Summary: The phone isn't enough to interrupt you and Steve in the middle of sex. Little does Eddie know what both of you keep doing on the other line.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!reader
Warnings: SMUT (+18 DNI), p in v (unprotected), slight fingering
❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
The rhythm of your hips doesn't falter as you bounce on Steve's thick cock, your pussy grips his shaft with every slam as you lift and lower your hips. His length buries deep into your cunt, stretching your slick walls, the wet sounds of your bodies fills the room.
Steve's hands press into your ass cheeks, spreading them as you grind down, his balls pressed tight against your perineum. Both your juices of arousal coat his length, making each thrust feel smoother and faster.
Suddenly, the nightstand phone rings with a shrill that breaks the atmosphere. Steve's eyes jolt wide open and he glances at it, but you don't slow, rolling your hips to swirl the head of his cock against your cervix. The sound cuts off, then starts again immediately – insistent, relentless. It rings a third time before silencing, only to ring again once more.
Steve groans with frustration, still high in his pleasure.
"Ignore it," you murmur, lowering your hips hard enough to make him hiss.
But it keeps going, the fourth ring pierces through the air and Steve's eyes meet yours, pleading.
"It's Eddie," he pants, thrusting into you and grunting. "He won't stop until I answer."
He knows it's Eddie because the metalhead is the only living person who won't take hanging up to his face as an answer.
You smirk, lifting high so just his tip ghosts into your entrance, and then dropping fully, forcing a choked moan from him.
The phone rings a fifth time, and your eyes roll with the disturbance.
"Fuck, baby. Slow down," he whines.
You pant, digging your nails into the skin of his chest. "Just answer the fucking thing."
He stretches his arm for it with a curse, snatching it up as you resume your punishing pace. It's deliberate strokes that make his thighs tremble. He brings the phone to his ear.
"Hey, man," he manages with a strained voice like he'd ran a marathon.
You lean forward, bracing on his chest, and pick up speed, your breasts swaying as you fuck yourself on his dick. The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. Steve clears his throat, disguising a whimper as a cough.
"What's... uh, up?"
Eddie's voice anxiously crackles through, sounding a little rushed. "Steve, dude, I need advice. This date tomorrow... Chrissy's friend, you know? The one with the killer legs. What if I fuck it up? She's way out of my league, man. Rehearsal's got me wiped, and now I'm overthinking every riff I play."
Steve's free hand clamps your hip, trying to still you, but you swat it away and clench your pussy around his hard length, milking him deliberately.
"You'll be fine," Steve says, his abs contract as you slam down extra hard, grinding your clit against his pubic bone.
A soft whine escapes from him, and he turns it into a high, brittle laugh.
Well, he tries. But to no avail.
"Just... play it cool. Chicks dig confidence." His cock throbs inside you.
His thick veins pulse against your fluttering walls. Sweat beads on his forehead, dribbling down his temple.
Eddie continues, oblivious to the situation on Steve's end.
"But what if she hates metal? Or thinks I'm a freak for the whole Hellfire thing? I mean, last date ghosted me after I mentioned demodogs. Should I tone it down? Wear something less... me?"
The phone nearly slips from Steve's grip as his sweaty, shaking hand tries to hold it.
You hold his knees and bend them, changing the position, now his cock drags directly over your g-spot with every plunge. Your arousal soaks the sheets. Steve bites his lip so hard enough to draw blood, his hips bucking up involuntarily to meet your pussy.
"N-no, own it," he forces through clenched teeth, the words hitching on a gasp.
You cover his mouth with your hand, muffling the noise that follows as you ride him viciously, your ass cheeks rippling from the impacts. His eyes roll back, muffled moans come out against your palm. He removes your hand off gently, panting.
"Eddie, she's into you. Trust me. Just... don't overthink the kiss or whatever."
"Kiss? Shit, what if I go for it too soon? Or my breath is bad after practicing? I got mints, but..." Eddie's rambling intensifies, words tumbling fast and you roll your eyes again, in annoyance.
But you don't stop riding him.
Steve's replies start to break.
"Hmm, yeah, timing is key."
You twist your hips as you bounce, stirring his cock deep inside, and he coughs violently to cover the sudden groan, pounding his chest with his fist. His balls draw up tight, slapping wetly against you. Pre-cum floods your cunt, mixing with your slick walls.
You rake your nails down his hair, your nipples nearly brushing his mouth. Steve's back arches, driving his dick even deeper.
"Dude, you're golden," he rasps with a shredded voice. A whimper escapes between his ragged breath. "Gonna... crush it."
Eddie pauses. "You sure you're okay? Sounds like you're dying, man. Working out or something?"
'Yeah– dumbbells. Brutal set." Steve is lying through his teeth.
His face contorts in ecstasy as you speed your pace, your pussy spasming erratically around his throbbing shaft. His free hand sneaks between you, bringing his thumb to find your clit and rubbing furious circles.
A retaliation that sends sparks up your spine. You retaliate back by squeezing your inner walls in circles, from base to tip.
Eddie sighs. "Alright, thanks man. Owe you one. Talk tomorrow?"
Steve nods frantically, though Eddie can see it. It's desperate. "Y-yep. Later."
He shoves the phone into the cradle aggressively, both hands squeezing your waist. "Fuuuuck, baby"
Then, it bursts. You slam down relentlessly, chasing your peak. Steve thrusts up savagely, his cock battering you deeply. Your orgasm hits like lightning. Pussy convulsing, walls clamping his length in pulses, gushing hot fluid down his balls.
He roars, hips snapping as ropes of thick cum blast into you, filling your pussy with creamy rivulets leaking out with each aftershock.
You collapse onto him, chests heaving in sync, his softening cock still twitching inside your cunt. Steve's arms wrap around you, and he brushes his lips against your ear.
"That was torture... best fucking torture. Eddie's clueless ass almost ruined it." He nips your shoulder.
He manages to push off of him, only to throw you against the mattress, turning you over. "Your turn to beg next?"
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: The phone isn't enough to interrupt you and Steve in the middle of sex. Little does Eddie know what both of you keep doing on the other line.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!reader
Warnings: SMUT (+18 DNI), p in v (unprotected), slight fingering
❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
The rhythm of your hips doesn't falter as you bounce on Steve's thick cock, your pussy grips his shaft with every slam as you lift and lower your hips. His length buries deep into your cunt, stretching your slick walls, the wet sounds of your bodies fills the room.
Steve's hands press into your ass cheeks, spreading them as you grind down, his balls pressed tight against your perineum. Both your juices of arousal coat his length, making each thrust feel smoother and faster.
Suddenly, the nightstand phone rings with a shrill that breaks the atmosphere. Steve's eyes jolt wide open and he glances at it, but you don't slow, rolling your hips to swirl the head of his cock against your cervix. The sound cuts off, then starts again immediately – insistent, relentless. It rings a third time before silencing, only to ring again once more.
Steve groans with frustration, still high in his pleasure.
"Ignore it," you murmur, lowering your hips hard enough to make him hiss.
But it keeps going, the fourth ring pierces through the air and Steve's eyes meet yours, pleading.
"It's Eddie," he pants, thrusting into you and grunting. "He won't stop until I answer."
He knows it's Eddie because the metalhead is the only living person who won't take hanging up to his face as an answer.
You smirk, lifting high so just his tip ghosts into your entrance, and then dropping fully, forcing a choked moan from him.
The phone rings a fifth time, and your eyes roll with the disturbance.
"Fuck, baby. Slow down," he whines.
You pant, digging your nails into the skin of his chest. "Just answer the fucking thing."
He stretches his arm for it with a curse, snatching it up as you resume your punishing pace. It's deliberate strokes that make his thighs tremble. He brings the phone to his ear.
"Hey, man," he manages with a strained voice like he'd ran a marathon.
You lean forward, bracing on his chest, and pick up speed, your breasts swaying as you fuck yourself on his dick. The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. Steve clears his throat, disguising a whimper as a cough.
"What's... uh, up?"
Eddie's voice anxiously crackles through, sounding a little rushed. "Steve, dude, I need advice. This date tomorrow... Chrissy's friend, you know? The one with the killer legs. What if I fuck it up? She's way out of my league, man. Rehearsal's got me wiped, and now I'm overthinking every riff I play."
Steve's free hand clamps your hip, trying to still you, but you swat it away and clench your pussy around his hard length, milking him deliberately.
"You'll be fine," Steve says, his abs contract as you slam down extra hard, grinding your clit against his pubic bone.
A soft whine escapes from him, and he turns it into a high, brittle laugh.
Well, he tries. But to no avail.
"Just... play it cool. Chicks dig confidence." His cock throbs inside you.
His thick veins pulse against your fluttering walls. Sweat beads on his forehead, dribbling down his temple.
Eddie continues, oblivious to the situation on Steve's end.
"But what if she hates metal? Or thinks I'm a freak for the whole Hellfire thing? I mean, last date ghosted me after I mentioned demodogs. Should I tone it down? Wear something less... me?"
The phone nearly slips from Steve's grip as his sweaty, shaking hand tries to hold it.
You hold his knees and bend them, changing the position, now his cock drags directly over your g-spot with every plunge. Your arousal soaks the sheets. Steve bites his lip so hard enough to draw blood, his hips bucking up involuntarily to meet your pussy.
"N-no, own it," he forces through clenched teeth, the words hitching on a gasp.
You cover his mouth with your hand, muffling the noise that follows as you ride him viciously, your ass cheeks rippling from the impacts. His eyes roll back, muffled moans come out against your palm. He removes your hand off gently, panting.
"Eddie, she's into you. Trust me. Just... don't overthink the kiss or whatever."
"Kiss? Shit, what if I go for it too soon? Or my breath is bad after practicing? I got mints, but..." Eddie's rambling intensifies, words tumbling fast and you roll your eyes again, in annoyance.
But you don't stop riding him.
Steve's replies start to break.
"Hmm, yeah, timing is key."
You twist your hips as you bounce, stirring his cock deep inside, and he coughs violently to cover the sudden groan, pounding his chest with his fist. His balls draw up tight, slapping wetly against you. Pre-cum floods your cunt, mixing with your slick walls.
You rake your nails down his hair, your nipples nearly brushing his mouth. Steve's back arches, driving his dick even deeper.
"Dude, you're golden," he rasps with a shredded voice. A whimper escapes between his ragged breath. "Gonna... crush it."
Eddie pauses. "You sure you're okay? Sounds like you're dying, man. Working out or something?"
'Yeah– dumbbells. Brutal set." Steve is lying through his teeth.
His face contorts in ecstasy as you speed your pace, your pussy spasming erratically around his throbbing shaft. His free hand sneaks between you, bringing his thumb to find your clit and rubbing furious circles.
A retaliation that sends sparks up your spine. You retaliate back by squeezing your inner walls in circles, from base to tip.
Eddie sighs. "Alright, thanks man. Owe you one. Talk tomorrow?"
Steve nods frantically, though Eddie can see it. It's desperate. "Y-yep. Later."
He shoves the phone into the cradle aggressively, both hands squeezing your waist. "Fuuuuck, baby"
Then, it bursts. You slam down relentlessly, chasing your peak. Steve thrusts up savagely, his cock battering you deeply. Your orgasm hits like lightning. Pussy convulsing, walls clamping his length in pulses, gushing hot fluid down his balls.
He roars, hips snapping as ropes of thick cum blast into you, filling your pussy with creamy rivulets leaking out with each aftershock.
You collapse onto him, chests heaving in sync, his softening cock still twitching inside your cunt. Steve's arms wrap around you, and he brushes his lips against your ear.
"That was torture... best fucking torture. Eddie's clueless ass almost ruined it." He nips your shoulder.
He manages to push off of him, only to throw you against the mattress, turning you over. "Your turn to beg next?"
Summary: The phone isn't enough to interrupt you and Steve in the middle of sex. Little does Eddie know what both of you keep doing on the other line.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!reader
Warnings: SMUT (+18 DNI), p in v (unprotected), slight fingering
❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
The rhythm of your hips doesn't falter as you bounce on Steve's thick cock, your pussy grips his shaft with every slam as you lift and lower your hips. His length buries deep into your cunt, stretching your slick walls, the wet sounds of your bodies fills the room.
Steve's hands press into your ass cheeks, spreading them as you grind down, his balls pressed tight against your perineum. Both your juices of arousal coat his length, making each thrust feel smoother and faster.
Suddenly, the nightstand phone rings with a shrill that breaks the atmosphere. Steve's eyes jolt wide open and he glances at it, but you don't slow, rolling your hips to swirl the head of his cock against your cervix. The sound cuts off, then starts again immediately – insistent, relentless. It rings a third time before silencing, only to ring again once more.
Steve groans with frustration, still high in his pleasure.
"Ignore it," you murmur, lowering your hips hard enough to make him hiss.
But it keeps going, the fourth ring pierces through the air and Steve's eyes meet yours, pleading.
"It's Eddie," he pants, thrusting into you and grunting. "He won't stop until I answer."
He knows it's Eddie because the metalhead is the only living person who won't take hanging up to his face as an answer.
You smirk, lifting high so just his tip ghosts into your entrance, and then dropping fully, forcing a choked moan from him.
The phone rings a fifth time, and your eyes roll with the disturbance.
"Fuck, baby. Slow down," he whines.
You pant, digging your nails into the skin of his chest. "Just answer the fucking thing."
He stretches his arm for it with a curse, snatching it up as you resume your punishing pace. It's deliberate strokes that make his thighs tremble. He brings the phone to his ear.
"Hey, man," he manages with a strained voice like he'd ran a marathon.
You lean forward, bracing on his chest, and pick up speed, your breasts swaying as you fuck yourself on his dick. The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. Steve clears his throat, disguising a whimper as a cough.
"What's... uh, up?"
Eddie's voice anxiously crackles through, sounding a little rushed. "Steve, dude, I need advice. This date tomorrow... Chrissy's friend, you know? The one with the killer legs. What if I fuck it up? She's way out of my league, man. Rehearsal's got me wiped, and now I'm overthinking every riff I play."
Steve's free hand clamps your hip, trying to still you, but you swat it away and clench your pussy around his hard length, milking him deliberately.
"You'll be fine," Steve says, his abs contract as you slam down extra hard, grinding your clit against his pubic bone.
A soft whine escapes from him, and he turns it into a high, brittle laugh.
Well, he tries. But to no avail.
"Just... play it cool. Chicks dig confidence." His cock throbs inside you.
His thick veins pulse against your fluttering walls. Sweat beads on his forehead, dribbling down his temple.
Eddie continues, oblivious to the situation on Steve's end.
"But what if she hates metal? Or thinks I'm a freak for the whole Hellfire thing? I mean, last date ghosted me after I mentioned demodogs. Should I tone it down? Wear something less... me?"
The phone nearly slips from Steve's grip as his sweaty, shaking hand tries to hold it.
You hold his knees and bend them, changing the position, now his cock drags directly over your g-spot with every plunge. Your arousal soaks the sheets. Steve bites his lip so hard enough to draw blood, his hips bucking up involuntarily to meet your pussy.
"N-no, own it," he forces through clenched teeth, the words hitching on a gasp.
You cover his mouth with your hand, muffling the noise that follows as you ride him viciously, your ass cheeks rippling from the impacts. His eyes roll back, muffled moans come out against your palm. He removes your hand off gently, panting.
"Eddie, she's into you. Trust me. Just... don't overthink the kiss or whatever."
"Kiss? Shit, what if I go for it too soon? Or my breath is bad after practicing? I got mints, but..." Eddie's rambling intensifies, words tumbling fast and you roll your eyes again, in annoyance.
But you don't stop riding him.
Steve's replies start to break.
"Hmm, yeah, timing is key."
You twist your hips as you bounce, stirring his cock deep inside, and he coughs violently to cover the sudden groan, pounding his chest with his fist. His balls draw up tight, slapping wetly against you. Pre-cum floods your cunt, mixing with your slick walls.
You rake your nails down his hair, your nipples nearly brushing his mouth. Steve's back arches, driving his dick even deeper.
"Dude, you're golden," he rasps with a shredded voice. A whimper escapes between his ragged breath. "Gonna... crush it."
Eddie pauses. "You sure you're okay? Sounds like you're dying, man. Working out or something?"
'Yeah– dumbbells. Brutal set." Steve is lying through his teeth.
His face contorts in ecstasy as you speed your pace, your pussy spasming erratically around his throbbing shaft. His free hand sneaks between you, bringing his thumb to find your clit and rubbing furious circles.
A retaliation that sends sparks up your spine. You retaliate back by squeezing your inner walls in circles, from base to tip.
Eddie sighs. "Alright, thanks man. Owe you one. Talk tomorrow?"
Steve nods frantically, though Eddie can see it. It's desperate. "Y-yep. Later."
He shoves the phone into the cradle aggressively, both hands squeezing your waist. "Fuuuuck, baby"
Then, it bursts. You slam down relentlessly, chasing your peak. Steve thrusts up savagely, his cock battering you deeply. Your orgasm hits like lightning. Pussy convulsing, walls clamping his length in pulses, gushing hot fluid down his balls.
He roars, hips snapping as ropes of thick cum blast into you, filling your pussy with creamy rivulets leaking out with each aftershock.
You collapse onto him, chests heaving in sync, his softening cock still twitching inside your cunt. Steve's arms wrap around you, and he brushes his lips against your ear.
"That was torture... best fucking torture. Eddie's clueless ass almost ruined it." He nips your shoulder.
He manages to push off of him, only to throw you against the mattress, turning you over. "Your turn to beg next?"
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
hey!!! girl, i'm here to ask if are you will finish the anakin fanfic?
obs: i loveeee how you write so don't stop it
Hiii!! Firstly, thank you so much!! I appreciate that a lot actually 💛
And do you mean "Trust You"? I'm planning on finishing it, yes, I just need to find some guidance because I've been stuck on the story and it's almost at the end already :(
A/N: Basically I couldn't not think about it when I saw THAT.
❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
You’re barely sitting anymore, you’re now just tangled together on the couch as your knees keep knocking – uneven breaths echoing through the room. Steve’s mouth is on yours like he’s been thinking about it all day, slow at first, then deeper, like he’s losing patience. His hands frame your face, brushing his thumb on your jaw as if he needs to feel you there, real.
You can’t even keep yourself together as you take him in. How his hands are firm on your thigh, grounding, claiming, like he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his grip. His forehead bumps gently against yours, it makes the closeness almost overwhelming.
He’s wearing his cap backward, the brim pushed out of the way, leaving just enough room for your fingers to curl into the nape of his neck. You feel the heat there, feel the way he leans into your touch without thinking, instinctive and needy. It’s a quiet kind of intensity, the kind that makes your chest ache and your pulse race, like everything between you is balanced on a single breath. And it makes you feel heat pooling through your core, how you clench at the sight of the strands coming out of the strap just perfectly.
It makes him look relaxed. Cocky. Like this is easy for him, even though the way he kisses you says otherwise.
He keeps it on even as he dips his head, his forehead brushes against your stomach, the brim turned lightly. It makes your breath hitch — the contrast of something so Steve, so stupidly familiar, paired with the way he’s clearly done pretending he’s in control.
You now lie back against the couch, the fabric is cool against your heated skin as you spread your legs wide open, exposing yourself completely to Steve's gaze. Your heart races in your chest, there’s a wild drumbeat that throbs between your thighs. Steve kneels at the edge of the couch, his strong hands sliding up your calves, then gripping your thighs with a possessive firmness that makes your breath hitch.
And fuck, it's sexy. The sight of him makes your pulse quicken even more as his broad, full of moles shoulders part your legs further. You can see the bulge of his cock straining against his shorts, but his focus is entirely on you, on the glistening wetness already seeping from your pussy as he removes your underwear in two seconds flat.
His hazel eyes darken with raw desire as they fix on your core, a predatory smirk tugs on his lips.
“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps. His voice is low, thick with gravel and filled with lust. “Your pussy's already so wet for me, shining like it's begging for my tongue. I'm gonna bury my face in there and make you cum all over me.”
You swallow hard, and your fingers twitch at your sides before you reach up to tug at the cap's brim, feeling the heat of his scalp underneath. It's too tempting, your fingers brush against the fabric, and you pull on the few strands. With a swift motion, you yank on his brown locks fully. Steve's eyes flash with surprise, then heat. It makes his head tip back just a little, enough for him to glance at you with hunger. You immediately thread your fingers through his soft hair, urging him closer.
“Please, Steve,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. “I need your mouth on me right now. Please, eat me.”
A low chuckle rumbles from his throat, the sound vibrating through you even before he touches you, shaking his head slightly, his hair flowing with the motion. His hot breath fans over your sensitive folds as he leans in, making you shiver and clench involuntarily. Then his lips brush against your core.
It’s soft at first, just a teasing kiss to your outer lips before he parts them with his tongue. He starts slow, tracing the length of your slit from bottom to top in one long and deliberate lick that collects your arousal on his tongue. The taste must hit him hard because he groans deeply, and it sends jolts straight to your clit.
“Shit, you taste like heaven,” he mutters against your pussy, his words muffled as he nuzzles deeper. His tongue flattens and laps at your entrance, broad strokes that collect up more of your slickness, making obscene wet sounds that fill the room. You arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet him halfway, your body already on fire from the building pressure.
Your grip tightens in his hair, pulling just enough to make him hiss in pleasure, guiding his head exactly where you want it. Steve's hands tighten on your thighs, his thumbs press into the soft flesh as he holds you wide open. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing the swollen nub until it pulses under his attention. Then he sucks you into his mouth, gently at first, like he's savoring a ripe fruit, before increasing the pressure. He draws it between his lips and flicks it rapidly.
Your moans spill out uncontrollably, high and desperate, as pleasure coils tight in your belly. You pull harder on his hair, the strands getting messier through the strap of the cap, slipping through your fingers, and he responds by sucking deeper, his scalp tingling from the pull.
But you're so fucking aroused that your body starts betraying just how desperately you want this. Juices leak steadily from your pussy, coating his chin and dripping down to his neck. He notices it and pulls back slightly to admire the mess, his face already slick and shiny.
“Goddamn, baby, you're soaking me already,” he moans. His eyes are gleaming with wicked delight.
Strings of your arousal and his spit connect from his lips to your folds as he speaks, and he swipes his tongue over them before diving back in.
“Keep it coming… drench my face, babe. I want to feel you soak every inch of my face.”
Steve shifts slightly, and you glance down to see the massive bulge straining against his boxers. The thin fabric stretches taut over his erection, and you can see the outline of his thick cock clear and rigid, the head pressing visibly against the cotton. A dark wet spot blooms at the tip where pre-cum has leaked through. He growls lowly, the sound is muffled against your pussy, and his free hand moves to his waistband.
