgg Eddie Munson Taglist: @itzpixiebabe, @loonylups, @sisteramycatherine, @clairecrive Fic Taglist: @brrrainst3w, @bonnieprincess