With a frustrated grunt, he pulls the boxers down, his cock springs free – long and veined, flushed red and curving upward, the tip glistening with arousal. His words ignite something primal in you, and you grind against his mouth, your fingers tugging at his hair with more force, the pain-pleasure mix making him moan this time.
“Yes, Steve, just like that,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “Suck me harder, make me cum all over you.”
He strokes himself once, roughly, his fist wrapping around the shaft as it bobs in the air, but he doesn't stop devouring you. His tongue dives back in, faster now, sucking your clit hard while his hips twitch, his freed cock slapping against his thigh with each subtle thrust of his body. The sight of him like that, hard and leaking, completely undone by your taste — it makes you clench around nothing, and he notices it.
He thrusts his tongue inside you, fucking your pussy, pumping it shortly and insistently, which mimics what you crave from his cock. His nose grinds against your clit with every movement, the friction builds the heat unbearably. You feel the wetness surging again, your inner walls fluttering as arousal builds to a fever pitch. He adds his fingers.
One first – just to tease you and make you gasp loudly. Then two, sliding them deep into your soaked cunt, curling them to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hands twist in his locks, pulling his head closer, forcing him deeper as he works you over.
The combination is devastating. His tongue laps at your clit while his fingers pump in and out, the squelching sounds of your pussy echoing lewdly. Your thighs tremble around his head, muscles straining as you chase the edge.
“Fuck, you're so tight and wet around my fingers,” he growls, his voice vibrating against you.
His scalp aches under your relentless grip, but he pulls his fingers out briefly to spread your juices over your ass, teasing the puckered hole there before plunging them back into your pussy.
“Come on, give it to me. Wash my face with that hot cum. Tug my hair harder if it feels good.”
All the while, Steve's other hand grips his cock firmly, his fist sliding up and down the hard length in time with the thrusts of his fingers into you. You watch as the veins bulge along his shaft, mesmerized. His skin is in a flushed deep crimson from the strain. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slicking his palm as he jerks himself roughly, the head swelling with each stroke.
Your walls clench around his fingers, sucking them back in greedily, and he groans, the vibration rumbling through your clit. His hand on his cock speeds up, twisting at the base before gliding to the tip, smearing the leaking liquid down his length. The sight of him fucking himself while buried in you and sucking you, his knuckles glistening with your wetness, his nose and his face as well — it all drives the heat higher, your body coiling tighter.
You can't hold back anymore. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, your pussy clenching hard as juices gush out in forceful spurts. They splash across Steve's cheeks, soaking his skin, running in rivulets down his jaw and dripping onto the sheets below. His cap is already a mess, the back of the fabric soaked. The strands coming out of the strap are drenched as well. He doesn't flinch. Instead, he presses his mouth harder against you, his tongue thrusting to catch every drop, sucking greedily as if he's dying of thirst, even as you pull his hair tightly, holding him in place through the storm.
His cock throbs in his grasp, urging himself to quicken his strokes, his hips buckle into his own touch as if he can't hold back much longer. The dual motions sync, his body is like a machine of raw need, pushing you both toward release with unyielding desire.
“Oh god, Steve! I'm cumming… Fuck, it's all over you!” you cry as your body convulse, your hips buckle wildly.
Waves of pleasure crash over you, each one forcing more slickness to spill, coating his entire lower face until it's glistening and drenched. His cap is drenched as well, your cum dribbling down his forehead. His stubble scratches deliciously against your inner thighs, adding to the sensory overload, and the way his strands tug under your fingers amplifies every pulse. He keeps going, unrelenting, his fingers still curling inside of you to prolong the ecstasy.
“That's my girl,” he praises between sucking and fucking, his face is a slippery mess of your arousal. “Fuck, I love how you squirt for me, especially when you're pulling my hair like that.”
His free hand reaches up to pinch your nipple through your shirt, twisting it just enough to send fresh sparks downward.
Then you see it — the way his fist tightens at the base, the veins standing out like cords on his forearm, his strokes already erratic and desperate as his hips jerk forward into empty the air. A low, guttural moan vibrates from his throat against your folds, and then he comes undone. His cock pulses hard in his grip, the thick shaft swelling one last time before hot cum spurts from the tip.
The first spurt shoots across his knuckles, splattering white streaks onto the couch, warm and sticky against his skin. He doesn't stop pumping, his hand milking out more, the second and third spirt spitting higher, landing on your knees in heavy pulses that make your muscles twitch. As the aftershocks fade, you slump back, panting, but Steve isn't done. He slows his licks to gentle, soothing strokes, cleaning you up while savoring the taste.
His face finally lifts, utterly soaked. His eyes are bright, lips are swollen, his chin is dripping, his hair is disheveled from your eager pulls. The cap is a little crooked over his head. He wipes a hand across his face, smearing the wetness as he grins up at you.
“Look what you did to me, baby. Cap is fucking wet, hair's a mess… Hands covered with our cum. My face is covered in you. Now I want you to taste yourself on my tongue.”
You pull him up weakly, crashing your lips to his in a messy, heated kiss, the tangy flavor of your own release flooding your senses as his drenched face presses against yours, your fingers still lingering in his tousled strands. This time, you yank the sticky, wet cap off and throw it onto the floor. It makes him chuckle through the heated kiss.
“Want me to fuck you with the cap next time?” He asks, his lips hovering over your swollen lips.
“I want it now.” Your voice is still quivering from the orgasm, but it still hits him.
He doesn’t wait for you to ask him a second time. He steps out of the living room and disappears into his bedroom. A second later, he’s back wearing a new one.
“Ready to soak my cock?” He fixes the strap, asking before guiding you onto your knees over the couch with urgency, without waiting for a response.
He’s already sinking his hard cock into your drenched cunt with a groan.
A/N: Basically I couldn't not think about it when I saw THAT.
❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
You’re barely sitting anymore, you’re now just tangled together on the couch as your knees keep knocking – uneven breaths echoing through the room. Steve’s mouth is on yours like he’s been thinking about it all day, slow at first, then deeper, like he’s losing patience. His hands frame your face, brushing his thumb on your jaw as if he needs to feel you there, real.
You can’t even keep yourself together as you take him in. How his hands are firm on your thigh, grounding, claiming, like he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his grip. His forehead bumps gently against yours, it makes the closeness almost overwhelming.
He’s wearing his cap backward, the brim pushed out of the way, leaving just enough room for your fingers to curl into the nape of his neck. You feel the heat there, feel the way he leans into your touch without thinking, instinctive and needy. It’s a quiet kind of intensity, the kind that makes your chest ache and your pulse race, like everything between you is balanced on a single breath. And it makes you feel heat pooling through your core, how you clench at the sight of the strands coming out of the strap just perfectly.
It makes him look relaxed. Cocky. Like this is easy for him, even though the way he kisses you says otherwise.
He keeps it on even as he dips his head, his forehead brushes against your stomach, the brim turned lightly. It makes your breath hitch — the contrast of something so Steve, so stupidly familiar, paired with the way he’s clearly done pretending he’s in control.
You now lie back against the couch, the fabric is cool against your heated skin as you spread your legs wide open, exposing yourself completely to Steve's gaze. Your heart races in your chest, there’s a wild drumbeat that throbs between your thighs. Steve kneels at the edge of the couch, his strong hands sliding up your calves, then gripping your thighs with a possessive firmness that makes your breath hitch.
And fuck, it's sexy. The sight of him makes your pulse quicken even more as his broad, full of moles shoulders part your legs further. You can see the bulge of his cock straining against his shorts, but his focus is entirely on you, on the glistening wetness already seeping from your pussy as he removes your underwear in two seconds flat.
His hazel eyes darken with raw desire as they fix on your core, a predatory smirk tugs on his lips.
“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps. His voice is low, thick with gravel and filled with lust. “Your pussy's already so wet for me, shining like it's begging for my tongue. I'm gonna bury my face in there and make you cum all over me.”
You swallow hard, and your fingers twitch at your sides before you reach up to tug at the cap's brim, feeling the heat of his scalp underneath. It's too tempting, your fingers brush against the fabric, and you pull on the few strands. With a swift motion, you yank on his brown locks fully. Steve's eyes flash with surprise, then heat. It makes his head tip back just a little, enough for him to glance at you with hunger. You immediately thread your fingers through his soft hair, urging him closer.
“Please, Steve,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. “I need your mouth on me right now. Please, eat me.”
A low chuckle rumbles from his throat, the sound vibrating through you even before he touches you, shaking his head slightly, his hair flowing with the motion. His hot breath fans over your sensitive folds as he leans in, making you shiver and clench involuntarily. Then his lips brush against your core.
It’s soft at first, just a teasing kiss to your outer lips before he parts them with his tongue. He starts slow, tracing the length of your slit from bottom to top in one long and deliberate lick that collects your arousal on his tongue. The taste must hit him hard because he groans deeply, and it sends jolts straight to your clit.
“Shit, you taste like heaven,” he mutters against your pussy, his words muffled as he nuzzles deeper. His tongue flattens and laps at your entrance, broad strokes that collect up more of your slickness, making obscene wet sounds that fill the room. You arch your back, pushing your hips up to meet him halfway, your body already on fire from the building pressure.
Your grip tightens in his hair, pulling just enough to make him hiss in pleasure, guiding his head exactly where you want it. Steve's hands tighten on your thighs, his thumbs press into the soft flesh as he holds you wide open. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing the swollen nub until it pulses under his attention. Then he sucks you into his mouth, gently at first, like he's savoring a ripe fruit, before increasing the pressure. He draws it between his lips and flicks it rapidly.
Your moans spill out uncontrollably, high and desperate, as pleasure coils tight in your belly. You pull harder on his hair, the strands getting messier through the strap of the cap, slipping through your fingers, and he responds by sucking deeper, his scalp tingling from the pull.
But you're so fucking aroused that your body starts betraying just how desperately you want this. Juices leak steadily from your pussy, coating his chin and dripping down to his neck. He notices it and pulls back slightly to admire the mess, his face already slick and shiny.
“Goddamn, baby, you're soaking me already,” he moans. His eyes are gleaming with wicked delight.
Strings of your arousal and his spit connect from his lips to your folds as he speaks, and he swipes his tongue over them before diving back in.
“Keep it coming… drench my face, babe. I want to feel you soak every inch of my face.”
Steve shifts slightly, and you glance down to see the massive bulge straining against his boxers. The thin fabric stretches taut over his erection, and you can see the outline of his thick cock clear and rigid, the head pressing visibly against the cotton. A dark wet spot blooms at the tip where pre-cum has leaked through. He growls lowly, the sound is muffled against your pussy, and his free hand moves to his waistband.
With a frustrated grunt, he pulls the boxers down, his cock springs free – long and veined, flushed red and curving upward, the tip glistening with arousal. His words ignite something primal in you, and you grind against his mouth, your fingers tugging at his hair with more force, the pain-pleasure mix making him moan this time.
“Yes, Steve, just like that,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “Suck me harder, make me cum all over you.”
He strokes himself once, roughly, his fist wrapping around the shaft as it bobs in the air, but he doesn't stop devouring you. His tongue dives back in, faster now, sucking your clit hard while his hips twitch, his freed cock slapping against his thigh with each subtle thrust of his body. The sight of him like that, hard and leaking, completely undone by your taste — it makes you clench around nothing, and he notices it.
He thrusts his tongue inside you, fucking your pussy, pumping it shortly and insistently, which mimics what you crave from his cock. His nose grinds against your clit with every movement, the friction builds the heat unbearably. You feel the wetness surging again, your inner walls fluttering as arousal builds to a fever pitch. He adds his fingers.
One first – just to tease you and make you gasp loudly. Then two, sliding them deep into your soaked cunt, curling them to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hands twist in his locks, pulling his head closer, forcing him deeper as he works you over.
The combination is devastating. His tongue laps at your clit while his fingers pump in and out, the squelching sounds of your pussy echoing lewdly. Your thighs tremble around his head, muscles straining as you chase the edge.
“Fuck, you're so tight and wet around my fingers,” he growls, his voice vibrating against you.
His scalp aches under your relentless grip, but he pulls his fingers out briefly to spread your juices over your ass, teasing the puckered hole there before plunging them back into your pussy.
“Come on, give it to me. Wash my face with that hot cum. Tug my hair harder if it feels good.”
All the while, Steve's other hand grips his cock firmly, his fist sliding up and down the hard length in time with the thrusts of his fingers into you. You watch as the veins bulge along his shaft, mesmerized. His skin is in a flushed deep crimson from the strain. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slicking his palm as he jerks himself roughly, the head swelling with each stroke.
Your walls clench around his fingers, sucking them back in greedily, and he groans, the vibration rumbling through your clit. His hand on his cock speeds up, twisting at the base before gliding to the tip, smearing the leaking liquid down his length. The sight of him fucking himself while buried in you and sucking you, his knuckles glistening with your wetness, his nose and his face as well — it all drives the heat higher, your body coiling tighter.
You can't hold back anymore. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, your pussy clenching hard as juices gush out in forceful spurts. They splash across Steve's cheeks, soaking his skin, running in rivulets down his jaw and dripping onto the sheets below. His cap is already a mess, the back of the fabric soaked. The strands coming out of the strap are drenched as well. He doesn't flinch. Instead, he presses his mouth harder against you, his tongue thrusting to catch every drop, sucking greedily as if he's dying of thirst, even as you pull his hair tightly, holding him in place through the storm.
His cock throbs in his grasp, urging himself to quicken his strokes, his hips buckle into his own touch as if he can't hold back much longer. The dual motions sync, his body is like a machine of raw need, pushing you both toward release with unyielding desire.
“Oh god, Steve! I'm cumming… Fuck, it's all over you!” you cry as your body convulse, your hips buckle wildly.
Waves of pleasure crash over you, each one forcing more slickness to spill, coating his entire lower face until it's glistening and drenched. His cap is drenched as well, your cum dribbling down his forehead. His stubble scratches deliciously against your inner thighs, adding to the sensory overload, and the way his strands tug under your fingers amplifies every pulse. He keeps going, unrelenting, his fingers still curling inside of you to prolong the ecstasy.
“That's my girl,” he praises between sucking and fucking, his face is a slippery mess of your arousal. “Fuck, I love how you squirt for me, especially when you're pulling my hair like that.”
His free hand reaches up to pinch your nipple through your shirt, twisting it just enough to send fresh sparks downward.
Then you see it — the way his fist tightens at the base, the veins standing out like cords on his forearm, his strokes already erratic and desperate as his hips jerk forward into empty the air. A low, guttural moan vibrates from his throat against your folds, and then he comes undone. His cock pulses hard in his grip, the thick shaft swelling one last time before hot cum spurts from the tip.
The first spurt shoots across his knuckles, splattering white streaks onto the couch, warm and sticky against his skin. He doesn't stop pumping, his hand milking out more, the second and third spirt spitting higher, landing on your knees in heavy pulses that make your muscles twitch. As the aftershocks fade, you slump back, panting, but Steve isn't done. He slows his licks to gentle, soothing strokes, cleaning you up while savoring the taste.
His face finally lifts, utterly soaked. His eyes are bright, lips are swollen, his chin is dripping, his hair is disheveled from your eager pulls. The cap is a little crooked over his head. He wipes a hand across his face, smearing the wetness as he grins up at you.
“Look what you did to me, baby. Cap is fucking wet, hair's a mess… Hands covered with our cum. My face is covered in you. Now I want you to taste yourself on my tongue.”
You pull him up weakly, crashing your lips to his in a messy, heated kiss, the tangy flavor of your own release flooding your senses as his drenched face presses against yours, your fingers still lingering in his tousled strands. This time, you yank the sticky, wet cap off and throw it onto the floor. It makes him chuckle through the heated kiss.
“Want me to fuck you with the cap next time?” He asks, his lips hovering over your swollen lips.
“I want it now.” Your voice is still quivering from the orgasm, but it still hits him.
He doesn’t wait for you to ask him a second time. He steps out of the living room and disappears into his bedroom. A second later, he’s back wearing a new one.
“Ready to soak my cock?” He fixes the strap, asking before guiding you onto your knees over the couch with urgency, without waiting for a response.
He’s already sinking his hard cock into your drenched cunt with a groan.
Summary: You and Steve have been sneaking around for a while, and no one knows. Not even Robin. Or at least, you think she doesn't – until an unexpected comment about Steve almost makes you collapse.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader
Warnings: SMUT (18+ DNI), oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, very explicit details
Word count: 2.6k
Author's note: totally inspired by that specific scene that had me cackling.
⋆.˚✮🔥 🔥✮˚.⋆
Sneaking around with Steve feels like being fifteen again – it feels thrilling and reckless in the best way.
But you're both adults. It started with kisses being shared when he would drive you home after a group hangout. But it had never seemed enough for either of you, which lead you to start sneaking into each other's house. Shoes being kicked off by the door, Steve’s keys dropped into the bowl instead of clattering onto the counter when he visits you.
Your laugh muffled into his shoulder as he presses you back against the wall like he’s still afraid someone might walk in.
Lately, you've been in his house constantly. His parents are never there, no one would visit him unless it's something important. And if by any chance Dustin shows up, he's already got the whole house locked — pretending to be asleep.
No one knows. Not Dustin, not Robin. Definitely not both of them together, which feels exponentially more dangerous. Eddie doesn’t know either. Not even Nancy or Jonathan.
You keep yourselves apart from each other for the most part of the day, avoiding the slight brush of fingers. He keeps his eyes away from you — he can't just not stare. He literally gawks at you, and his mind goes somewhere else. Which is why he needs to not think about you bending over.
You're all sitting around the kitchen table at Steve’s place. The sunlight is pouring in, casting an orange glow against his expensive glasses. You’re relaxed, too relaxed.
Sitting next to you seems less of a disaster than sitting across from you. Because now he can't stop looking at your ass while you chop vegetables at his counter, your back turned to the room, pretending you’re not painfully aware of where he is. He keeps reaching past you for things you already have, his arm brushing your side like it’s accidental, even though you both know it’s not.
He hands you a glass of grape juice.
Eddie sits on a stool, watching as you wrestle with a container that’s clearly too full.
“That’s big,” he says. “That’s not gonna fit, sweetheart.”
You frown at him, already annoyed. “It will.”
Leaning against the fridge, Robin doesn't even hesitate before she opens her mouth. “Steve hears that all the time,” she says easily. “And he still goes in anyway. Don’t you, Steve?”
You stop mid-swallow. Steve freezes behind you.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He protests at her, his brows shooting up desperately at her random statement.
Then you snort. Hard. Enough for the juice to come out of your nose. You choke, coughing, the glass clanking as you scramble to set it down. Steve lunges halfway out of his stool, with panic flashing across his face a little too fast, a little too practiced.
“You okay?” He blurts to you.
Robin blinks, exasperated — Eddie froze immediately.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, wiping your face, laughing so hard it hurts. “I... Sorry! Wrong pipe.”
Steve is red. Like, tomato red. His ears give him away, like they always do.
The thing is, you have only ever talked about that once. And she promised she would keep it a secret — now it’s barely out there. You wouldn’t think that she would just throw it out there like some ordinary joke. And you feel bad for Steve now.
But she’s also his best friend, which can only mean that he also tells her things about himself. He can’t complain, he knows where he’s getting himself into.
Eddie’s eyes narrow. “Why is that funny?”
“It’s not,” you say too quickly, still wheezing. “Just… Juice went down the wrong way.”
Robin’s gaze flicks between you and Steve like a hawk. She does it twice – then her mouth curves slowly into a sly smirk.
“…Huh,” she hums.
Steve clears his throat, a little too loud. “So, uh– Eddie. Didn’t you say you were late?”
Eddie looks between the three of you. “No?”
“Pretty sure you are,” Steve insists. “For… something. Band, D&D... Life.”
Robin leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. Her eyes spark with realization. “Steve.”
He groans. “Robin.”
“You’re smiling,” she says. “And you only do that when you’re lying or when you’re–”
“Don’t,” you warn, still laughing. Your heart is pounding now for an entirely different reason.
Her grin widens. “–happy.”
Steve’s knee presses into yours under the table, deliberately this time. Like it’s grounding. A silent way to warn you to not panic.
Eddie squints harder. “Wait. Are you guys…”
“Nope!” you and Steve say in unison. Loud and quickly – a behavior that doesn’t go unnoticed by them.
Robin hums one more time, pleased. “Interesting.”
Eddie leaves later after your lunch, and then Robin dramatically announces she has errands and pointedly grabs her keys – you’re alone in the kitchen again. Steve turns to you, his hands are on his hips, and disbelief is written all over his face.
“You almost blew it,” he says.
You step closer, grinning unapologetically at him. “You walked into that one.”
He laughs despite himself, shaking his head. “You snorted juice out of your nose.”
“You liked it.”
He looks at you for a long second. It’s a soft and warm glance that melts you.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I did.”
Steve doesn’t look away from you — he keeps his glance burning into your skin. His eyes, deep and intense, lock onto yours, filled with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. He steps closer, his strong hands gently cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leans in.
His lips meet yours in a slow, deep kiss, tasting of wine and desire, his tongue sliding against yours with a passion that sends heat pooling between your thighs. You melt into him, your fingers threading through his dark hair, pulling him nearer.
He wraps his arms around your waist, drawing your body flush against his, the hard line of his erection pressing into your belly through his jeans. He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips.
“I've wanted this all day.” His voice is low and rough, laced with affection that makes your core ache. “Couldn’t stop looking at your perfect ass in that skirt.”
With deliberate slowness, he trails kisses down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin while his hands slide under your shirt, his palms are warm against your bare back. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escape from your lips as he lifts the fabric over your head, tossing it aside. His gaze roams over your exposed breasts, nipples hardening under his stare.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, before lowering his mouth to one nipple, sucking gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the tight bud while his hand kneads the other.
Pleasure sparks through you, making your pussy clench with need. You tug at his shirt, eager to feel his skin, and he helps you pull it off, revealing his perfectly sculpted abs and chest. Your hands explore him, tracing the ridges of muscle, down to the waistband of his jeans.
Only then, you stop trailing your fingers against his body as you push him back — enough for you to walk up the staircase, straight to his bedroom. You push him slowly into his bed and Steve groans as you unbutton his jeans and remove his boxers, freeing his thick cock, already hard and throbbing in your grasp. You stroke him firmly, feeling the velvety skin slide over the rigid length, pre-cum beading at the tip.
He captures your mouth again in a heated kiss, his fingers working the zipper of your skirt, letting it pool at your feet. Now in just your panties, you feel exposed and adored under his hungry eyes. Steve hooks his thumbs into the lace and eases them down your legs, his breath hitting hot against your thigh as he kneels.
“I need to taste you,” he says, voice husky with want.
You step out of the fabric, spreading your legs slightly as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, following higher, until his mouth finds your slick folds. His tongue laps at your pussy, flat and broad, circling your clit with enough pressure that has you gasping, and your fingers keep gripping his shoulders. He sucks the swollen nub between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, while two fingers push inside you, curling to stroke that sensitive spot deep inside. Waves of bliss build quickly, your hips rock against his face, chasing the release.
“Steve... Oh god,” you whimper, and he hums in response, the vibration sending you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, your walls flutter around his fingers as you cry out, your juices coating his chin.
He rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied smile curving his lips.
You drop to your knees in front of Steve, your eyes locked on the head, already swollen. You lick your lips, your heart is pounding with anticipation as you wrap your fingers around the base – your hand barely closes around the girth. Steve groans softly, his hand tangles in your hair as you lean forward. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you part your lips wide, stretching them over the tip. The salty taste of his skin hits your tongue as you suck gently at first, swirling around the head to coat it with your saliva.
He's so big that your jaw aches already, but you push on, taking more of him in, your cheeks hollowing as you bob your head.
“Fuck, yeah,” Steve mutters, his hips twitching forward to meet your throat.
You feel the thickness filling your mouth, pressing against your mouth, making it hard to breathe through your nose. You relax your throat, determined to take as much as you can, gagging slightly when the head nudges the back of your mouth. Saliva drips down your chin as you work him, sucking harder now, pressing your tongue flat along the underside of his shaft. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding you deeper, and you let him, hollowing your cheeks to increase the suction.
The veins pulse against your lips as you slide up and down, the wet sounds of your mouth echoing in the room. Steve's breaths come ragged, his free hand bracing against the wall behind you. You reach up, cupping his balls, and start massaging them gently while you suck him, feeling them tighten under your touch. You pull back for a moment, gasping for air, strings of spit connect your lips to his glistening cock. It's even thicker now, flushed deep red from your attention. Without pause, you dive back in, taking him as far as possible.
Steve thrusts shallowly, fucking your mouth with controlled power, his groans growing louder.
“Take it all, baby,” he growls, and you do as he says, humming around him to send vibrations through his length.
The pressure builds, his cock throbbing wildly against your tongue. You suck relentlessly, one hand stroking what your mouth can't reach, twisting at the base.
You pull back before he releases into your throat – gasping for air. His voice comes out strangled with a groan as he watches the way your eyes are tearing from his size.
“That was just the start,” he teases, guiding you to the bed.
You lie back on the soft sheets, pulling him down with you. Steve settles between your thighs, his cock nudging at your entrance, slick with your arousal. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as he pushes inside inch by inch, stretching you deliciously full. His cock is thick and big, making your pussy clench around him in a vicious response. You gasp as he thrusts into you softly at first, then pounding on you.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he begins to thrust, each slide of his thick shaft dragging against your inner walls. His hands brace on either side of you, his muscles flex as he moves. His eyes never leave yours.
“I love how tight you are, fuck,” he breathes, picking up his pace.
His hips snap forward to hit that perfect angle. The romantic intensity in his gaze mixes with raw lust, making every plunge feel intimate and consuming. You meet his thrusts, digging your into his back, the slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside your shared moans.
“Stevie, you’re so big,” you hum, your pulse picking up with each thrust.
He reaches between you, pressing his thumb as he rubs firm circles on your clit, heightening the building tension. Sweat slicks your bodies, the air is thick with the scent. His cock throbs into your pussy when you mewl against his ear — the immediate reaction sending jolts of pleasure into his bloodstream. He feels lightheaded for an instant, his hands almost giving out. You pull him into a kiss, tongues sliding against each other sloppily, saliva mingling.
“Cum with me, baby” he urges, with a strained voice.
And you do, your pussy clamps down on his cock as ecstasy rips through you again, pulling him into his own release. Steve groans your name, burying himself deep as he cums, hot spurts filling you. He collapses gently onto you as you both pant, resting his forehead against yours.
Steve presses soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, whispering how much you did good.
For a moment, there’s just quiet. The good kind, it’s the kind that settles in your chest and makes your limbs feel boneless.
Then Steve groans.
“Unbelievable.”
You turn your head toward him, propping yourself on your elbow. “What?”
He drops his arm, squinting at you. “Robin.”
You laugh softly. “Of course.”
“She completely ruined it for me earlier,” he says, sitting up just enough to tug his own hair.
“I know,” you grin.
His arm slides around you without thinking, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin. The tension finally drains out of him, replaced by something softer.
“She’s not wrong, is she?” He asks suddenly, like he needs assurance.
You cup his jaw, your thumb tracing his lower lip gently. “Without a doubt.”
He kisses you again, slowly this time – there’s no rush there. Then he breaks it, forehead resting against yours one more time.
“I just want the truth,” he says.
You blink innocently. “About?”
“About who told her. Because someone clearly did.”
You scoff at him. “Oh my god. You think I did.”
“I think that she didn’t pull that level of confidence out of thin air,” he says confidently.
You poke at his bare chest. “She’s known you since high school. She absolutely pulled it out of thin air.”
“She said I hear it all the time” he protests.
“And? You think I sat her down and went ‘hey Robin, fun fact about Steve Harrington–’”
He opens his mouth and then closes it.
“…Okay, when you put it like that, no.”
“Thank you,” you say smugly, flopping back against the pillows.
But he doesn’t let it go.
“But,” he continues, “I have not described myself in detail to her.”
You snort. “Steve. She’s your best friend.”
“That doesn’t mean I…”
“You absolutely have,” you interrupt him, giggling. “You’ve complained. You’ve bragged. You’ve said things like ‘it’s not my fault’ and ‘it’s a real problem sometimes.’”
Steve groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That was one time.”
You grin. “Which is enough.”
“You’re enjoying this.” He turns toward you, accusing.
“Immensely.”
“So you’re saying she knows because I told her.” He presses and you snort.
“I’m saying you walked yourself into this.”
Steve exhales, falling back dramatically. “Unbelievable. I share my feelings with my best friend and suddenly it’s a weapon.”
You lean over him, resting your chin on his chest. “You brought a knife to a Robin Buckley fight.”
He laughs, his chest rumbles under your chin, an arm sliding around you. “Next time she says something like that, I’m blaming you.”
You hum. “Fair. But next time she says something like that…”
He raises an eyebrow.
"...you’re not allowed to look proud.” You tap his chest lightly and he groans, his head tipping back.
“I did not look proud.” He mutters, though the curve tugged on his lips says he’s enjoying this.
“You did,” you say. “Just a little.”
He smiles, giving up, pulling you closer. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
Summary: You and Steve have been sneaking around for a while, and no one knows. Not even Robin. Or at least, you think she doesn't – until an unexpected comment about Steve almost makes you collapse.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader
Warnings: SMUT (18+ DNI), oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, very explicit details
Word count: 2.6k
Author's note: totally inspired by that specific scene that had me cackling.
⋆.˚✮🔥 🔥✮˚.⋆
Sneaking around with Steve feels like being fifteen again – it feels thrilling and reckless in the best way.
But you're both adults. It started with kisses being shared when he would drive you home after a group hangout. But it had never seemed enough for either of you, which lead you to start sneaking into each other's house. Shoes being kicked off by the door, Steve’s keys dropped into the bowl instead of clattering onto the counter when he visits you.
Your laugh muffled into his shoulder as he presses you back against the wall like he’s still afraid someone might walk in.
Lately, you've been in his house constantly. His parents are never there, no one would visit him unless it's something important. And if by any chance Dustin shows up, he's already got the whole house locked — pretending to be asleep.
No one knows. Not Dustin, not Robin. Definitely not both of them together, which feels exponentially more dangerous. Eddie doesn’t know either. Not even Nancy or Jonathan.
You keep yourselves apart from each other for the most part of the day, avoiding the slight brush of fingers. He keeps his eyes away from you — he can't just not stare. He literally gawks at you, and his mind goes somewhere else. Which is why he needs to not think about you bending over.
You're all sitting around the kitchen table at Steve’s place. The sunlight is pouring in, casting an orange glow against his expensive glasses. You’re relaxed, too relaxed.
Sitting next to you seems less of a disaster than sitting across from you. Because now he can't stop looking at your ass while you chop vegetables at his counter, your back turned to the room, pretending you’re not painfully aware of where he is. He keeps reaching past you for things you already have, his arm brushing your side like it’s accidental, even though you both know it’s not.
He hands you a glass of grape juice.
Eddie sits on a stool, watching as you wrestle with a container that’s clearly too full.
“That’s big,” he says. “That’s not gonna fit, sweetheart.”
You frown at him, already annoyed. “It will.”
Leaning against the fridge, Robin doesn't even hesitate before she opens her mouth. “Steve hears that all the time,” she says easily. “And he still goes in anyway. Don’t you, Steve?”
You stop mid-swallow. Steve freezes behind you.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He protests at her, his brows shooting up desperately at her random statement.
Then you snort. Hard. Enough for the juice to come out of your nose. You choke, coughing, the glass clanking as you scramble to set it down. Steve lunges halfway out of his stool, with panic flashing across his face a little too fast, a little too practiced.
“You okay?” He blurts to you.
Robin blinks, exasperated — Eddie froze immediately.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, wiping your face, laughing so hard it hurts. “I... Sorry! Wrong pipe.”
Steve is red. Like, tomato red. His ears give him away, like they always do.
The thing is, you have only ever talked about that once. And she promised she would keep it a secret — now it’s barely out there. You wouldn’t think that she would just throw it out there like some ordinary joke. And you feel bad for Steve now.
But she’s also his best friend, which can only mean that he also tells her things about himself. He can’t complain, he knows where he’s getting himself into.
Eddie’s eyes narrow. “Why is that funny?”
“It’s not,” you say too quickly, still wheezing. “Just… Juice went down the wrong way.”
Robin’s gaze flicks between you and Steve like a hawk. She does it twice – then her mouth curves slowly into a sly smirk.
“…Huh,” she hums.
Steve clears his throat, a little too loud. “So, uh– Eddie. Didn’t you say you were late?”
Eddie looks between the three of you. “No?”
“Pretty sure you are,” Steve insists. “For… something. Band, D&D... Life.”
Robin leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. Her eyes spark with realization. “Steve.”
He groans. “Robin.”
“You’re smiling,” she says. “And you only do that when you’re lying or when you’re–”
“Don’t,” you warn, still laughing. Your heart is pounding now for an entirely different reason.
Her grin widens. “–happy.”
Steve’s knee presses into yours under the table, deliberately this time. Like it’s grounding. A silent way to warn you to not panic.
Eddie squints harder. “Wait. Are you guys…”
“Nope!” you and Steve say in unison. Loud and quickly – a behavior that doesn’t go unnoticed by them.
Robin hums one more time, pleased. “Interesting.”
Eddie leaves later after your lunch, and then Robin dramatically announces she has errands and pointedly grabs her keys – you’re alone in the kitchen again. Steve turns to you, his hands are on his hips, and disbelief is written all over his face.
“You almost blew it,” he says.
You step closer, grinning unapologetically at him. “You walked into that one.”
He laughs despite himself, shaking his head. “You snorted juice out of your nose.”
“You liked it.”
He looks at you for a long second. It’s a soft and warm glance that melts you.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I did.”
Steve doesn’t look away from you — he keeps his glance burning into your skin. His eyes, deep and intense, lock onto yours, filled with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. He steps closer, his strong hands gently cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he leans in.
His lips meet yours in a slow, deep kiss, tasting of wine and desire, his tongue sliding against yours with a passion that sends heat pooling between your thighs. You melt into him, your fingers threading through his dark hair, pulling him nearer.
He wraps his arms around your waist, drawing your body flush against his, the hard line of his erection pressing into your belly through his jeans. He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips.
“I've wanted this all day.” His voice is low and rough, laced with affection that makes your core ache. “Couldn’t stop looking at your perfect ass in that skirt.”
With deliberate slowness, he trails kisses down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin while his hands slide under your shirt, his palms are warm against your bare back. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escape from your lips as he lifts the fabric over your head, tossing it aside. His gaze roams over your exposed breasts, nipples hardening under his stare.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, before lowering his mouth to one nipple, sucking gently at first, then harder, swirling his tongue around the tight bud while his hand kneads the other.
Pleasure sparks through you, making your pussy clench with need. You tug at his shirt, eager to feel his skin, and he helps you pull it off, revealing his perfectly sculpted abs and chest. Your hands explore him, tracing the ridges of muscle, down to the waistband of his jeans.
Only then, you stop trailing your fingers against his body as you push him back — enough for you to walk up the staircase, straight to his bedroom. You push him slowly into his bed and Steve groans as you unbutton his jeans and remove his boxers, freeing his thick cock, already hard and throbbing in your grasp. You stroke him firmly, feeling the velvety skin slide over the rigid length, pre-cum beading at the tip.
He captures your mouth again in a heated kiss, his fingers working the zipper of your skirt, letting it pool at your feet. Now in just your panties, you feel exposed and adored under his hungry eyes. Steve hooks his thumbs into the lace and eases them down your legs, his breath hitting hot against your thigh as he kneels.
“I need to taste you,” he says, voice husky with want.
You step out of the fabric, spreading your legs slightly as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, following higher, until his mouth finds your slick folds. His tongue laps at your pussy, flat and broad, circling your clit with enough pressure that has you gasping, and your fingers keep gripping his shoulders. He sucks the swollen nub between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, while two fingers push inside you, curling to stroke that sensitive spot deep inside. Waves of bliss build quickly, your hips rock against his face, chasing the release.
“Steve... Oh god,” you whimper, and he hums in response, the vibration sending you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, your walls flutter around his fingers as you cry out, your juices coating his chin.
He rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied smile curving his lips.
You drop to your knees in front of Steve, your eyes locked on the head, already swollen. You lick your lips, your heart is pounding with anticipation as you wrap your fingers around the base – your hand barely closes around the girth. Steve groans softly, his hand tangles in your hair as you lean forward. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you part your lips wide, stretching them over the tip. The salty taste of his skin hits your tongue as you suck gently at first, swirling around the head to coat it with your saliva.
He's so big that your jaw aches already, but you push on, taking more of him in, your cheeks hollowing as you bob your head.
“Fuck, yeah,” Steve mutters, his hips twitching forward to meet your throat.
You feel the thickness filling your mouth, pressing against your mouth, making it hard to breathe through your nose. You relax your throat, determined to take as much as you can, gagging slightly when the head nudges the back of your mouth. Saliva drips down your chin as you work him, sucking harder now, pressing your tongue flat along the underside of his shaft. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding you deeper, and you let him, hollowing your cheeks to increase the suction.
The veins pulse against your lips as you slide up and down, the wet sounds of your mouth echoing in the room. Steve's breaths come ragged, his free hand bracing against the wall behind you. You reach up, cupping his balls, and start massaging them gently while you suck him, feeling them tighten under your touch. You pull back for a moment, gasping for air, strings of spit connect your lips to his glistening cock. It's even thicker now, flushed deep red from your attention. Without pause, you dive back in, taking him as far as possible.
Steve thrusts shallowly, fucking your mouth with controlled power, his groans growing louder.
“Take it all, baby,” he growls, and you do as he says, humming around him to send vibrations through his length.
The pressure builds, his cock throbbing wildly against your tongue. You suck relentlessly, one hand stroking what your mouth can't reach, twisting at the base.
You pull back before he releases into your throat – gasping for air. His voice comes out strangled with a groan as he watches the way your eyes are tearing from his size.
“That was just the start,” he teases, guiding you to the bed.
You lie back on the soft sheets, pulling him down with you. Steve settles between your thighs, his cock nudging at your entrance, slick with your arousal. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as he pushes inside inch by inch, stretching you deliciously full. His cock is thick and big, making your pussy clench around him in a vicious response. You gasp as he thrusts into you softly at first, then pounding on you.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he begins to thrust, each slide of his thick shaft dragging against your inner walls. His hands brace on either side of you, his muscles flex as he moves. His eyes never leave yours.
“I love how tight you are, fuck,” he breathes, picking up his pace.
His hips snap forward to hit that perfect angle. The romantic intensity in his gaze mixes with raw lust, making every plunge feel intimate and consuming. You meet his thrusts, digging your into his back, the slap of skin on skin filling the room alongside your shared moans.
“Stevie, you’re so big,” you hum, your pulse picking up with each thrust.
He reaches between you, pressing his thumb as he rubs firm circles on your clit, heightening the building tension. Sweat slicks your bodies, the air is thick with the scent. His cock throbs into your pussy when you mewl against his ear — the immediate reaction sending jolts of pleasure into his bloodstream. He feels lightheaded for an instant, his hands almost giving out. You pull him into a kiss, tongues sliding against each other sloppily, saliva mingling.
“Cum with me, baby” he urges, with a strained voice.
And you do, your pussy clamps down on his cock as ecstasy rips through you again, pulling him into his own release. Steve groans your name, burying himself deep as he cums, hot spurts filling you. He collapses gently onto you as you both pant, resting his forehead against yours.
Steve presses soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, whispering how much you did good.
For a moment, there’s just quiet. The good kind, it’s the kind that settles in your chest and makes your limbs feel boneless.
Then Steve groans.
“Unbelievable.”
You turn your head toward him, propping yourself on your elbow. “What?”
He drops his arm, squinting at you. “Robin.”
You laugh softly. “Of course.”
“She completely ruined it for me earlier,” he says, sitting up just enough to tug his own hair.
“I know,” you grin.
His arm slides around you without thinking, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin. The tension finally drains out of him, replaced by something softer.
“She’s not wrong, is she?” He asks suddenly, like he needs assurance.
You cup his jaw, your thumb tracing his lower lip gently. “Without a doubt.”
He kisses you again, slowly this time – there’s no rush there. Then he breaks it, forehead resting against yours one more time.
“I just want the truth,” he says.
You blink innocently. “About?”
“About who told her. Because someone clearly did.”
You scoff at him. “Oh my god. You think I did.”
“I think that she didn’t pull that level of confidence out of thin air,” he says confidently.
You poke at his bare chest. “She’s known you since high school. She absolutely pulled it out of thin air.”
“She said I hear it all the time” he protests.
“And? You think I sat her down and went ‘hey Robin, fun fact about Steve Harrington–’”
He opens his mouth and then closes it.
“…Okay, when you put it like that, no.”
“Thank you,” you say smugly, flopping back against the pillows.
But he doesn’t let it go.
“But,” he continues, “I have not described myself in detail to her.”
You snort. “Steve. She’s your best friend.”
“That doesn’t mean I…”
“You absolutely have,” you interrupt him, giggling. “You’ve complained. You’ve bragged. You’ve said things like ‘it’s not my fault’ and ‘it’s a real problem sometimes.’”
Steve groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That was one time.”
You grin. “Which is enough.”
“You’re enjoying this.” He turns toward you, accusing.
“Immensely.”
“So you’re saying she knows because I told her.” He presses and you snort.
“I’m saying you walked yourself into this.”
Steve exhales, falling back dramatically. “Unbelievable. I share my feelings with my best friend and suddenly it’s a weapon.”
You lean over him, resting your chin on his chest. “You brought a knife to a Robin Buckley fight.”
He laughs, his chest rumbles under your chin, an arm sliding around you. “Next time she says something like that, I’m blaming you.”
You hum. “Fair. But next time she says something like that…”
He raises an eyebrow.
"...you’re not allowed to look proud.” You tap his chest lightly and he groans, his head tipping back.
“I did not look proud.” He mutters, though the curve tugged on his lips says he’s enjoying this.
“You did,” you say. “Just a little.”
He smiles, giving up, pulling you closer. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: You and Steve are exes who have managed to stay friendly after he decided to end your relationship. Robin plans a trip to Las Vegas, where it can get very chaotic – including strip poker, getting drunk in casinos, and stumbling through ridiculous drunken decisions.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader
Warnings: Alcohol use
Word count: 9.7k
The first mistake was agreeing to go to Vegas at all.
It was all Robin’s fault. She claimed it should be a celebratory trip, arguing you deserved a “happy place where the rules don’t apply” just for surviving the Upside Down.
Eddie Munson lit up at the idea, eager to make bad decisions without regrets. Nancy took over planning the entire week, and Dustin wouldn’t stop talking about finally being able to drink legally.
You only agreed because it was easier than explaining why you shouldn’t go.
Steve Harrington is going.
Steve, your ex-boyfriend, the one who said he wasn’t ready for a relationship if he didn’t have an established life. He was standing in a place where he needed to save money, figure out a way to go to college, and find a home of his own. He needed stability before he could commit, or so he said, and you’d tried to understand it, tried to convince yourself it was reasonable.
Your ex, the one who promised things would stay the same after breaking up with you, but it went the exact opposite. Every group hangout felt awkward and uncomfortable – you would force yourself to avoid staring at him for too long, especially when the stubble on his jaw grew just right, or when his laugh rang out so fully that you had to turn your head so you wouldn’t watch him. Every small gesture, every glance from him, carried weight.
Now you tell yourself you’re over him. You’ve practiced it, rehearsed it in your head so often that the words almost sound convincing when you say them to yourself. Or at least, that’s what you think. Because the moment he appears, the memories, the feelings, the weight of what you lost… it’s all still there, quietly pressing against your chest even if you try to ignore it.
You’ve saved money for months just to fly to Vegas. The idea seemed better than being trapped in a van for a day or two with loud conversations, arguments over who controlled the radio, and the constant complaints of “you didn’t fill the fucking tank?”. The thought of a plane felt like freedom. But the airport itself immediately tests your plans: it’s bright, loud, and crowded, and you’re already standing in line with Robin talking at your side, words spilling over each other, too many to process, and you realize you aren’t even listening.
Steve is there, leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t care that he’s late. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying (and failing) to look completely relaxed. He isn’t nervous because you’re here; he’s nervous because he hates flying. Turbulence makes his stomach twist. He’d rather drive across the entire country than sit on a plane, and it shows.
Eddie, of course, is oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil. He’s jabbering nonstop, telling story after story, loud and animated, pointing at things no one can see or care about. Steve nods along absentmindedly, letting the words wash over him without really listening. He keeps one hand in his pocket, the other tapping against his leg, a subtle rhythm to keep himself grounded.
He smiles when he sees you. It’s automatic. Soft. But it goes just as quickly as it came.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
There's tension between the words, like you've never noticed the rhythm of his breathing when he sleeps. And Eddie notices, of course.
“Well,” he claps his hands together. “This trip just got interesting.”
You're sitting next to Nancy, Steve across the aisle from you. His knees angled to the other side, like being close to you might mean something. Like he's afraid of proximity. His hand tightens on the armrest when the plane dips, his knuckles turning white immediately. You remember how he hates turbulence, but you don't reach for him. And neither does he.
You listen to Eddie speaking to an elderly woman who's already too entertained. She holds his thigh and pinches his cheeks as if he's her grandson. Occasionally, Steve can hear your giggles from Eddie's conversations, and his stomach flips. It's a weird sensation, he swore to himself he had done the right thing.
Vegas hits you like a sensory overload: too loud, too bright, too crowded. You hate crowds, and the thought of being pressed into the same space as dozens of strangers makes your chest tighten.
Eddie notices immediately, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “Relax,” he assures. “I’ve got you.” The small gesture makes you feel safer as the crowd surges around you.
Dustin, of course, is the opposite. He shrieks at the Fremont Street Experience, pointing wildly at the dazzling lights. You can’t help but smile a little, clinging to Eddie’s arm while chaos swirls around you.
“Dude, I really need to gamble,” he says, eyes wide and bright. “Okay, maybe I don’t… but it would be really cool to play!”
“I’ll show you the casino,” Eddie says, clapping Dustin on the shoulder with a grin.
Robin unfolds the map Nancy brought, scanning the downtown attractions with serious determination. “We should definitely start with the zip line!”
You and Nancy nod in agreement, while Steve lingers nearby, standing close enough to listen as Eddie and Dustin argue over the order of things. Finally, Eddie declares that the whole group is going on the zip line first, and then hitting the casinos after.
“You still hate heights?” Steve asks while walking beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.
You purse your lips and nod. “I kinda hate the idea, but I don't want to be a party wrecker since everyone is going.”
He knows you hate heights, hate them enough that a panic attack isn’t out of the question. Being in a plane is bad, sure, but at least you feel safer enclosed in metal, away from the open air. This… this is a different kind of terrifying. Eddie goes first. He screams the instant he jumps, his voice echoing through the entire area. You can’t help but laugh, even if it’s nervous, as he flails wildly before the line swishes him across.
You try to step forward next, but your fear roots you to the platform. Robin leans over, grinning, trying to convince you to go before her. You shake your head, refusing to look down. She frowns slightly, then gives you a sympathetic look before jumping anyway, screaming just like Eddie did. You swallow hard and glance back at Steve. He’s patiently waiting for his turn, shoulders relaxed but eyes on you.
The corner of his lips quirks up into a small, comforting smile, and just like that, you feel a little steadier. Even if the fear hasn’t left, at least you’re not facing it alone.
“You don't have to if you don't want to.” He says, his voice warm.
You keep looking between him and the zip line, your heart thumping against your chest and your head pounding with dread. Just close your eyes and go.
The end of the zip line makes you exhale in relief. Your hands are still clenched around the rope, palms marked red from how tightly you held on. Your legs shake so badly you almost stumble when your feet hit the ground, breath coming out uneven. When you finally look up, your friends are cheering, smiles wide across their faces. Eddie whistles loudly and proudly, drawing the attention of anyone nearby to the whole group – and to you.
Steve taps your shoulder lightly, lips curved into a small smile. You return it without thinking, mouthing a soft thank you. He doesn’t say anything back. Just nods, then squeezes your shoulder once before letting his hand fall away.
“See? Not so difficult.”
You chuckle, still a little nervous. It feels weird to have him touching you again after months being apart. “Yeah, but I don't think I'll be doing that for another ten years.”
He huffs a laugh, quick and soft, his teeth flashing for just a second before he smooths his expression back into calm. You shake your head, smirking at him for a brief moment, then turn to catch up with the others.
Casinos and drinks don't actually go well together. It makes every tiny win feel like a gamble worth chasing, and suddenly even a single lost dollar feels like the world is collapsing. You know you shouldn’t waste money, but you also know it’s better to lose one dollar now than a hundred later.
Dustin being the perfect example. He grumbles and mutters under his breath whenever he loses, then yelps in exaggerated triumph when he wins a hand. He doesn’t even notice how much beer he’s been drinking, the golden liquid making his reactions louder, sillier, and completely unpredictable.
Robin convinces you to try something bright blue and dangerous. Eddie dares Steve to flirt with a blackjack dealer and Steve loses twenty bucks and his dignity. You laugh at that, you really laugh. It feels light and natural, and when you turn, Steve is watching you like he forgot how to breathe for a second.
You look away first.
You have been drinking more than it should be allowed, and by the time the bar changes the music and the lights seem dimmer, the past feels closer now. Steve ends up beside you without either of you acknowledging how. His arm brushes yours. Stays there.
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I think Eddie is going to be bankrupt in the next thirty minutes if he keeps playing blackjack.”
You chuckle, watching as your curly-haired friend finally rips his shirt off, joining Dustin in their ridiculous display. Robin gasps loudly, clutching her chest like someone just shot a cannon of embarrassment straight at her. Nancy isn’t far behind – she laughs so hard she spills her drink, the liquid sloshing onto the table. The scene pulls a laugh from both you and Steve as well, messy and uncontrollable, and for a moment you forget about everything else.
You exchange a quick glance, the corners of your mouths twitching, while Dustin runs around like a man possessed, oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. Even in the mess and drunken silliness, the two of you feel the spark of something more beneath it all; fun, chaotic, and entirely impossible to ignore.
“God, they're so stupid.” You say, your laughter slowly dying as you sip on your drink. Steve agrees, nearly slurring something unintelligible.
The night goes on in a blur of bad ideas, too much drinking, and loud, careless laughter. You and Steve keep a careful distance from each other, only now and then with small, easy conversations about the hotel you’re staying at. About the way Dustin talks too much when he’s drunk, about nothing that matters and everything that does. The next day, you visit the Bellagio Fountain. Steve drives, having rented a car just so you could see more of the city. Later, you go shopping with Robin and Nancy, wandering store after store, while the guys stay back at the hotel, excited to spend the afternoon by the pool.
The second day in Vegas started off chaotic. Everyone is half-drunk and wandering through the casino, people are dressed in ridiculous costumes. There’s a giant dice, and a guy as a hot dog for some reason and it makes everyone burst out in laughs. You’re feeling dangerous, armed with a sharpie that can barely be erased by water. You sneak up to Steve first. You notice him for the first time today: his baseball cap is on backwards, the brim tilted just over his messy hair.
It’s a small thing, really – just a stupid little backwards cap, but somehow it sets you off. You blink, and the sight of him, all casual confidence and playful smirk, makes your chest tighten in a way that’s entirely unfair. Your hand darts out before you can stop it, scrawling a tiny, ridiculous mustache across his jawline.
“Don’t even–” He starts, but you’re faster, drawing a silly mustache across his face with a grin.
He freezes for a second, then bursts out laughing, dragging the sharpie back at you before you can react. Soon, your arms are brushing as he doodles random swirls and stars on your arm, smudging some of your previous scribbles. You laugh so hard you almost drop the marker.
“Okay, fine,” you gasp. “But now it’s fair game.”
Your eyes land on Eddie, leaning casually against a blackjack table and laughing at Dustin attempting to imitate a showgirl. You step toward him and jab your marker onto his arm, drawing a simple crown. He looks down and shakes his head, a smirk crossing his feature. But before you know it, he’s already drawing small flames on your wrist – Robin is scribbling little lightning bolts across Dustin’s hand. Nancy joins in too, trying to write something witty on Steve’s other arm.
You both end up in the bathroom, laughing so hard it’s almost painful. You’re holding a damp paper towel, Steve has a tiny bottle of hotel soap, and the sharpie marks on your arms and his aren’t budging.
“Ugh, this is never coming off,” Steve groans, scrubbing at a star you drew across his forearm. “I look like a crazy person.”
“You are a crazy person,” you tease, smearing your own doodle even further in the process. “But it’s our kind of crazy.”
He shakes his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips despite the mess. “I think you made this permanent.”
You shrug, not really caring. “Temporary is boring anyway.”
You both kneel in front of the sink, shoulder to shoulder, arms wet and slippery with soap and water. It doesn’t matter which bathroom this is – you don’t even acknowledge it. There’s no one else here, and the world outside feels like a distant memory.
“Here, let me,” he says, reaching for your wrist, his fingers brushing yours as he scrubs at a heart you drew near your elbow.
You freeze for a second, and he laughs, though it’s soft this time. “It’s just sharpie, not poison.”
“I know,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself. “But your hands are warm.”
Steve clears his throat, avoiding your gaze, and presses on with the scrubbing. A little more soap, a little more water, and the black lines start to fade, though not entirely. It’s messy, uneven.
You reach for another soap, balancing on the slick floor, when you mistakenly step on the bar that slid under your foot. Time slows for a fraction of time as you slip – arms flailing and legs kicked out in the air, landing hard on your backside. The streaked mixture of water and soap splashes everywhere, and Steve loses it. He doubles over, cackling uncontrollably, holding his stomach as the corner of his eyes fill with tears of laughter.
“Oh my god! You’re… oh man, you are such a mess!”
You groan, sitting there soaked and sticky, water dripping down your hair and back, soap bubbles clinging to your arms.
“I hate you,” you sputter, though there’s a laugh breaking through the frustration.
“Love you,” he manages between cackles, pointing at your soaked self, eyes sparkling. “You just… this–” He shakes his head, still laughing. “This is hilarious.”
You glare at him, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward. “Wait… wait. You’re not going to help me up?”
Steve snorts, grabbing a towel and holding it out just out of reach. “Not until you admit this is exactly what you deserved.”
You take a wet, slippery hand and swipe at the towel anyway, tugging it toward you while he continues to cackle like a maniac.
“You’re awful,” you growl, dripping soap and ink everywhere.
“And you’re adorable,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You freeze mid-groan. Your laughter falters. “Wait… what?”
Steve glances at you, and suddenly the laughter catches in his throat. The sparkle in his eyes dulls just a little. “I– I mean, not like– uh…” He waves his hands vaguely, his face getting red immediately, clearly aware he’s crossed some invisible line.
You blink at him, sticky water dripping down your arm, the sharpie smudges making it impossible to look serious, yet somehow, everything feels charged.
“Right… sure,” you mutter, unsure whether to laugh or roll your eyes.
There’s silence in the bathroom for a moment, except the chaos in the casino outside. Both of you know – despite being drunk – that there’s still distance, the breakup, in there. Beneath the laughter and the soap mess.
Steve clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “…Maybe we should just, uh… finish cleaning this up?”
You nod, brushing the wet hair from your face. “Yeah… that sounds like a good idea.”
You've been visiting countless casinos. This time, everyone seems to be drinking a lot more. You’re laughing harder now, Eddie decides it’s a brilliant idea to start taking his clothes off mid-poker game. Steve sits beside him, trying not to crack up, while the strangers at the table are just as drunk as they are. The whole scene is absurd, chaotic, and completely mesmerizing.
Meanwhile, Robin and Dustin are crouched by the coin pusher machine, furiously trying to strategize how to collect every last coin without getting scooped by it. They’re whispering, pointing, and occasionally nudging each other as if it’s the most critical mission in Vegas history.
You and Nancy find Eddie and Steve halfway across the casino floor, crowded around a table under harsh lights. There are chips scattered, drinks already sweating – long forgotten. Eddie is already down a jacket, grinning like he’s winning something, even when he’s not.
“Strip poker,” he announces proudly when he spots you. “Low stakes. High tragedy.”
You look at the table, then at them. “You’re all idiots.”
Eddie beams. “Sit.”
You do.
Steve doesn’t stop you. He just watches. His elbows rest on the table, his hands clasped with an unreadable expression. His eyes flick up when you slide into the empty chair – they take in the way you cross your legs, the way you tuck your hair back. Then he looks back down at his cards.
He tells himself it’s fine. Because he’s drunk enough to blame the alcohol. But that’s not exactly true.
Eddie quickly teaches you how to play.
A few rounds in, Eddie is down to a t-shirt and jeans, dramatically lamenting his downfall. One of the other guys has lost his hat and dignity. Steve is still fully dressed, but tense in a way that has nothing to do with the cards.
Then you lose a hand.
“All right,” Eddie says, clapping. “Rules are rules.”
You consider it for a second, then shrug and slip off your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the chair. Steve goes still. Like, statue-still. His jaw tightens, his eyes flick to the guy across the table, who suddenly looks a little too interested for his liking.
“You don’t have to do that,” Steve mutters.
“It’s a jacket,” you say lightly. “Relax.”
Another round, another loss. This time, you kick off your shoes and hook them over the chair leg. Harmless, it’s barely anything. Except now people are looking. Not staring, just noticing. You’re laughing, relaxed, leaning over the table as you check your cards. Someone whistles when you win a hand back.
Steve’s patience snaps like a rubber band.
“Hey,” he says sharply, glaring at the guy. “Eyes on your own cards.”
Eddie squints between the two of you. “Wow. This got intimate.”
You laugh under your breath, eyes squinting at how your lips stretch. He turns to you, attempting flattery, with a grace of a drunk raccoon. “M’lady, if anyone troubles you, I will–”
He trips over his chair. It’s fine. He recovers. Barely.
The table erupts.
Someone snorts. Someone else actually wheezes, Nancy covers her mouth, laughing so hard she has to bend over. You clap a hand over your face, shoulders shaking, laughter spilling out before you can stop it.
“Oh my god,” you manage between laughs. “Eddie.”
“I meant to do that,” he says from the floor, muffled but undeterred. “It was a… tactical maneuver.”
Steve laughs despite himself, loud and surprised, shaking his head as he reaches down to drag Eddie back up. “You are never defending anyone’s honor.”
Steve loses a hand, groans dramatically, and tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. The table goes insane.
“Oh my god,” Nancy laughs, clapping once before she can stop herself.
You cheer too. But half a second late, your breath ended up getting caught in your chest with the sight ahead of you. He stands there for a moment, his shirt dangling from his fingers, clearly aware of the attention but pretending not to be. His shoulders are broader than you remember. His arms look stronger, a lot more than it has always been before. And his chest – You freeze. You’ve forgotten he stopped shaving it.
There’s a light dusting of hair across his chest, darker at the center, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t. But your eyes stick. Like glue, and you don’t even realize you’ve stopped smiling until Nancy elbows you gently in the side. Steve lifts both arms to rake a hand through his hair, stretching without thinking about it, muscles shifting under skin like he’s not doing anything deliberate at all. The movement sends a sharp, electric jolt straight through you.
Your mouth twitches, just a tiny, unconscious reaction, like your body remembers him before your brain can catch up. Like some old instinct flares awake and doesn’t bother asking permission. She notices it, bright and clear. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just turns her head slowly, eyebrows lifting the barest fraction. Her gaze flicks from your face to Steve’s chest and back again.
Oh, no.
You force yourself to blink, to look away, to reach for your drink like nothing just happened. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Too loud. Steve doesn’t notice. He’s busy tossing his shirt onto the pile, grinning at Eddie like he’s won something instead of lost.
But Nancy leans in close, her voice low and amused.
“You good?” she asks, sweetly innocent.
You swallow. “Fine.”
She hums, unconvinced.
Again, you lose. You have to pick between your shirt and your skirt – for obvious reasons, you would definitely not strip in front of everyone and show your underwear. Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. His brain very clearly short-circuits.
Steve stiffens immediately. Not visibly, there’s no sudden movement, but something in him goes tight, alert, like he’s bracing for impact. Nancy leans back in her chair, folding her arms, already smiling. She knows exactly what’s about to happen. Eddie points vaguely in your direction, then at Steve, then back at you.
“I… Okay, I just want to be clear that I am being very respectful right now.”
“You are sweating,” Nancy says mildly.
“I am thinking,” Eddie insists. “Carefully.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the cards on the table like they personally they're more interesting, his jaw working once as if he’s wearing out a thought he absolutely does not want to have in public.
You raise an eyebrow. “It’s just a shirt. Or a skirt. Relax.”
Steve finally looks up, aiming a sharp glare directly at Eddie, who immediately lifts both hands. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not suggesting anything! I am a gentleman!”
“You fell over a chair ten minutes ago,” Nancy reminds him.
“Physical setbacks do not negate moral values.”
You laugh, shaking your head, and decide to put everyone out of their misery. You hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt – and Steve sucks in a strangled breath. You tug the shirt up and off, revealing a laced top bra underneath it. Nothing scandalous, it’s perfectly decent, and you actually feel relieved for choosing a good piece of lingerie. The table goes quiet for half a second.
Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the past thirty seconds, shoulders dropping just a fraction. He looks away quickly, then back, with an expression that seems neutral, but inside he’s fighting off the urge to lick his lips – he swallows thickly.
Eddie slaps the table. “I need another drink. For reasons.”
Steve clears his throat, reaching for his glass without looking at anyone. “Yeah. Same.”
Nancy catches your eye, amused and knowing. Oh, she has clocked everything.
By the time the game ends, you and your friends sit down by the table to grab some food and more drinks.
“You totally didn't, that guy destroyed you two.” You say, offering your drink to Steve, who grasps the glass from your hand. Your fingers brush, and he clears his throat, struggling to pretend nothing happened.
“Oh, really? Because he was on the verge of taking his briefs off!” He shoots back, scoffing. “And by the way, who even wears briefs?”
You nearly choke to his outrage, and it only worsens when Eddie protests. “Hey, I do!”
It only takes a few seconds before the four of you burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter, everything dissolving into noise and chaos. Eddie spits his beer everywhere, and you and Steve end up nearly on top of each other, fighting for the same chair.
“You two should get married!” Nancy says, out of the blue.
You look at her, she smiles at you and Steve. The laughter dies instantly, leaving a heavy silence – only Eddie’s quiet giggle breaks it.
“You absolutely should.” Robin cuts in as she sits between you.
You both look at each other before laughing again. This time it's louder, careless.
The neon lights buzz softly in pink and blue as the sign flickers. The carpet is red and the aisle is narrow. You walk in wearing a makeshift veil they offer – you agreed to be there as part of the joke. Your dress is just a skirt and the top bra you’re still wearing from earlier, though Robin insisted that the veil would make it “official”.
Standing at the end of the aisle, Steve wears a crooked bow tie. It makes him look ridiculous and pretty all at once. His shirt is all kneaded, his hair still tousled from his hands running through it the entire night – he looks at you like he’s not really sure what is happening, but he’s not backing out. The officiant wears a priest’s collar that’s very much obviously plastic.
“Welcome,” he says cheerfully, already slurring just a little. “To the sacred institution of–”
“Elvis!” Dustin yells, a shriek of laughter coming from him.
Heads turn directly at the Elvis Presley cover wearing a jumpsuit full of rhinestone as he steps forward from the corner. Your friends are perched and leaning into each other, whispering loudly like they’re watching a movie, and it’s already being ruined.
Robin fans herself with a pamphlet. “I can’t believe this is real.”
“This is absolutely real,” Eddie says. “I will be telling this story forever.”
Steve glances over his shoulder. “Can you all… just–”
They don’t close their mouths, just keep the conversation muffled. There are giggling and whisper shouting that you can still hear. You step up beside Steve while he offers you his arm without thinking about it. You take it without hesitation. The contact shifts the air just a little.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Bob continues, “we are gathered here tonight because… Vegas.”
Laughter erupts from the benches, and you look up at him through the veil.
“Okay,” you say, pointing at him. “You.”
“Me,” he agrees.
You clear your throat. Immediately forget everything you meant to say.
“So. Um.” You laugh. “I promise to… not steal your fries. Except sometimes. When you’re not looking.”
“Impossible,” Steve murmurs.
Eddie wipes a fake tear. “Beautiful.”
Steve’s turn. He rubs his face, then looks at you like he’s trying to focus through water.
“Okay. Uh. I promise–” He pauses. “I promise to always come get you. Even if it’s late. Or scary. Or there are government guys.”
Robin gasps. “Romantic.”
“And I promise to carry heavy stuff,” he adds, gesturing vaguely. “Like bags. Or groceries. Or emotional baggage.”
You snort. Eddie makes an emotional choking noise. Nancy elbows him hard. Steve is smiling, it’s soft and real.
The officiant raises his hands. “By the extremely real authority vested in me–”
“Elvis!” Eddie shouts, jolting Dustin awake. He’d barely slept through the first few words before the vows.
Elvis strums three loud, incorrect chords.
“You may kiss–”
You lean in too fast. Steve laughs into it, the veil catches on his bow tie. He pulls back, and you lean in with a stumble, giggling when he steadies you with both of his hands around your waist. You share a single, slight, quick kiss – just a brush of lips, nothing more. It’s sloppy, unpracticed. Steve grins against your mouth, lifting you slightly as if to spin the both of you, and promptly loses his balance.
The two of you tumble forward, landing face-first on the floor with a thud. Laughter erupts again from your friends. You groan for half a second, your cheeks are pressed to the carpet, and then break into laughter yourself, muffled against Steve’s shoulder as he tries to regain himself, hair falling into his eyes.
He holds your hand like it’s instinct, vows that are half jokes and half painfully sincere. The others watch from their seats, while the cover sings “Can't Help Falling in Love With You” as you two share a kiss you won't even remember.
The chapel door bangs open and Vegas hits you. The three people behind you are still giggling, and Eddie keeps announcing that you’re all legally bound to absolutely no one. Some tourists passing clap either way, and Robin grabs your hands and lifts them.
“Just married,” she basically yells.
“Please don’t,” you say, laughing. The veil already long forgotten behind you in the chapel. Steve stumbles behind after throwing out his bow tie, squinting at the glowing sign above the chapel.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s… that’s permanent, right?”
Nancy adjusts her purse strap, already smiling like she’s going to remember this for the rest of her life. “It’s Nevada. Probably.”
Dustin fumbles with his disposable camera. “Everyone together! No, don’t move, wait—”
The flash goes off too early.
“Great,” Eddie says. “That’s a thumb.”
“So,” Steve says, leaning into you so you can hear him over the noise, “what do married people do in the eighties?”
You think about it. “Probably get drinks. Maybe dance to something with a terrible keyboard solo.”
“I really need a hot dog right now.” Dustin announces with a groan.
Eddie squints at him. “Buddy, we are celebrating a wedding.”
Dustin doesn’t move. “I want a hot dog.”
Everyone is still very drunk – not the quiet or manageable drunk, the kind of drunk where sitting on a curb while eating a hot dog feels more fun than actually having a proper wedding. Nancy takes a sip of her soda that she doesn’t remember buying, lifting it as if she’s about to make a toast.
“I just want to say,” she announces, swaying slightly but determined, “that this was my idea.”
You look at her. “The hot dogs?”
“No,” Nancy says, offended. “The wedding.”
Eddie cackles from beside her, almost choking on a piece of the hot dog, Dustin elbows him incessantly like someone had just told him the funniest joke.
Eddie snorts. “You said, ‘You guys should totally get married.’”
“That’s a suggestion.”
Robin grins, nudging Nancy’s shoulder with hers. “And then I said, ‘Yes, do it.’”
“And then,” Dustin adds with a mouthful of hot dog, “everyone yelled.”
Nancy nods, satisfied. “Group effort.”
Eddie lifts his hot dog like it’s a microphone. “I provided moral support.”
Steve looks between all of you, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh.
“…I can’t believe you people.”
Robin bumps his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
You take another bite of your hot dog, smiling into the night.
Still drunk. Still laughing. Still very much married.
You wake up with a pounding headache, the light seeping through the curtain that isn't dark enough to hide the sun rays peeking from the edges of the window. Silence fills the room as you push yourself against your elbows and look around, finding Robin and Nancy still asleep. Your throat burns from thirst, your body heavy in a way that feels almost unnatural.
You stare ahead, trying to remember the night before – fragments of memory coming to your mind. The strip poker you played, a dancing contest with Robin and Dustin. Too many suspicious drinks with weird colors, and an Elvis Presley cover.
Why the fuck was there an Elvis Presley cover at the casino?
At breakfast, no one seems to be handling the hangover particularly well. Eddie’s hair is pulled into a messy bun, Dustin fast asleep where he slumps against his forearm, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Steve wears sunglasses indoors, and Nancy quietly pours water for Robin like it’s a matter of survival.
“So, are we gonna talk about the wedding?” Robin asks suddenly.
Apart from Dustin, everyone else glances at each other for a few seconds. You furrow your brows. Who got married?
“What wedding, Robs?” Steve asks first, missing the clue in the way she looks straight at you for a brief second.
She stifles a giggle, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well duh, you and sunshine?”
You both turn to look at each other at the exact same time – and immediately regret it. Your head is still pounding, your stomach can barely keep food down, and now this?
That’s when a few things come back to you. A neon chapel. A fake priest. One white veil, one bow tie… and a fucking Elvis Presley cover.
“Oh, shit.” He mutters, shutting his eyes.
“There's no way we did that, is there?” You whisper to him, who still can't look at you.
His head hangs low, heart racing, and for a moment everything seems to slow down. Did he really get married to you while being completely drunk?
The moment turns into an awkward silence, Nancy and Robin trying to disguise how uncomfortable the situation became, while Eddie is the only one smiling.
“Oh, this trip keeps getting more fun.”
Steve lifts his head and sends his friend a glare. “Shut up, Munson.”
Eddie frowns and shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
You don’t want to discuss it in front of your friends — not when things with Steve have already shifted. The two of you don’t talk for the rest of the day, an uncomfortable tension settling in the space between you.
Robin tries to convince him it wasn’t the worst idea ever, while you and Nancy keep the mood light, retreating to the spa to gossip and avoid thinking too hard. Meanwhile, Dustin and Eddie are thriving.
“So. Married life. You guys thinking kids or…?” He jokes during afternoon coffee, getting kicked in the shin by Nancy. “What?”
Robin won't stop calling you Mrs. Harrington, and Dustin keeps asking if he's going to be the best man.
You decide to stay at the hotel, get some rest, find something – anything – more relaxing to do. After dinner, you settle into a chair in the lounge area. Low jazz music fills the space as you flip through the book you brought but never quite had time to read.
“Who reads a book in Las Vegas?”
His voice startles you. You lift your gaze to meet his hazel eyes as he takes a seat across from you.
“If I step foot in a casino again, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my mind.”
He chuckles, but the tension creeps up his neck. He chews on the inside of his cheek, careful not to look at you for too long.
“How are you?” His voice is cautious, like the question might take a wrong turn if he’s not careful.
You huff, setting the book aside and drawing in a deep breath. “Oh, I’m delighted. Robin won’t stop calling me Mrs. Harrington, and I’m pretty sure Nancy already has a wedding reception planned for when we get back.”
“That bad?” You shrug. “We were so drunk, I didn’t even remember there was an Elvis Presley.”
Your lips purse as a small pause settles between you. You notice how uneasy he looks, the way his right leg keeps bouncing, the way he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.
“I know I shouldn't be too worried, but it doesn't mean anything, right?” You ask. He looks at your lips, then at your eyes. Steve nods repeatedly, as though he's telling himself that it's the truth.
That it didn't mean anything. That your vows were just made up for a performance.
His tone isn't sharp, more like aggravated for pretending that he agrees with you. “Yeah, sure. Of course. So, we should annul it?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”
A silence that stretched for several seconds turned into something completely awkward. Again.
“We don't even remember it.” He says, defensively. You both chuckle nervously, he keeps tapping his fingers against the table.
You’ll be back in Hawkins in two days, and you don’t even know where to go from there. Something nudges at you from the inside, like a quiet, restless feeling that makes you stare down at your book like it might hold the answer you’re looking for.
Robin groans again, fingers tugging at her hair. Dustin watches with his arms folded, clearly amused, while Eddie and Nancy roll their eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in ten minutes.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You absolutely kissed.”
Dustin sits on the arm of the chair with his arms folded, watching the whole thing like it’s his favorite rerun. There’s a smug little smile on his face, the kind that says he’s enjoying this far too much to intervene.
You and Steve sit side by side on the bed, shoulders almost touching, the space between you loud with everything you’re not saying. She paces as he talks, gesturing excessively.
“I remember it very clearly,” she insists. “You were both standing there, and you…” she points at you, "...were laughing so hard you could barely talk, and you…” now Steve, "...kept fixing that stupid bow tie like it was gonna save you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you say immediately.
Steve nods. “Didn’t mean a thing.”
Robin scoffs. “Then the vows.”
“There were no vows,” you say.
“They barely counted,” Steve adds quickly. “It was just… words.”
Eddie snorts. “Words are usually what vows are, man.”
Nancy sighs. “You promised fries.”
“That’s not a commitment,” you argue.
“You kissed,” Robin says again, firmer this time.
“Nope.”
“No.”
You both say it at once.
“It was barely a kiss,” Steve adds, after a beat. “Like... accidental.”
“Your faces were touching,” Dustin says cheerfully.
Eddie laughs, falling back against the wall. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend none of it counted?”
“Isn’t that the whole idea? Getting married in a fake chapel, with a fake officiant. With a fucking Elvis Presley cover?” Your voice gets exasperated, and Steve forces himself to seem unbothered.
Nancy pinches the bridge of her nose. “You signed paperwork.”
Steve blinks. “…allegedly.”
Robin throws her hands up. “You were smiling!”
“That also doesn’t mean anything,” Steve says, a little too fast.
Silence settles for a moment, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint noise of Vegas outside the window.
You stare at the carpet. Steve stares at his hands. But the truth is, he wishes he could say it was real. Even if it wasn’t how he imagined getting married. Even if it was messy and drunk and nothing like it was supposed to be. Your words cut straight through him. The way you dismiss it, the firmness in your tone, the way you refuse to entertain even the possibility.
It makes his stomach churn, nausea rising as he forces himself to stay quiet.
“I loved you before I knew how to be good at it.” He slurs, but his demeanor is earnest.
You laugh and cry at the same time. “You always come back when it matters.”
Your friends cheer you up, Elvis Presley sings, and the officiant asks if anyone objects and the entire group yelling a hard “no”.
You share a single, slight and quick kiss. There's no tongue, just a brush of lips. He tries to pick you up, but he loses balance and you both fall face flat on the floor, drawing a laugh from your friends. You laugh, reciprocating the drunken glances.
You sit still, eyes fixed on the floor, not moving an inch from your spot on the bed. Your hands are folded in your lap like you’re bracing yourself for impact. The room is quiet in that way that isn’t peaceful at all. You can feel it, the weight of everyone’s attention pressing in on you. Robin has stopped pacing. Eddie has gone uncharacteristically still. Even Dustin’s usual fidgeting has paused. They’re all waiting. Watching. Like if they just give you enough time, you’ll say it.
Because for half a second, you almost do.
And then the memory crashes in, sharp and unwelcome. Steve standing there months ago, eyes full of something that looked like regret but sounded like certainty. Him deciding, on his own, that you were better off without him. Him letting go first. Him giving up.
You swallow.
“I still think it was a mistake.” Your voice cuts through the silence. Eddie mumbles under his breath and Robin groans once again.
Nancy doesn’t say anything. She just watches you, really watches you, her jaw tight as her gaze flicks from you to the doorway. Because Steve has left. You hadn’t even heard him move. At some point while you were staring at the floor and fighting old wounds, he stood up, crossed the room, and walked out without a word. The door didn’t slam. It didn’t need to.
“You're so wrong about it.” Dustin mutters, breaking the silence. His arms still folded.
The air feels heavier without him in the room. Like something unfinished just walked away. You stay where you are, eyes still on the floor, heart pounding too loud in your ears. Because admitting it mattered would mean admitting it hurt. And admitting it hurt would mean facing the fact that this time he didn’t stay.
You were not wrong, though. Getting married like that – drunk, impulsive, in the middle of Las Vegas, was a mistake, for starters. The whole thing was wrong to begin with. You shouldn’t have been standing under flickering neon, wearing a borrowed veil, saying vows you barely understood to your ex while your friends treated it like a spectacle. You shouldn’t have been laughing through something that clearly still had impact.
And you definitely shouldn’t be sitting in a hotel room now, replaying a relationship that already ended once.
So you leave.
You don’t announce it. You don’t grab anyone’s attention. You just stand, slip out the door, and let the hallway swallow you whole. The carpet muffles your steps, the lights buzz over your head. Somewhere far away, someone laughs too loud, and it makes your chest tighten.
You wander until the noise thins out, until the air feels cooler.
The garden is quiet, too oddly quiet for Vegas. You sink plop onto a stone bench and stare at the ground, jaw tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you might unravel if you don’t hold on.
You don’t know how long you’ve been there when you hear footsteps behind you.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up.
Eddie drops down beside you anyway, close but not hovering, like his presence is familiar enough to be annoying in the way only he can manage. He studies you for a second, then slides an arm around your shoulders and leans his head lightly against yours.
“You know,” he says, voice low, almost gentle, “that was pretty stupid.”
You let out a sharp breath through your nose.
“It's not stupid, Eds. He broke up with me.”
Eddie hums, like he’s turning the thought over. “Maybe he thought it was better that way,” he says. “And maybe this…” he gestures vaguely back toward the hotel. "...was the second chance you needed.”
You scoff, the sound bitter, and nudge yourself out from under his arm. “At a fucking Las Vegas fake chapel?”
He snorts. “Yeah. Fair.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Eddie turns toward you, more serious now.
“I don’t think you really mean that,” he says. “See… there’s this quote. Goes something like–” he squints, clearly calculating his thoughts, "‘a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.’”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your silence stretches, heavy and telling, and Eddie sees it immediately. His shoulders sag just a little as he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s tired but not surprised.
“M'not gonna keep intruding, but sweetheart... don't be stupid.”
He stands and smiles sweetly at you before leaving.
During dinner, no one said anything about it anymore. Your friends found other subjects to talk about. You had barely touched your food, and Steve sat across the table from you, his eyes fighting to not find you.
Steve is quiet after that. You both stayed behind at the hotel while the others headed out to the fair. Only a hallway separates you now. A few doors. It feels ridiculous how small the distance is, and how impossible it seems to cross. Eddie tried to talk to him. Eddie’s voice low and earnest, Steve’s replies clipped and evasive. He dodged every word of advice like it might bruise him. Because what would it change?
You’d made it clear. It was a mistake, you don’t love him anymore. And he should’ve known better than to hope otherwise.
You run into him later in the lobby, the bar half-lit and quiet. He’s already seated, waiting for a drink, elbows resting on the counter like he’s holding himself in place. The bartender slides a glass his way just as you approach. Your head is still echoing with Eddie’s voice. With the stupid quote. With the way he looked at you like he could see straight through your denial.
You sit on the stool beside Steve. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even acknowledge you’re there.
“So...” you say, waiting for him to look at you. “You think it was a good idea?”
Steve’s fingers curl around the rim of the glass. The thick brown liquid inside sways as he sets it down on the counter, slowly. His shoulders tense, just slightly, but you miss it.
“I think it doesn’t mean anything.” He turns his head then, quick and sharp, finally looking at you. There’s a faint smile on his face, forced so tight it almost hurts to see. “Like you said,” he adds. “It was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than you expect. A jab straight to the chest. A physical ache would’ve been easier.
You swallow, pushing through it, “should we cancel it?”
He huffs under his breath and lifts the glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey. He didn’t want this question. You can feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he avoids you again. But he feels cornered, whether you mean to or not, forcing him to agree with you – forcing him to admit how wrong it all was.
“I mean, yeah. Isn't that what you want?” He doesn't look at you this time, his eyes are fixed at some invisible point at the bar.
No.
“Yes.”
The word comes out clean. Final. A lie that sounds convincing even to your own ears.
Steve closes his eyes for half a second. He doesn’t look at you, he can’t. You can almost feel how close he is to breaking if he does. Instead, he stares at the glass in his hand and downs the rest of the drink in one go, the alcohol burning its way down like it might loosen the knot stuck in his throat.
“Then we'll do it.” It lands a little hard, he doesn’t soften it. Steve doesn’t take it back.
And you hate yourself for it, because this time, you know you’ve crossed the line. You were afraid, and stubborn. And hurting. By the time the realization sinks in, it’s already too late.
The damage is done.
The trip ended with a sour taste, but at least someone got something good out of it. Dustin had the time of his life; Eddie made bad decisions and ended up regretting all of them. Robin came back five hundred dollars richer and Nancy kept telling her that it was dirty money, trying to kill her mood – it didn't.
You sit a few rows behind Steve on the plane.
The weather is awful. Rain dribbles down the windows, the clouds are thick and angry, and the turbulence never really lets up. The plane jolts hard enough at one point that Steve reaches out on instinct and grabs Eddie’s hand. He never hears the end of it.
Eddie laughs so hard he nearly chokes, immediately launching into jokes about what a gentleman Steve is, how brave he is for enduring “a little shaking.” Steve shoves him, mortified, but there’s a crack of laughter there too. For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Almost.
When the plane finally touches down in Hawkins, things settle back into place. Or… close enough to pretend they have. You try to talk to him. You really do. You catch him alone once, heart in your throat, ready to fix it, to say the words you should’ve said back in that bar. But he shuts it down gently and quickly, tells you to pretend it’s just paperwork. Nothing more. After that, Steve disappears.
He decides to spend the rest of the vacation with his piblings, vanishing into family plans and forced cheer, putting as much distance between you as he can manage without being cruel about it. You feel it anyway. The absence. The deliberate space.
You feel bad.
Guilty.
And there’s something else too, something gnawing at you. Like a feeling you can’t quite name but can’t shake either. You want to fix things, to talk it through, but every time you call, he doesn’t answer. His aunt keeps saying he’s busy with relatives — and you know it isn’t true, because he still finds time to talk to Eddie and Dustin. Just not you.
He came back quieter, at least toward you. No small talk, no sharing glances, not even a word beyond “hi” and “bye” during your group hangouts. Mike and Lucas notice. They exchange looks when Steve goes out of his way to sit across the room from you, when he changes conversations so they don’t stand too close to anything resembling Vegas. He never mentions the wedding. Not once. You caught him laughing with Eddie, joking with Robin, listening intently to Nancy’s rambling plans – but when it came to you, he went quiet. Polite. Neutral.
Like strangers who shared a past no one wanted to bring up. And it hurt more than fighting ever did. The worst part is that you knew why.
You remember the night he broke up with you, how he looked exhausted, like he’d been carrying the decision around for weeks. How he kept rubbing the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the skin like he was bracing himself for something that was bound to hurt no matter how carefully he handled it.
He didn’t explain much. Just said it would be better for both of you. That he needed time to get settled first.
Things have been different ever since you came back from the trip. He flirted with other girls – something he’d stopped doing when you were together. Went on a few dates. Smiled at any girl that crossed his path. Played the part convincingly enough that most people bought it. But there was always something pulling him back. Something unfinished.
And you watch it happen in slow motion now, watch him slip further and further away from you, choosing distance over confrontation, silence over honesty.
You let him go every day.
And somehow, it hurts every time.
It isn’t until you find him alone in the kitchen that you finally decide you can’t keep doing this.
The house is loud everywhere else, voices too loud in the living room, music playing too quietly to matter, someone laughing too hard at nothing. But the kitchen is calm, and Steve stands in front of the refrigerator, door open. He stares inside like he’s forgotten what he came for. He grabs a soda, the bottle hissing when he twists the cap, and that’s when you step in.
“It was never a mistake”
The words leave you before you can overthink them.
Steve stills. Just for a second, but you see it. His shoulders tense, his hand tightens around the bottle. He doesn’t turn right away.
“Really,” he finally says, his voice carefully controlled and even. But still hurt. “Because you made it very clear back there.”
“I didn't mean that.” You swallow.
He lets out a short, humorless breath and turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “I think you did,” he says. “I think you said it.”
You almost waver, despite your effort to keep your voice steady. “I said it because you broke up with me first. Because you decided, without asking me, that we were better off without each other.”
His brow furrows. “That’s not–”
“You didn't want me to fight for us, and you didn't give me a reasonable explanation.”
He closes his eyes, throwing his head back. His throat bobs and he shifts on his foot. Steve has been absolutely wrecked ever since he tried to pretend that you were doing better that way, that he was only going to slow you down while he was being stuck.
He looks at you, something raw about his expression. Like it’s hurt, buried and uncovered.
“Fine, you wanna know why?” He asks without waiting for your response. “I didn’t want to be the reason you settled, I didn’t want you staying with me and wondering what else you could’ve had.”
Your throat tightens.
“I never thought you were a failure,” you say. “Not once. You decided that for me.”
He looks up then, eyes glassy, disbelieving.
He drags a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture making your throat ache. “But when you said it was a mistake… it felt like confirmation. Like I finally did the right thing by walking away.”
You step closer, shaking your head. “I was angry. I was hurt. And I thought if I said it first, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
It hangs there, everything you never said, everything he assumed. Neither of you moves.
“You were going places,” he says. “And I was… stuck.”
“Steve... you were surviving,” you correct. “Just like the rest of us.”
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have had to wait for me to catch up.”
“I wasn’t waiting,” you say, stepping even closer now. “I was choosing you.”
That’s when he breaks.
Not dramatically. His breath is quietly shuddering, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding something up for far too long.
“I thought letting you go was the right thing,” he murmurs.
“You don’t get to decide what’s right for me,” you say softly. “Not anymore.”
The tension eases slowly. Steve leans into you before either of you realizes it, his chest brushes against yours, shoulder pressing against yours in a way that feels tentative but grounding. His breaths are uneven and shaky, and you can feel them against your neck, a rhythm caught somewhere between relief and fear.
You let your hand brush his arm, careful at first, then more confidently as the seconds pass. The kitchen noises fade into the background – and nothing matters except this fragile closeness.
“You okay?” you murmur softly, barely above the fridge’s hum.
He nods, though his shoulders still tremble slightly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”
You press your forehead lightly against his temple, letting him breathe you in, letting him know you’re here. The moment stretches, gentle and quiet, a small reconciliation that doesn’t need words.
“At least we had Elvis Presley singing at our wedding.” You joke, your voice soft.
Steve snorts, a laugh catching in his throat. He wipes his cheeks, sniffling. “God, that is kind of lame.”
You step closer and lift your thumbs gently to his face, brushing away the stray tears. You trail them down his cheeks to his chin, careful, lingering. “I think that was kind of cool,” you whisper.
His eyes follow your movements, scanning your face like he’s memorizing every line, every expression. Your eyes, your cheeks, your lips – they’re all his focus now.
“And I think Nancy said we also had a cake, I'm just not sure what fl-”
He cuts you off without warning.
Steve’s lips are on yours before you can finish the thought, fast and urgent, and the world stops. You freeze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before letting go of the hesitation. You give him permission, matching him, letting your tongues swipe together carefully and desperate.
He groans softly against your mouth, and something in the sound makes your chest tighten.
Because you feel it. You feel the longing he’s carried since the minute he walked away. Every restrained glance, every stiff shoulder, every quiet avoidance, they all crash into this kiss. He’s been holding himself back for months, and now he doesn’t have to. You pull back just slightly, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. His eyes are wide, almost pleading, and you can feel the ache behind them.
“I never stopped loving you,” he admits.
You close the distance without thinking, pressing your lips to his again, softer this time, a promise without words.
And just like that, Vegas stops being about bad decisions. Because it led you back to him. It led him back to you.
Summary: You and Steve are exes who have managed to stay friendly after he decided to end your relationship. Robin plans a trip to Las Vegas, where it can get very chaotic – including strip poker, getting drunk in casinos, and stumbling through ridiculous drunken decisions.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader
Warnings: Alcohol use
Word count: 9.7k
The first mistake was agreeing to go to Vegas at all.
It was all Robin’s fault. She claimed it should be a celebratory trip, arguing you deserved a “happy place where the rules don’t apply” just for surviving the Upside Down.
Eddie Munson lit up at the idea, eager to make bad decisions without regrets. Nancy took over planning the entire week, and Dustin wouldn’t stop talking about finally being able to drink legally.
You only agreed because it was easier than explaining why you shouldn’t go.
Steve Harrington is going.
Steve, your ex-boyfriend, the one who said he wasn’t ready for a relationship if he didn’t have an established life. He was standing in a place where he needed to save money, figure out a way to go to college, and find a home of his own. He needed stability before he could commit, or so he said, and you’d tried to understand it, tried to convince yourself it was reasonable.
Your ex, the one who promised things would stay the same after breaking up with you, but it went the exact opposite. Every group hangout felt awkward and uncomfortable – you would force yourself to avoid staring at him for too long, especially when the stubble on his jaw grew just right, or when his laugh rang out so fully that you had to turn your head so you wouldn’t watch him. Every small gesture, every glance from him, carried weight.
Now you tell yourself you’re over him. You’ve practiced it, rehearsed it in your head so often that the words almost sound convincing when you say them to yourself. Or at least, that’s what you think. Because the moment he appears, the memories, the feelings, the weight of what you lost… it’s all still there, quietly pressing against your chest even if you try to ignore it.
You’ve saved money for months just to fly to Vegas. The idea seemed better than being trapped in a van for a day or two with loud conversations, arguments over who controlled the radio, and the constant complaints of “you didn’t fill the fucking tank?”. The thought of a plane felt like freedom. But the airport itself immediately tests your plans: it’s bright, loud, and crowded, and you’re already standing in line with Robin talking at your side, words spilling over each other, too many to process, and you realize you aren’t even listening.
Steve is there, leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t care that he’s late. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying (and failing) to look completely relaxed. He isn’t nervous because you’re here; he’s nervous because he hates flying. Turbulence makes his stomach twist. He’d rather drive across the entire country than sit on a plane, and it shows.
Eddie, of course, is oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil. He’s jabbering nonstop, telling story after story, loud and animated, pointing at things no one can see or care about. Steve nods along absentmindedly, letting the words wash over him without really listening. He keeps one hand in his pocket, the other tapping against his leg, a subtle rhythm to keep himself grounded.
He smiles when he sees you. It’s automatic. Soft. But it goes just as quickly as it came.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
There's tension between the words, like you've never noticed the rhythm of his breathing when he sleeps. And Eddie notices, of course.
“Well,” he claps his hands together. “This trip just got interesting.”
You're sitting next to Nancy, Steve across the aisle from you. His knees angled to the other side, like being close to you might mean something. Like he's afraid of proximity. His hand tightens on the armrest when the plane dips, his knuckles turning white immediately. You remember how he hates turbulence, but you don't reach for him. And neither does he.
You listen to Eddie speaking to an elderly woman who's already too entertained. She holds his thigh and pinches his cheeks as if he's her grandson. Occasionally, Steve can hear your giggles from Eddie's conversations, and his stomach flips. It's a weird sensation, he swore to himself he had done the right thing.
Vegas hits you like a sensory overload: too loud, too bright, too crowded. You hate crowds, and the thought of being pressed into the same space as dozens of strangers makes your chest tighten.
Eddie notices immediately, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “Relax,” he assures. “I’ve got you.” The small gesture makes you feel safer as the crowd surges around you.
Dustin, of course, is the opposite. He shrieks at the Fremont Street Experience, pointing wildly at the dazzling lights. You can’t help but smile a little, clinging to Eddie’s arm while chaos swirls around you.
“Dude, I really need to gamble,” he says, eyes wide and bright. “Okay, maybe I don’t… but it would be really cool to play!”
“I’ll show you the casino,” Eddie says, clapping Dustin on the shoulder with a grin.
Robin unfolds the map Nancy brought, scanning the downtown attractions with serious determination. “We should definitely start with the zip line!”
You and Nancy nod in agreement, while Steve lingers nearby, standing close enough to listen as Eddie and Dustin argue over the order of things. Finally, Eddie declares that the whole group is going on the zip line first, and then hitting the casinos after.
“You still hate heights?” Steve asks while walking beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.
You purse your lips and nod. “I kinda hate the idea, but I don't want to be a party wrecker since everyone is going.”
He knows you hate heights, hate them enough that a panic attack isn’t out of the question. Being in a plane is bad, sure, but at least you feel safer enclosed in metal, away from the open air. This… this is a different kind of terrifying. Eddie goes first. He screams the instant he jumps, his voice echoing through the entire area. You can’t help but laugh, even if it’s nervous, as he flails wildly before the line swishes him across.
You try to step forward next, but your fear roots you to the platform. Robin leans over, grinning, trying to convince you to go before her. You shake your head, refusing to look down. She frowns slightly, then gives you a sympathetic look before jumping anyway, screaming just like Eddie did. You swallow hard and glance back at Steve. He’s patiently waiting for his turn, shoulders relaxed but eyes on you.
The corner of his lips quirks up into a small, comforting smile, and just like that, you feel a little steadier. Even if the fear hasn’t left, at least you’re not facing it alone.
“You don't have to if you don't want to.” He says, his voice warm.
You keep looking between him and the zip line, your heart thumping against your chest and your head pounding with dread. Just close your eyes and go.
The end of the zip line makes you exhale in relief. Your hands are still clenched around the rope, palms marked red from how tightly you held on. Your legs shake so badly you almost stumble when your feet hit the ground, breath coming out uneven. When you finally look up, your friends are cheering, smiles wide across their faces. Eddie whistles loudly and proudly, drawing the attention of anyone nearby to the whole group – and to you.
Steve taps your shoulder lightly, lips curved into a small smile. You return it without thinking, mouthing a soft thank you. He doesn’t say anything back. Just nods, then squeezes your shoulder once before letting his hand fall away.
“See? Not so difficult.”
You chuckle, still a little nervous. It feels weird to have him touching you again after months being apart. “Yeah, but I don't think I'll be doing that for another ten years.”
He huffs a laugh, quick and soft, his teeth flashing for just a second before he smooths his expression back into calm. You shake your head, smirking at him for a brief moment, then turn to catch up with the others.
Casinos and drinks don't actually go well together. It makes every tiny win feel like a gamble worth chasing, and suddenly even a single lost dollar feels like the world is collapsing. You know you shouldn’t waste money, but you also know it’s better to lose one dollar now than a hundred later.
Dustin being the perfect example. He grumbles and mutters under his breath whenever he loses, then yelps in exaggerated triumph when he wins a hand. He doesn’t even notice how much beer he’s been drinking, the golden liquid making his reactions louder, sillier, and completely unpredictable.
Robin convinces you to try something bright blue and dangerous. Eddie dares Steve to flirt with a blackjack dealer and Steve loses twenty bucks and his dignity. You laugh at that, you really laugh. It feels light and natural, and when you turn, Steve is watching you like he forgot how to breathe for a second.
You look away first.
You have been drinking more than it should be allowed, and by the time the bar changes the music and the lights seem dimmer, the past feels closer now. Steve ends up beside you without either of you acknowledging how. His arm brushes yours. Stays there.
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I think Eddie is going to be bankrupt in the next thirty minutes if he keeps playing blackjack.”
You chuckle, watching as your curly-haired friend finally rips his shirt off, joining Dustin in their ridiculous display. Robin gasps loudly, clutching her chest like someone just shot a cannon of embarrassment straight at her. Nancy isn’t far behind – she laughs so hard she spills her drink, the liquid sloshing onto the table. The scene pulls a laugh from both you and Steve as well, messy and uncontrollable, and for a moment you forget about everything else.
You exchange a quick glance, the corners of your mouths twitching, while Dustin runs around like a man possessed, oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. Even in the mess and drunken silliness, the two of you feel the spark of something more beneath it all; fun, chaotic, and entirely impossible to ignore.
“God, they're so stupid.” You say, your laughter slowly dying as you sip on your drink. Steve agrees, nearly slurring something unintelligible.
The night goes on in a blur of bad ideas, too much drinking, and loud, careless laughter. You and Steve keep a careful distance from each other, only now and then with small, easy conversations about the hotel you’re staying at. About the way Dustin talks too much when he’s drunk, about nothing that matters and everything that does. The next day, you visit the Bellagio Fountain. Steve drives, having rented a car just so you could see more of the city. Later, you go shopping with Robin and Nancy, wandering store after store, while the guys stay back at the hotel, excited to spend the afternoon by the pool.
The second day in Vegas started off chaotic. Everyone is half-drunk and wandering through the casino, people are dressed in ridiculous costumes. There’s a giant dice, and a guy as a hot dog for some reason and it makes everyone burst out in laughs. You’re feeling dangerous, armed with a sharpie that can barely be erased by water. You sneak up to Steve first. You notice him for the first time today: his baseball cap is on backwards, the brim tilted just over his messy hair.
It’s a small thing, really – just a stupid little backwards cap, but somehow it sets you off. You blink, and the sight of him, all casual confidence and playful smirk, makes your chest tighten in a way that’s entirely unfair. Your hand darts out before you can stop it, scrawling a tiny, ridiculous mustache across his jawline.
“Don’t even–” He starts, but you’re faster, drawing a silly mustache across his face with a grin.
He freezes for a second, then bursts out laughing, dragging the sharpie back at you before you can react. Soon, your arms are brushing as he doodles random swirls and stars on your arm, smudging some of your previous scribbles. You laugh so hard you almost drop the marker.
“Okay, fine,” you gasp. “But now it’s fair game.”
Your eyes land on Eddie, leaning casually against a blackjack table and laughing at Dustin attempting to imitate a showgirl. You step toward him and jab your marker onto his arm, drawing a simple crown. He looks down and shakes his head, a smirk crossing his feature. But before you know it, he’s already drawing small flames on your wrist – Robin is scribbling little lightning bolts across Dustin’s hand. Nancy joins in too, trying to write something witty on Steve’s other arm.
You both end up in the bathroom, laughing so hard it’s almost painful. You’re holding a damp paper towel, Steve has a tiny bottle of hotel soap, and the sharpie marks on your arms and his aren’t budging.
“Ugh, this is never coming off,” Steve groans, scrubbing at a star you drew across his forearm. “I look like a crazy person.”
“You are a crazy person,” you tease, smearing your own doodle even further in the process. “But it’s our kind of crazy.”
He shakes his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips despite the mess. “I think you made this permanent.”
You shrug, not really caring. “Temporary is boring anyway.”
You both kneel in front of the sink, shoulder to shoulder, arms wet and slippery with soap and water. It doesn’t matter which bathroom this is – you don’t even acknowledge it. There’s no one else here, and the world outside feels like a distant memory.
“Here, let me,” he says, reaching for your wrist, his fingers brushing yours as he scrubs at a heart you drew near your elbow.
You freeze for a second, and he laughs, though it’s soft this time. “It’s just sharpie, not poison.”
“I know,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself. “But your hands are warm.”
Steve clears his throat, avoiding your gaze, and presses on with the scrubbing. A little more soap, a little more water, and the black lines start to fade, though not entirely. It’s messy, uneven.
You reach for another soap, balancing on the slick floor, when you mistakenly step on the bar that slid under your foot. Time slows for a fraction of time as you slip – arms flailing and legs kicked out in the air, landing hard on your backside. The streaked mixture of water and soap splashes everywhere, and Steve loses it. He doubles over, cackling uncontrollably, holding his stomach as the corner of his eyes fill with tears of laughter.
“Oh my god! You’re… oh man, you are such a mess!”
You groan, sitting there soaked and sticky, water dripping down your hair and back, soap bubbles clinging to your arms.
“I hate you,” you sputter, though there’s a laugh breaking through the frustration.
“Love you,” he manages between cackles, pointing at your soaked self, eyes sparkling. “You just… this–” He shakes his head, still laughing. “This is hilarious.”
You glare at him, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward. “Wait… wait. You’re not going to help me up?”
Steve snorts, grabbing a towel and holding it out just out of reach. “Not until you admit this is exactly what you deserved.”
You take a wet, slippery hand and swipe at the towel anyway, tugging it toward you while he continues to cackle like a maniac.
“You’re awful,” you growl, dripping soap and ink everywhere.
“And you’re adorable,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You freeze mid-groan. Your laughter falters. “Wait… what?”
Steve glances at you, and suddenly the laughter catches in his throat. The sparkle in his eyes dulls just a little. “I– I mean, not like– uh…” He waves his hands vaguely, his face getting red immediately, clearly aware he’s crossed some invisible line.
You blink at him, sticky water dripping down your arm, the sharpie smudges making it impossible to look serious, yet somehow, everything feels charged.
“Right… sure,” you mutter, unsure whether to laugh or roll your eyes.
There’s silence in the bathroom for a moment, except the chaos in the casino outside. Both of you know – despite being drunk – that there’s still distance, the breakup, in there. Beneath the laughter and the soap mess.
Steve clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “…Maybe we should just, uh… finish cleaning this up?”
You nod, brushing the wet hair from your face. “Yeah… that sounds like a good idea.”
You've been visiting countless casinos. This time, everyone seems to be drinking a lot more. You’re laughing harder now, Eddie decides it’s a brilliant idea to start taking his clothes off mid-poker game. Steve sits beside him, trying not to crack up, while the strangers at the table are just as drunk as they are. The whole scene is absurd, chaotic, and completely mesmerizing.
Meanwhile, Robin and Dustin are crouched by the coin pusher machine, furiously trying to strategize how to collect every last coin without getting scooped by it. They’re whispering, pointing, and occasionally nudging each other as if it’s the most critical mission in Vegas history.
You and Nancy find Eddie and Steve halfway across the casino floor, crowded around a table under harsh lights. There are chips scattered, drinks already sweating – long forgotten. Eddie is already down a jacket, grinning like he’s winning something, even when he’s not.
“Strip poker,” he announces proudly when he spots you. “Low stakes. High tragedy.”
You look at the table, then at them. “You’re all idiots.”
Eddie beams. “Sit.”
You do.
Steve doesn’t stop you. He just watches. His elbows rest on the table, his hands clasped with an unreadable expression. His eyes flick up when you slide into the empty chair – they take in the way you cross your legs, the way you tuck your hair back. Then he looks back down at his cards.
He tells himself it’s fine. Because he’s drunk enough to blame the alcohol. But that’s not exactly true.
Eddie quickly teaches you how to play.
A few rounds in, Eddie is down to a t-shirt and jeans, dramatically lamenting his downfall. One of the other guys has lost his hat and dignity. Steve is still fully dressed, but tense in a way that has nothing to do with the cards.
Then you lose a hand.
“All right,” Eddie says, clapping. “Rules are rules.”
You consider it for a second, then shrug and slip off your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the chair. Steve goes still. Like, statue-still. His jaw tightens, his eyes flick to the guy across the table, who suddenly looks a little too interested for his liking.
“You don’t have to do that,” Steve mutters.
“It’s a jacket,” you say lightly. “Relax.”
Another round, another loss. This time, you kick off your shoes and hook them over the chair leg. Harmless, it’s barely anything. Except now people are looking. Not staring, just noticing. You’re laughing, relaxed, leaning over the table as you check your cards. Someone whistles when you win a hand back.
Steve’s patience snaps like a rubber band.
“Hey,” he says sharply, glaring at the guy. “Eyes on your own cards.”
Eddie squints between the two of you. “Wow. This got intimate.”
You laugh under your breath, eyes squinting at how your lips stretch. He turns to you, attempting flattery, with a grace of a drunk raccoon. “M’lady, if anyone troubles you, I will–”
He trips over his chair. It’s fine. He recovers. Barely.
The table erupts.
Someone snorts. Someone else actually wheezes, Nancy covers her mouth, laughing so hard she has to bend over. You clap a hand over your face, shoulders shaking, laughter spilling out before you can stop it.
“Oh my god,” you manage between laughs. “Eddie.”
“I meant to do that,” he says from the floor, muffled but undeterred. “It was a… tactical maneuver.”
Steve laughs despite himself, loud and surprised, shaking his head as he reaches down to drag Eddie back up. “You are never defending anyone’s honor.”
Steve loses a hand, groans dramatically, and tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. The table goes insane.
“Oh my god,” Nancy laughs, clapping once before she can stop herself.
You cheer too. But half a second late, your breath ended up getting caught in your chest with the sight ahead of you. He stands there for a moment, his shirt dangling from his fingers, clearly aware of the attention but pretending not to be. His shoulders are broader than you remember. His arms look stronger, a lot more than it has always been before. And his chest – You freeze. You’ve forgotten he stopped shaving it.
There’s a light dusting of hair across his chest, darker at the center, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t. But your eyes stick. Like glue, and you don’t even realize you’ve stopped smiling until Nancy elbows you gently in the side. Steve lifts both arms to rake a hand through his hair, stretching without thinking about it, muscles shifting under skin like he’s not doing anything deliberate at all. The movement sends a sharp, electric jolt straight through you.
Your mouth twitches, just a tiny, unconscious reaction, like your body remembers him before your brain can catch up. Like some old instinct flares awake and doesn’t bother asking permission. She notices it, bright and clear. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just turns her head slowly, eyebrows lifting the barest fraction. Her gaze flicks from your face to Steve’s chest and back again.
Oh, no.
You force yourself to blink, to look away, to reach for your drink like nothing just happened. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Too loud. Steve doesn’t notice. He’s busy tossing his shirt onto the pile, grinning at Eddie like he’s won something instead of lost.
But Nancy leans in close, her voice low and amused.
“You good?” she asks, sweetly innocent.
You swallow. “Fine.”
She hums, unconvinced.
Again, you lose. You have to pick between your shirt and your skirt – for obvious reasons, you would definitely not strip in front of everyone and show your underwear. Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. His brain very clearly short-circuits.
Steve stiffens immediately. Not visibly, there’s no sudden movement, but something in him goes tight, alert, like he’s bracing for impact. Nancy leans back in her chair, folding her arms, already smiling. She knows exactly what’s about to happen. Eddie points vaguely in your direction, then at Steve, then back at you.
“I… Okay, I just want to be clear that I am being very respectful right now.”
“You are sweating,” Nancy says mildly.
“I am thinking,” Eddie insists. “Carefully.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the cards on the table like they personally they're more interesting, his jaw working once as if he’s wearing out a thought he absolutely does not want to have in public.
You raise an eyebrow. “It’s just a shirt. Or a skirt. Relax.”
Steve finally looks up, aiming a sharp glare directly at Eddie, who immediately lifts both hands. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not suggesting anything! I am a gentleman!”
“You fell over a chair ten minutes ago,” Nancy reminds him.
“Physical setbacks do not negate moral values.”
You laugh, shaking your head, and decide to put everyone out of their misery. You hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt – and Steve sucks in a strangled breath. You tug the shirt up and off, revealing a laced top bra underneath it. Nothing scandalous, it’s perfectly decent, and you actually feel relieved for choosing a good piece of lingerie. The table goes quiet for half a second.
Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the past thirty seconds, shoulders dropping just a fraction. He looks away quickly, then back, with an expression that seems neutral, but inside he’s fighting off the urge to lick his lips – he swallows thickly.
Eddie slaps the table. “I need another drink. For reasons.”
Steve clears his throat, reaching for his glass without looking at anyone. “Yeah. Same.”
Nancy catches your eye, amused and knowing. Oh, she has clocked everything.
By the time the game ends, you and your friends sit down by the table to grab some food and more drinks.
“You totally didn't, that guy destroyed you two.” You say, offering your drink to Steve, who grasps the glass from your hand. Your fingers brush, and he clears his throat, struggling to pretend nothing happened.
“Oh, really? Because he was on the verge of taking his briefs off!” He shoots back, scoffing. “And by the way, who even wears briefs?”
You nearly choke to his outrage, and it only worsens when Eddie protests. “Hey, I do!”
It only takes a few seconds before the four of you burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter, everything dissolving into noise and chaos. Eddie spits his beer everywhere, and you and Steve end up nearly on top of each other, fighting for the same chair.
“You two should get married!” Nancy says, out of the blue.
You look at her, she smiles at you and Steve. The laughter dies instantly, leaving a heavy silence – only Eddie’s quiet giggle breaks it.
“You absolutely should.” Robin cuts in as she sits between you.
You both look at each other before laughing again. This time it's louder, careless.
The neon lights buzz softly in pink and blue as the sign flickers. The carpet is red and the aisle is narrow. You walk in wearing a makeshift veil they offer – you agreed to be there as part of the joke. Your dress is just a skirt and the top bra you’re still wearing from earlier, though Robin insisted that the veil would make it “official”.
Standing at the end of the aisle, Steve wears a crooked bow tie. It makes him look ridiculous and pretty all at once. His shirt is all kneaded, his hair still tousled from his hands running through it the entire night – he looks at you like he’s not really sure what is happening, but he’s not backing out. The officiant wears a priest’s collar that’s very much obviously plastic.
“Welcome,” he says cheerfully, already slurring just a little. “To the sacred institution of–”
“Elvis!” Dustin yells, a shriek of laughter coming from him.
Heads turn directly at the Elvis Presley cover wearing a jumpsuit full of rhinestone as he steps forward from the corner. Your friends are perched and leaning into each other, whispering loudly like they’re watching a movie, and it’s already being ruined.
Robin fans herself with a pamphlet. “I can’t believe this is real.”
“This is absolutely real,” Eddie says. “I will be telling this story forever.”
Steve glances over his shoulder. “Can you all… just–”
They don’t close their mouths, just keep the conversation muffled. There are giggling and whisper shouting that you can still hear. You step up beside Steve while he offers you his arm without thinking about it. You take it without hesitation. The contact shifts the air just a little.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Bob continues, “we are gathered here tonight because… Vegas.”
Laughter erupts from the benches, and you look up at him through the veil.
“Okay,” you say, pointing at him. “You.”
“Me,” he agrees.
You clear your throat. Immediately forget everything you meant to say.
“So. Um.” You laugh. “I promise to… not steal your fries. Except sometimes. When you’re not looking.”
“Impossible,” Steve murmurs.
Eddie wipes a fake tear. “Beautiful.”
Steve’s turn. He rubs his face, then looks at you like he’s trying to focus through water.
“Okay. Uh. I promise–” He pauses. “I promise to always come get you. Even if it’s late. Or scary. Or there are government guys.”
Robin gasps. “Romantic.”
“And I promise to carry heavy stuff,” he adds, gesturing vaguely. “Like bags. Or groceries. Or emotional baggage.”
You snort. Eddie makes an emotional choking noise. Nancy elbows him hard. Steve is smiling, it’s soft and real.
The officiant raises his hands. “By the extremely real authority vested in me–”
“Elvis!” Eddie shouts, jolting Dustin awake. He’d barely slept through the first few words before the vows.
Elvis strums three loud, incorrect chords.
“You may kiss–”
You lean in too fast. Steve laughs into it, the veil catches on his bow tie. He pulls back, and you lean in with a stumble, giggling when he steadies you with both of his hands around your waist. You share a single, slight, quick kiss – just a brush of lips, nothing more. It’s sloppy, unpracticed. Steve grins against your mouth, lifting you slightly as if to spin the both of you, and promptly loses his balance.
The two of you tumble forward, landing face-first on the floor with a thud. Laughter erupts again from your friends. You groan for half a second, your cheeks are pressed to the carpet, and then break into laughter yourself, muffled against Steve’s shoulder as he tries to regain himself, hair falling into his eyes.
He holds your hand like it’s instinct, vows that are half jokes and half painfully sincere. The others watch from their seats, while the cover sings “Can't Help Falling in Love With You” as you two share a kiss you won't even remember.
The chapel door bangs open and Vegas hits you. The three people behind you are still giggling, and Eddie keeps announcing that you’re all legally bound to absolutely no one. Some tourists passing clap either way, and Robin grabs your hands and lifts them.
“Just married,” she basically yells.
“Please don’t,” you say, laughing. The veil already long forgotten behind you in the chapel. Steve stumbles behind after throwing out his bow tie, squinting at the glowing sign above the chapel.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s… that’s permanent, right?”
Nancy adjusts her purse strap, already smiling like she’s going to remember this for the rest of her life. “It’s Nevada. Probably.”
Dustin fumbles with his disposable camera. “Everyone together! No, don’t move, wait—”
The flash goes off too early.
“Great,” Eddie says. “That’s a thumb.”
“So,” Steve says, leaning into you so you can hear him over the noise, “what do married people do in the eighties?”
You think about it. “Probably get drinks. Maybe dance to something with a terrible keyboard solo.”
“I really need a hot dog right now.” Dustin announces with a groan.
Eddie squints at him. “Buddy, we are celebrating a wedding.”
Dustin doesn’t move. “I want a hot dog.”
Everyone is still very drunk – not the quiet or manageable drunk, the kind of drunk where sitting on a curb while eating a hot dog feels more fun than actually having a proper wedding. Nancy takes a sip of her soda that she doesn’t remember buying, lifting it as if she’s about to make a toast.
“I just want to say,” she announces, swaying slightly but determined, “that this was my idea.”
You look at her. “The hot dogs?”
“No,” Nancy says, offended. “The wedding.”
Eddie cackles from beside her, almost choking on a piece of the hot dog, Dustin elbows him incessantly like someone had just told him the funniest joke.
Eddie snorts. “You said, ‘You guys should totally get married.’”
“That’s a suggestion.”
Robin grins, nudging Nancy’s shoulder with hers. “And then I said, ‘Yes, do it.’”
“And then,” Dustin adds with a mouthful of hot dog, “everyone yelled.”
Nancy nods, satisfied. “Group effort.”
Eddie lifts his hot dog like it’s a microphone. “I provided moral support.”
Steve looks between all of you, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh.
“…I can’t believe you people.”
Robin bumps his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
You take another bite of your hot dog, smiling into the night.
Still drunk. Still laughing. Still very much married.
You wake up with a pounding headache, the light seeping through the curtain that isn't dark enough to hide the sun rays peeking from the edges of the window. Silence fills the room as you push yourself against your elbows and look around, finding Robin and Nancy still asleep. Your throat burns from thirst, your body heavy in a way that feels almost unnatural.
You stare ahead, trying to remember the night before – fragments of memory coming to your mind. The strip poker you played, a dancing contest with Robin and Dustin. Too many suspicious drinks with weird colors, and an Elvis Presley cover.
Why the fuck was there an Elvis Presley cover at the casino?
At breakfast, no one seems to be handling the hangover particularly well. Eddie’s hair is pulled into a messy bun, Dustin fast asleep where he slumps against his forearm, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Steve wears sunglasses indoors, and Nancy quietly pours water for Robin like it’s a matter of survival.
“So, are we gonna talk about the wedding?” Robin asks suddenly.
Apart from Dustin, everyone else glances at each other for a few seconds. You furrow your brows. Who got married?
“What wedding, Robs?” Steve asks first, missing the clue in the way she looks straight at you for a brief second.
She stifles a giggle, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well duh, you and sunshine?”
You both turn to look at each other at the exact same time – and immediately regret it. Your head is still pounding, your stomach can barely keep food down, and now this?
That’s when a few things come back to you. A neon chapel. A fake priest. One white veil, one bow tie… and a fucking Elvis Presley cover.
“Oh, shit.” He mutters, shutting his eyes.
“There's no way we did that, is there?” You whisper to him, who still can't look at you.
His head hangs low, heart racing, and for a moment everything seems to slow down. Did he really get married to you while being completely drunk?
The moment turns into an awkward silence, Nancy and Robin trying to disguise how uncomfortable the situation became, while Eddie is the only one smiling.
“Oh, this trip keeps getting more fun.”
Steve lifts his head and sends his friend a glare. “Shut up, Munson.”
Eddie frowns and shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
You don’t want to discuss it in front of your friends — not when things with Steve have already shifted. The two of you don’t talk for the rest of the day, an uncomfortable tension settling in the space between you.
Robin tries to convince him it wasn’t the worst idea ever, while you and Nancy keep the mood light, retreating to the spa to gossip and avoid thinking too hard. Meanwhile, Dustin and Eddie are thriving.
“So. Married life. You guys thinking kids or…?” He jokes during afternoon coffee, getting kicked in the shin by Nancy. “What?”
Robin won't stop calling you Mrs. Harrington, and Dustin keeps asking if he's going to be the best man.
You decide to stay at the hotel, get some rest, find something – anything – more relaxing to do. After dinner, you settle into a chair in the lounge area. Low jazz music fills the space as you flip through the book you brought but never quite had time to read.
“Who reads a book in Las Vegas?”
His voice startles you. You lift your gaze to meet his hazel eyes as he takes a seat across from you.
“If I step foot in a casino again, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my mind.”
He chuckles, but the tension creeps up his neck. He chews on the inside of his cheek, careful not to look at you for too long.
“How are you?” His voice is cautious, like the question might take a wrong turn if he’s not careful.
You huff, setting the book aside and drawing in a deep breath. “Oh, I’m delighted. Robin won’t stop calling me Mrs. Harrington, and I’m pretty sure Nancy already has a wedding reception planned for when we get back.”
“That bad?” You shrug. “We were so drunk, I didn’t even remember there was an Elvis Presley.”
Your lips purse as a small pause settles between you. You notice how uneasy he looks, the way his right leg keeps bouncing, the way he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.
“I know I shouldn't be too worried, but it doesn't mean anything, right?” You ask. He looks at your lips, then at your eyes. Steve nods repeatedly, as though he's telling himself that it's the truth.
That it didn't mean anything. That your vows were just made up for a performance.
His tone isn't sharp, more like aggravated for pretending that he agrees with you. “Yeah, sure. Of course. So, we should annul it?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”
A silence that stretched for several seconds turned into something completely awkward. Again.
“We don't even remember it.” He says, defensively. You both chuckle nervously, he keeps tapping his fingers against the table.
You’ll be back in Hawkins in two days, and you don’t even know where to go from there. Something nudges at you from the inside, like a quiet, restless feeling that makes you stare down at your book like it might hold the answer you’re looking for.
Robin groans again, fingers tugging at her hair. Dustin watches with his arms folded, clearly amused, while Eddie and Nancy roll their eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in ten minutes.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You absolutely kissed.”
Dustin sits on the arm of the chair with his arms folded, watching the whole thing like it’s his favorite rerun. There’s a smug little smile on his face, the kind that says he’s enjoying this far too much to intervene.
You and Steve sit side by side on the bed, shoulders almost touching, the space between you loud with everything you’re not saying. She paces as he talks, gesturing excessively.
“I remember it very clearly,” she insists. “You were both standing there, and you…” she points at you, "...were laughing so hard you could barely talk, and you…” now Steve, "...kept fixing that stupid bow tie like it was gonna save you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you say immediately.
Steve nods. “Didn’t mean a thing.”
Robin scoffs. “Then the vows.”
“There were no vows,” you say.
“They barely counted,” Steve adds quickly. “It was just… words.”
Eddie snorts. “Words are usually what vows are, man.”
Nancy sighs. “You promised fries.”
“That’s not a commitment,” you argue.
“You kissed,” Robin says again, firmer this time.
“Nope.”
“No.”
You both say it at once.
“It was barely a kiss,” Steve adds, after a beat. “Like... accidental.”
“Your faces were touching,” Dustin says cheerfully.
Eddie laughs, falling back against the wall. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend none of it counted?”
“Isn’t that the whole idea? Getting married in a fake chapel, with a fake officiant. With a fucking Elvis Presley cover?” Your voice gets exasperated, and Steve forces himself to seem unbothered.
Nancy pinches the bridge of her nose. “You signed paperwork.”
Steve blinks. “…allegedly.”
Robin throws her hands up. “You were smiling!”
“That also doesn’t mean anything,” Steve says, a little too fast.
Silence settles for a moment, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint noise of Vegas outside the window.
You stare at the carpet. Steve stares at his hands. But the truth is, he wishes he could say it was real. Even if it wasn’t how he imagined getting married. Even if it was messy and drunk and nothing like it was supposed to be. Your words cut straight through him. The way you dismiss it, the firmness in your tone, the way you refuse to entertain even the possibility.
It makes his stomach churn, nausea rising as he forces himself to stay quiet.
“I loved you before I knew how to be good at it.” He slurs, but his demeanor is earnest.
You laugh and cry at the same time. “You always come back when it matters.”
Your friends cheer you up, Elvis Presley sings, and the officiant asks if anyone objects and the entire group yelling a hard “no”.
You share a single, slight and quick kiss. There's no tongue, just a brush of lips. He tries to pick you up, but he loses balance and you both fall face flat on the floor, drawing a laugh from your friends. You laugh, reciprocating the drunken glances.
You sit still, eyes fixed on the floor, not moving an inch from your spot on the bed. Your hands are folded in your lap like you’re bracing yourself for impact. The room is quiet in that way that isn’t peaceful at all. You can feel it, the weight of everyone’s attention pressing in on you. Robin has stopped pacing. Eddie has gone uncharacteristically still. Even Dustin’s usual fidgeting has paused. They’re all waiting. Watching. Like if they just give you enough time, you’ll say it.
Because for half a second, you almost do.
And then the memory crashes in, sharp and unwelcome. Steve standing there months ago, eyes full of something that looked like regret but sounded like certainty. Him deciding, on his own, that you were better off without him. Him letting go first. Him giving up.
You swallow.
“I still think it was a mistake.” Your voice cuts through the silence. Eddie mumbles under his breath and Robin groans once again.
Nancy doesn’t say anything. She just watches you, really watches you, her jaw tight as her gaze flicks from you to the doorway. Because Steve has left. You hadn’t even heard him move. At some point while you were staring at the floor and fighting old wounds, he stood up, crossed the room, and walked out without a word. The door didn’t slam. It didn’t need to.
“You're so wrong about it.” Dustin mutters, breaking the silence. His arms still folded.
The air feels heavier without him in the room. Like something unfinished just walked away. You stay where you are, eyes still on the floor, heart pounding too loud in your ears. Because admitting it mattered would mean admitting it hurt. And admitting it hurt would mean facing the fact that this time he didn’t stay.
You were not wrong, though. Getting married like that – drunk, impulsive, in the middle of Las Vegas, was a mistake, for starters. The whole thing was wrong to begin with. You shouldn’t have been standing under flickering neon, wearing a borrowed veil, saying vows you barely understood to your ex while your friends treated it like a spectacle. You shouldn’t have been laughing through something that clearly still had impact.
And you definitely shouldn’t be sitting in a hotel room now, replaying a relationship that already ended once.
So you leave.
You don’t announce it. You don’t grab anyone’s attention. You just stand, slip out the door, and let the hallway swallow you whole. The carpet muffles your steps, the lights buzz over your head. Somewhere far away, someone laughs too loud, and it makes your chest tighten.
You wander until the noise thins out, until the air feels cooler.
The garden is quiet, too oddly quiet for Vegas. You sink plop onto a stone bench and stare at the ground, jaw tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you might unravel if you don’t hold on.
You don’t know how long you’ve been there when you hear footsteps behind you.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up.
Eddie drops down beside you anyway, close but not hovering, like his presence is familiar enough to be annoying in the way only he can manage. He studies you for a second, then slides an arm around your shoulders and leans his head lightly against yours.
“You know,” he says, voice low, almost gentle, “that was pretty stupid.”
You let out a sharp breath through your nose.
“It's not stupid, Eds. He broke up with me.”
Eddie hums, like he’s turning the thought over. “Maybe he thought it was better that way,” he says. “And maybe this…” he gestures vaguely back toward the hotel. "...was the second chance you needed.”
You scoff, the sound bitter, and nudge yourself out from under his arm. “At a fucking Las Vegas fake chapel?”
He snorts. “Yeah. Fair.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Eddie turns toward you, more serious now.
“I don’t think you really mean that,” he says. “See… there’s this quote. Goes something like–” he squints, clearly calculating his thoughts, "‘a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.’”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your silence stretches, heavy and telling, and Eddie sees it immediately. His shoulders sag just a little as he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s tired but not surprised.
“M'not gonna keep intruding, but sweetheart... don't be stupid.”
He stands and smiles sweetly at you before leaving.
During dinner, no one said anything about it anymore. Your friends found other subjects to talk about. You had barely touched your food, and Steve sat across the table from you, his eyes fighting to not find you.
Steve is quiet after that. You both stayed behind at the hotel while the others headed out to the fair. Only a hallway separates you now. A few doors. It feels ridiculous how small the distance is, and how impossible it seems to cross. Eddie tried to talk to him. Eddie’s voice low and earnest, Steve’s replies clipped and evasive. He dodged every word of advice like it might bruise him. Because what would it change?
You’d made it clear. It was a mistake, you don’t love him anymore. And he should’ve known better than to hope otherwise.
You run into him later in the lobby, the bar half-lit and quiet. He’s already seated, waiting for a drink, elbows resting on the counter like he’s holding himself in place. The bartender slides a glass his way just as you approach. Your head is still echoing with Eddie’s voice. With the stupid quote. With the way he looked at you like he could see straight through your denial.
You sit on the stool beside Steve. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even acknowledge you’re there.
“So...” you say, waiting for him to look at you. “You think it was a good idea?”
Steve’s fingers curl around the rim of the glass. The thick brown liquid inside sways as he sets it down on the counter, slowly. His shoulders tense, just slightly, but you miss it.
“I think it doesn’t mean anything.” He turns his head then, quick and sharp, finally looking at you. There’s a faint smile on his face, forced so tight it almost hurts to see. “Like you said,” he adds. “It was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than you expect. A jab straight to the chest. A physical ache would’ve been easier.
You swallow, pushing through it, “should we cancel it?”
He huffs under his breath and lifts the glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey. He didn’t want this question. You can feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he avoids you again. But he feels cornered, whether you mean to or not, forcing him to agree with you – forcing him to admit how wrong it all was.
“I mean, yeah. Isn't that what you want?” He doesn't look at you this time, his eyes are fixed at some invisible point at the bar.
No.
“Yes.”
The word comes out clean. Final. A lie that sounds convincing even to your own ears.
Steve closes his eyes for half a second. He doesn’t look at you, he can’t. You can almost feel how close he is to breaking if he does. Instead, he stares at the glass in his hand and downs the rest of the drink in one go, the alcohol burning its way down like it might loosen the knot stuck in his throat.
“Then we'll do it.” It lands a little hard, he doesn’t soften it. Steve doesn’t take it back.
And you hate yourself for it, because this time, you know you’ve crossed the line. You were afraid, and stubborn. And hurting. By the time the realization sinks in, it’s already too late.
The damage is done.
The trip ended with a sour taste, but at least someone got something good out of it. Dustin had the time of his life; Eddie made bad decisions and ended up regretting all of them. Robin came back five hundred dollars richer and Nancy kept telling her that it was dirty money, trying to kill her mood – it didn't.
You sit a few rows behind Steve on the plane.
The weather is awful. Rain dribbles down the windows, the clouds are thick and angry, and the turbulence never really lets up. The plane jolts hard enough at one point that Steve reaches out on instinct and grabs Eddie’s hand. He never hears the end of it.
Eddie laughs so hard he nearly chokes, immediately launching into jokes about what a gentleman Steve is, how brave he is for enduring “a little shaking.” Steve shoves him, mortified, but there’s a crack of laughter there too. For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Almost.
When the plane finally touches down in Hawkins, things settle back into place. Or… close enough to pretend they have. You try to talk to him. You really do. You catch him alone once, heart in your throat, ready to fix it, to say the words you should’ve said back in that bar. But he shuts it down gently and quickly, tells you to pretend it’s just paperwork. Nothing more. After that, Steve disappears.
He decides to spend the rest of the vacation with his piblings, vanishing into family plans and forced cheer, putting as much distance between you as he can manage without being cruel about it. You feel it anyway. The absence. The deliberate space.
You feel bad.
Guilty.
And there’s something else too, something gnawing at you. Like a feeling you can’t quite name but can’t shake either. You want to fix things, to talk it through, but every time you call, he doesn’t answer. His aunt keeps saying he’s busy with relatives — and you know it isn’t true, because he still finds time to talk to Eddie and Dustin. Just not you.
He came back quieter, at least toward you. No small talk, no sharing glances, not even a word beyond “hi” and “bye” during your group hangouts. Mike and Lucas notice. They exchange looks when Steve goes out of his way to sit across the room from you, when he changes conversations so they don’t stand too close to anything resembling Vegas. He never mentions the wedding. Not once. You caught him laughing with Eddie, joking with Robin, listening intently to Nancy’s rambling plans – but when it came to you, he went quiet. Polite. Neutral.
Like strangers who shared a past no one wanted to bring up. And it hurt more than fighting ever did. The worst part is that you knew why.
You remember the night he broke up with you, how he looked exhausted, like he’d been carrying the decision around for weeks. How he kept rubbing the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the skin like he was bracing himself for something that was bound to hurt no matter how carefully he handled it.
He didn’t explain much. Just said it would be better for both of you. That he needed time to get settled first.
Things have been different ever since you came back from the trip. He flirted with other girls – something he’d stopped doing when you were together. Went on a few dates. Smiled at any girl that crossed his path. Played the part convincingly enough that most people bought it. But there was always something pulling him back. Something unfinished.
And you watch it happen in slow motion now, watch him slip further and further away from you, choosing distance over confrontation, silence over honesty.
You let him go every day.
And somehow, it hurts every time.
It isn’t until you find him alone in the kitchen that you finally decide you can’t keep doing this.
The house is loud everywhere else, voices too loud in the living room, music playing too quietly to matter, someone laughing too hard at nothing. But the kitchen is calm, and Steve stands in front of the refrigerator, door open. He stares inside like he’s forgotten what he came for. He grabs a soda, the bottle hissing when he twists the cap, and that’s when you step in.
“It was never a mistake”
The words leave you before you can overthink them.
Steve stills. Just for a second, but you see it. His shoulders tense, his hand tightens around the bottle. He doesn’t turn right away.
“Really,” he finally says, his voice carefully controlled and even. But still hurt. “Because you made it very clear back there.”
“I didn't mean that.” You swallow.
He lets out a short, humorless breath and turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “I think you did,” he says. “I think you said it.”
You almost waver, despite your effort to keep your voice steady. “I said it because you broke up with me first. Because you decided, without asking me, that we were better off without each other.”
His brow furrows. “That’s not–”
“You didn't want me to fight for us, and you didn't give me a reasonable explanation.”
He closes his eyes, throwing his head back. His throat bobs and he shifts on his foot. Steve has been absolutely wrecked ever since he tried to pretend that you were doing better that way, that he was only going to slow you down while he was being stuck.
He looks at you, something raw about his expression. Like it’s hurt, buried and uncovered.
“Fine, you wanna know why?” He asks without waiting for your response. “I didn’t want to be the reason you settled, I didn’t want you staying with me and wondering what else you could’ve had.”
Your throat tightens.
“I never thought you were a failure,” you say. “Not once. You decided that for me.”
He looks up then, eyes glassy, disbelieving.
He drags a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture making your throat ache. “But when you said it was a mistake… it felt like confirmation. Like I finally did the right thing by walking away.”
You step closer, shaking your head. “I was angry. I was hurt. And I thought if I said it first, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
It hangs there, everything you never said, everything he assumed. Neither of you moves.
“You were going places,” he says. “And I was… stuck.”
“Steve... you were surviving,” you correct. “Just like the rest of us.”
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have had to wait for me to catch up.”
“I wasn’t waiting,” you say, stepping even closer now. “I was choosing you.”
That’s when he breaks.
Not dramatically. His breath is quietly shuddering, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding something up for far too long.
“I thought letting you go was the right thing,” he murmurs.
“You don’t get to decide what’s right for me,” you say softly. “Not anymore.”
The tension eases slowly. Steve leans into you before either of you realizes it, his chest brushes against yours, shoulder pressing against yours in a way that feels tentative but grounding. His breaths are uneven and shaky, and you can feel them against your neck, a rhythm caught somewhere between relief and fear.
You let your hand brush his arm, careful at first, then more confidently as the seconds pass. The kitchen noises fade into the background – and nothing matters except this fragile closeness.
“You okay?” you murmur softly, barely above the fridge’s hum.
He nods, though his shoulders still tremble slightly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”
You press your forehead lightly against his temple, letting him breathe you in, letting him know you’re here. The moment stretches, gentle and quiet, a small reconciliation that doesn’t need words.
“At least we had Elvis Presley singing at our wedding.” You joke, your voice soft.
Steve snorts, a laugh catching in his throat. He wipes his cheeks, sniffling. “God, that is kind of lame.”
You step closer and lift your thumbs gently to his face, brushing away the stray tears. You trail them down his cheeks to his chin, careful, lingering. “I think that was kind of cool,” you whisper.
His eyes follow your movements, scanning your face like he’s memorizing every line, every expression. Your eyes, your cheeks, your lips – they’re all his focus now.
“And I think Nancy said we also had a cake, I'm just not sure what fl-”
He cuts you off without warning.
Steve’s lips are on yours before you can finish the thought, fast and urgent, and the world stops. You freeze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before letting go of the hesitation. You give him permission, matching him, letting your tongues swipe together carefully and desperate.
He groans softly against your mouth, and something in the sound makes your chest tighten.
Because you feel it. You feel the longing he’s carried since the minute he walked away. Every restrained glance, every stiff shoulder, every quiet avoidance, they all crash into this kiss. He’s been holding himself back for months, and now he doesn’t have to. You pull back just slightly, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. His eyes are wide, almost pleading, and you can feel the ache behind them.
“I never stopped loving you,” he admits.
You close the distance without thinking, pressing your lips to his again, softer this time, a promise without words.
And just like that, Vegas stops being about bad decisions. Because it led you back to him. It led him back to you.
Summary: You and Steve are exes who have managed to stay friendly after he decided to end your relationship. Robin plans a trip to Las Vegas, where it can get very chaotic – including strip poker, getting drunk in casinos, and stumbling through ridiculous drunken decisions.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader
Warnings: Alcohol use
Word count: 9.7k
The first mistake was agreeing to go to Vegas at all.
It was all Robin’s fault. She claimed it should be a celebratory trip, arguing you deserved a “happy place where the rules don’t apply” just for surviving the Upside Down.
Eddie Munson lit up at the idea, eager to make bad decisions without regrets. Nancy took over planning the entire week, and Dustin wouldn’t stop talking about finally being able to drink legally.
You only agreed because it was easier than explaining why you shouldn’t go.
Steve Harrington is going.
Steve, your ex-boyfriend, the one who said he wasn’t ready for a relationship if he didn’t have an established life. He was standing in a place where he needed to save money, figure out a way to go to college, and find a home of his own. He needed stability before he could commit, or so he said, and you’d tried to understand it, tried to convince yourself it was reasonable.
Your ex, the one who promised things would stay the same after breaking up with you, but it went the exact opposite. Every group hangout felt awkward and uncomfortable – you would force yourself to avoid staring at him for too long, especially when the stubble on his jaw grew just right, or when his laugh rang out so fully that you had to turn your head so you wouldn’t watch him. Every small gesture, every glance from him, carried weight.
Now you tell yourself you’re over him. You’ve practiced it, rehearsed it in your head so often that the words almost sound convincing when you say them to yourself. Or at least, that’s what you think. Because the moment he appears, the memories, the feelings, the weight of what you lost… it’s all still there, quietly pressing against your chest even if you try to ignore it.
You’ve saved money for months just to fly to Vegas. The idea seemed better than being trapped in a van for a day or two with loud conversations, arguments over who controlled the radio, and the constant complaints of “you didn’t fill the fucking tank?”. The thought of a plane felt like freedom. But the airport itself immediately tests your plans: it’s bright, loud, and crowded, and you’re already standing in line with Robin talking at your side, words spilling over each other, too many to process, and you realize you aren’t even listening.
Steve is there, leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t care that he’s late. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying (and failing) to look completely relaxed. He isn’t nervous because you’re here; he’s nervous because he hates flying. Turbulence makes his stomach twist. He’d rather drive across the entire country than sit on a plane, and it shows.
Eddie, of course, is oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil. He’s jabbering nonstop, telling story after story, loud and animated, pointing at things no one can see or care about. Steve nods along absentmindedly, letting the words wash over him without really listening. He keeps one hand in his pocket, the other tapping against his leg, a subtle rhythm to keep himself grounded.
He smiles when he sees you. It’s automatic. Soft. But it goes just as quickly as it came.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
There's tension between the words, like you've never noticed the rhythm of his breathing when he sleeps. And Eddie notices, of course.
“Well,” he claps his hands together. “This trip just got interesting.”
You're sitting next to Nancy, Steve across the aisle from you. His knees angled to the other side, like being close to you might mean something. Like he's afraid of proximity. His hand tightens on the armrest when the plane dips, his knuckles turning white immediately. You remember how he hates turbulence, but you don't reach for him. And neither does he.
You listen to Eddie speaking to an elderly woman who's already too entertained. She holds his thigh and pinches his cheeks as if he's her grandson. Occasionally, Steve can hear your giggles from Eddie's conversations, and his stomach flips. It's a weird sensation, he swore to himself he had done the right thing.
Vegas hits you like a sensory overload: too loud, too bright, too crowded. You hate crowds, and the thought of being pressed into the same space as dozens of strangers makes your chest tighten.
Eddie notices immediately, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “Relax,” he assures. “I’ve got you.” The small gesture makes you feel safer as the crowd surges around you.
Dustin, of course, is the opposite. He shrieks at the Fremont Street Experience, pointing wildly at the dazzling lights. You can’t help but smile a little, clinging to Eddie’s arm while chaos swirls around you.
“Dude, I really need to gamble,” he says, eyes wide and bright. “Okay, maybe I don’t… but it would be really cool to play!”
“I’ll show you the casino,” Eddie says, clapping Dustin on the shoulder with a grin.
Robin unfolds the map Nancy brought, scanning the downtown attractions with serious determination. “We should definitely start with the zip line!”
You and Nancy nod in agreement, while Steve lingers nearby, standing close enough to listen as Eddie and Dustin argue over the order of things. Finally, Eddie declares that the whole group is going on the zip line first, and then hitting the casinos after.
“You still hate heights?” Steve asks while walking beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.
You purse your lips and nod. “I kinda hate the idea, but I don't want to be a party wrecker since everyone is going.”
He knows you hate heights, hate them enough that a panic attack isn’t out of the question. Being in a plane is bad, sure, but at least you feel safer enclosed in metal, away from the open air. This… this is a different kind of terrifying. Eddie goes first. He screams the instant he jumps, his voice echoing through the entire area. You can’t help but laugh, even if it’s nervous, as he flails wildly before the line swishes him across.
You try to step forward next, but your fear roots you to the platform. Robin leans over, grinning, trying to convince you to go before her. You shake your head, refusing to look down. She frowns slightly, then gives you a sympathetic look before jumping anyway, screaming just like Eddie did. You swallow hard and glance back at Steve. He’s patiently waiting for his turn, shoulders relaxed but eyes on you.
The corner of his lips quirks up into a small, comforting smile, and just like that, you feel a little steadier. Even if the fear hasn’t left, at least you’re not facing it alone.
“You don't have to if you don't want to.” He says, his voice warm.
You keep looking between him and the zip line, your heart thumping against your chest and your head pounding with dread. Just close your eyes and go.
The end of the zip line makes you exhale in relief. Your hands are still clenched around the rope, palms marked red from how tightly you held on. Your legs shake so badly you almost stumble when your feet hit the ground, breath coming out uneven. When you finally look up, your friends are cheering, smiles wide across their faces. Eddie whistles loudly and proudly, drawing the attention of anyone nearby to the whole group – and to you.
Steve taps your shoulder lightly, lips curved into a small smile. You return it without thinking, mouthing a soft thank you. He doesn’t say anything back. Just nods, then squeezes your shoulder once before letting his hand fall away.
“See? Not so difficult.”
You chuckle, still a little nervous. It feels weird to have him touching you again after months being apart. “Yeah, but I don't think I'll be doing that for another ten years.”
He huffs a laugh, quick and soft, his teeth flashing for just a second before he smooths his expression back into calm. You shake your head, smirking at him for a brief moment, then turn to catch up with the others.
Casinos and drinks don't actually go well together. It makes every tiny win feel like a gamble worth chasing, and suddenly even a single lost dollar feels like the world is collapsing. You know you shouldn’t waste money, but you also know it’s better to lose one dollar now than a hundred later.
Dustin being the perfect example. He grumbles and mutters under his breath whenever he loses, then yelps in exaggerated triumph when he wins a hand. He doesn’t even notice how much beer he’s been drinking, the golden liquid making his reactions louder, sillier, and completely unpredictable.
Robin convinces you to try something bright blue and dangerous. Eddie dares Steve to flirt with a blackjack dealer and Steve loses twenty bucks and his dignity. You laugh at that, you really laugh. It feels light and natural, and when you turn, Steve is watching you like he forgot how to breathe for a second.
You look away first.
You have been drinking more than it should be allowed, and by the time the bar changes the music and the lights seem dimmer, the past feels closer now. Steve ends up beside you without either of you acknowledging how. His arm brushes yours. Stays there.
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I think Eddie is going to be bankrupt in the next thirty minutes if he keeps playing blackjack.”
You chuckle, watching as your curly-haired friend finally rips his shirt off, joining Dustin in their ridiculous display. Robin gasps loudly, clutching her chest like someone just shot a cannon of embarrassment straight at her. Nancy isn’t far behind – she laughs so hard she spills her drink, the liquid sloshing onto the table. The scene pulls a laugh from both you and Steve as well, messy and uncontrollable, and for a moment you forget about everything else.
You exchange a quick glance, the corners of your mouths twitching, while Dustin runs around like a man possessed, oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. Even in the mess and drunken silliness, the two of you feel the spark of something more beneath it all; fun, chaotic, and entirely impossible to ignore.
“God, they're so stupid.” You say, your laughter slowly dying as you sip on your drink. Steve agrees, nearly slurring something unintelligible.
The night goes on in a blur of bad ideas, too much drinking, and loud, careless laughter. You and Steve keep a careful distance from each other, only now and then with small, easy conversations about the hotel you’re staying at. About the way Dustin talks too much when he’s drunk, about nothing that matters and everything that does. The next day, you visit the Bellagio Fountain. Steve drives, having rented a car just so you could see more of the city. Later, you go shopping with Robin and Nancy, wandering store after store, while the guys stay back at the hotel, excited to spend the afternoon by the pool.
The second day in Vegas started off chaotic. Everyone is half-drunk and wandering through the casino, people are dressed in ridiculous costumes. There’s a giant dice, and a guy as a hot dog for some reason and it makes everyone burst out in laughs. You’re feeling dangerous, armed with a sharpie that can barely be erased by water. You sneak up to Steve first. You notice him for the first time today: his baseball cap is on backwards, the brim tilted just over his messy hair.
It’s a small thing, really – just a stupid little backwards cap, but somehow it sets you off. You blink, and the sight of him, all casual confidence and playful smirk, makes your chest tighten in a way that’s entirely unfair. Your hand darts out before you can stop it, scrawling a tiny, ridiculous mustache across his jawline.
“Don’t even–” He starts, but you’re faster, drawing a silly mustache across his face with a grin.
He freezes for a second, then bursts out laughing, dragging the sharpie back at you before you can react. Soon, your arms are brushing as he doodles random swirls and stars on your arm, smudging some of your previous scribbles. You laugh so hard you almost drop the marker.
“Okay, fine,” you gasp. “But now it’s fair game.”
Your eyes land on Eddie, leaning casually against a blackjack table and laughing at Dustin attempting to imitate a showgirl. You step toward him and jab your marker onto his arm, drawing a simple crown. He looks down and shakes his head, a smirk crossing his feature. But before you know it, he’s already drawing small flames on your wrist – Robin is scribbling little lightning bolts across Dustin’s hand. Nancy joins in too, trying to write something witty on Steve’s other arm.
You both end up in the bathroom, laughing so hard it’s almost painful. You’re holding a damp paper towel, Steve has a tiny bottle of hotel soap, and the sharpie marks on your arms and his aren’t budging.
“Ugh, this is never coming off,” Steve groans, scrubbing at a star you drew across his forearm. “I look like a crazy person.”
“You are a crazy person,” you tease, smearing your own doodle even further in the process. “But it’s our kind of crazy.”
He shakes his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips despite the mess. “I think you made this permanent.”
You shrug, not really caring. “Temporary is boring anyway.”
You both kneel in front of the sink, shoulder to shoulder, arms wet and slippery with soap and water. It doesn’t matter which bathroom this is – you don’t even acknowledge it. There’s no one else here, and the world outside feels like a distant memory.
“Here, let me,” he says, reaching for your wrist, his fingers brushing yours as he scrubs at a heart you drew near your elbow.
You freeze for a second, and he laughs, though it’s soft this time. “It’s just sharpie, not poison.”
“I know,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself. “But your hands are warm.”
Steve clears his throat, avoiding your gaze, and presses on with the scrubbing. A little more soap, a little more water, and the black lines start to fade, though not entirely. It’s messy, uneven.
You reach for another soap, balancing on the slick floor, when you mistakenly step on the bar that slid under your foot. Time slows for a fraction of time as you slip – arms flailing and legs kicked out in the air, landing hard on your backside. The streaked mixture of water and soap splashes everywhere, and Steve loses it. He doubles over, cackling uncontrollably, holding his stomach as the corner of his eyes fill with tears of laughter.
“Oh my god! You’re… oh man, you are such a mess!”
You groan, sitting there soaked and sticky, water dripping down your hair and back, soap bubbles clinging to your arms.
“I hate you,” you sputter, though there’s a laugh breaking through the frustration.
“Love you,” he manages between cackles, pointing at your soaked self, eyes sparkling. “You just… this–” He shakes his head, still laughing. “This is hilarious.”
You glare at him, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward. “Wait… wait. You’re not going to help me up?”
Steve snorts, grabbing a towel and holding it out just out of reach. “Not until you admit this is exactly what you deserved.”
You take a wet, slippery hand and swipe at the towel anyway, tugging it toward you while he continues to cackle like a maniac.
“You’re awful,” you growl, dripping soap and ink everywhere.
“And you’re adorable,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You freeze mid-groan. Your laughter falters. “Wait… what?”
Steve glances at you, and suddenly the laughter catches in his throat. The sparkle in his eyes dulls just a little. “I– I mean, not like– uh…” He waves his hands vaguely, his face getting red immediately, clearly aware he’s crossed some invisible line.
You blink at him, sticky water dripping down your arm, the sharpie smudges making it impossible to look serious, yet somehow, everything feels charged.
“Right… sure,” you mutter, unsure whether to laugh or roll your eyes.
There’s silence in the bathroom for a moment, except the chaos in the casino outside. Both of you know – despite being drunk – that there’s still distance, the breakup, in there. Beneath the laughter and the soap mess.
Steve clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “…Maybe we should just, uh… finish cleaning this up?”
You nod, brushing the wet hair from your face. “Yeah… that sounds like a good idea.”
You've been visiting countless casinos. This time, everyone seems to be drinking a lot more. You’re laughing harder now, Eddie decides it’s a brilliant idea to start taking his clothes off mid-poker game. Steve sits beside him, trying not to crack up, while the strangers at the table are just as drunk as they are. The whole scene is absurd, chaotic, and completely mesmerizing.
Meanwhile, Robin and Dustin are crouched by the coin pusher machine, furiously trying to strategize how to collect every last coin without getting scooped by it. They’re whispering, pointing, and occasionally nudging each other as if it’s the most critical mission in Vegas history.
You and Nancy find Eddie and Steve halfway across the casino floor, crowded around a table under harsh lights. There are chips scattered, drinks already sweating – long forgotten. Eddie is already down a jacket, grinning like he’s winning something, even when he’s not.
“Strip poker,” he announces proudly when he spots you. “Low stakes. High tragedy.”
You look at the table, then at them. “You’re all idiots.”
Eddie beams. “Sit.”
You do.
Steve doesn’t stop you. He just watches. His elbows rest on the table, his hands clasped with an unreadable expression. His eyes flick up when you slide into the empty chair – they take in the way you cross your legs, the way you tuck your hair back. Then he looks back down at his cards.
He tells himself it’s fine. Because he’s drunk enough to blame the alcohol. But that’s not exactly true.
Eddie quickly teaches you how to play.
A few rounds in, Eddie is down to a t-shirt and jeans, dramatically lamenting his downfall. One of the other guys has lost his hat and dignity. Steve is still fully dressed, but tense in a way that has nothing to do with the cards.
Then you lose a hand.
“All right,” Eddie says, clapping. “Rules are rules.”
You consider it for a second, then shrug and slip off your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the chair. Steve goes still. Like, statue-still. His jaw tightens, his eyes flick to the guy across the table, who suddenly looks a little too interested for his liking.
“You don’t have to do that,” Steve mutters.
“It’s a jacket,” you say lightly. “Relax.”
Another round, another loss. This time, you kick off your shoes and hook them over the chair leg. Harmless, it’s barely anything. Except now people are looking. Not staring, just noticing. You’re laughing, relaxed, leaning over the table as you check your cards. Someone whistles when you win a hand back.
Steve’s patience snaps like a rubber band.
“Hey,” he says sharply, glaring at the guy. “Eyes on your own cards.”
Eddie squints between the two of you. “Wow. This got intimate.”
You laugh under your breath, eyes squinting at how your lips stretch. He turns to you, attempting flattery, with a grace of a drunk raccoon. “M’lady, if anyone troubles you, I will–”
He trips over his chair. It’s fine. He recovers. Barely.
The table erupts.
Someone snorts. Someone else actually wheezes, Nancy covers her mouth, laughing so hard she has to bend over. You clap a hand over your face, shoulders shaking, laughter spilling out before you can stop it.
“Oh my god,” you manage between laughs. “Eddie.”
“I meant to do that,” he says from the floor, muffled but undeterred. “It was a… tactical maneuver.”
Steve laughs despite himself, loud and surprised, shaking his head as he reaches down to drag Eddie back up. “You are never defending anyone’s honor.”
Steve loses a hand, groans dramatically, and tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. The table goes insane.
“Oh my god,” Nancy laughs, clapping once before she can stop herself.
You cheer too. But half a second late, your breath ended up getting caught in your chest with the sight ahead of you. He stands there for a moment, his shirt dangling from his fingers, clearly aware of the attention but pretending not to be. His shoulders are broader than you remember. His arms look stronger, a lot more than it has always been before. And his chest – You freeze. You’ve forgotten he stopped shaving it.
There’s a light dusting of hair across his chest, darker at the center, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t. But your eyes stick. Like glue, and you don’t even realize you’ve stopped smiling until Nancy elbows you gently in the side. Steve lifts both arms to rake a hand through his hair, stretching without thinking about it, muscles shifting under skin like he’s not doing anything deliberate at all. The movement sends a sharp, electric jolt straight through you.
Your mouth twitches, just a tiny, unconscious reaction, like your body remembers him before your brain can catch up. Like some old instinct flares awake and doesn’t bother asking permission. She notices it, bright and clear. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just turns her head slowly, eyebrows lifting the barest fraction. Her gaze flicks from your face to Steve’s chest and back again.
Oh, no.
You force yourself to blink, to look away, to reach for your drink like nothing just happened. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Too loud. Steve doesn’t notice. He’s busy tossing his shirt onto the pile, grinning at Eddie like he’s won something instead of lost.
But Nancy leans in close, her voice low and amused.
“You good?” she asks, sweetly innocent.
You swallow. “Fine.”
She hums, unconvinced.
Again, you lose. You have to pick between your shirt and your skirt – for obvious reasons, you would definitely not strip in front of everyone and show your underwear. Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. His brain very clearly short-circuits.
Steve stiffens immediately. Not visibly, there’s no sudden movement, but something in him goes tight, alert, like he’s bracing for impact. Nancy leans back in her chair, folding her arms, already smiling. She knows exactly what’s about to happen. Eddie points vaguely in your direction, then at Steve, then back at you.
“I… Okay, I just want to be clear that I am being very respectful right now.”
“You are sweating,” Nancy says mildly.
“I am thinking,” Eddie insists. “Carefully.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the cards on the table like they personally they're more interesting, his jaw working once as if he’s wearing out a thought he absolutely does not want to have in public.
You raise an eyebrow. “It’s just a shirt. Or a skirt. Relax.”
Steve finally looks up, aiming a sharp glare directly at Eddie, who immediately lifts both hands. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not suggesting anything! I am a gentleman!”
“You fell over a chair ten minutes ago,” Nancy reminds him.
“Physical setbacks do not negate moral values.”
You laugh, shaking your head, and decide to put everyone out of their misery. You hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt – and Steve sucks in a strangled breath. You tug the shirt up and off, revealing a laced top bra underneath it. Nothing scandalous, it’s perfectly decent, and you actually feel relieved for choosing a good piece of lingerie. The table goes quiet for half a second.
Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the past thirty seconds, shoulders dropping just a fraction. He looks away quickly, then back, with an expression that seems neutral, but inside he’s fighting off the urge to lick his lips – he swallows thickly.
Eddie slaps the table. “I need another drink. For reasons.”
Steve clears his throat, reaching for his glass without looking at anyone. “Yeah. Same.”
Nancy catches your eye, amused and knowing. Oh, she has clocked everything.
By the time the game ends, you and your friends sit down by the table to grab some food and more drinks.
“You totally didn't, that guy destroyed you two.” You say, offering your drink to Steve, who grasps the glass from your hand. Your fingers brush, and he clears his throat, struggling to pretend nothing happened.
“Oh, really? Because he was on the verge of taking his briefs off!” He shoots back, scoffing. “And by the way, who even wears briefs?”
You nearly choke to his outrage, and it only worsens when Eddie protests. “Hey, I do!”
It only takes a few seconds before the four of you burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter, everything dissolving into noise and chaos. Eddie spits his beer everywhere, and you and Steve end up nearly on top of each other, fighting for the same chair.
“You two should get married!” Nancy says, out of the blue.
You look at her, she smiles at you and Steve. The laughter dies instantly, leaving a heavy silence – only Eddie’s quiet giggle breaks it.
“You absolutely should.” Robin cuts in as she sits between you.
You both look at each other before laughing again. This time it's louder, careless.
The neon lights buzz softly in pink and blue as the sign flickers. The carpet is red and the aisle is narrow. You walk in wearing a makeshift veil they offer – you agreed to be there as part of the joke. Your dress is just a skirt and the top bra you’re still wearing from earlier, though Robin insisted that the veil would make it “official”.
Standing at the end of the aisle, Steve wears a crooked bow tie. It makes him look ridiculous and pretty all at once. His shirt is all kneaded, his hair still tousled from his hands running through it the entire night – he looks at you like he’s not really sure what is happening, but he’s not backing out. The officiant wears a priest’s collar that’s very much obviously plastic.
“Welcome,” he says cheerfully, already slurring just a little. “To the sacred institution of–”
“Elvis!” Dustin yells, a shriek of laughter coming from him.
Heads turn directly at the Elvis Presley cover wearing a jumpsuit full of rhinestone as he steps forward from the corner. Your friends are perched and leaning into each other, whispering loudly like they’re watching a movie, and it’s already being ruined.
Robin fans herself with a pamphlet. “I can’t believe this is real.”
“This is absolutely real,” Eddie says. “I will be telling this story forever.”
Steve glances over his shoulder. “Can you all… just–”
They don’t close their mouths, just keep the conversation muffled. There are giggling and whisper shouting that you can still hear. You step up beside Steve while he offers you his arm without thinking about it. You take it without hesitation. The contact shifts the air just a little.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Bob continues, “we are gathered here tonight because… Vegas.”
Laughter erupts from the benches, and you look up at him through the veil.
“Okay,” you say, pointing at him. “You.”
“Me,” he agrees.
You clear your throat. Immediately forget everything you meant to say.
“So. Um.” You laugh. “I promise to… not steal your fries. Except sometimes. When you’re not looking.”
“Impossible,” Steve murmurs.
Eddie wipes a fake tear. “Beautiful.”
Steve’s turn. He rubs his face, then looks at you like he’s trying to focus through water.
“Okay. Uh. I promise–” He pauses. “I promise to always come get you. Even if it’s late. Or scary. Or there are government guys.”
Robin gasps. “Romantic.”
“And I promise to carry heavy stuff,” he adds, gesturing vaguely. “Like bags. Or groceries. Or emotional baggage.”
You snort. Eddie makes an emotional choking noise. Nancy elbows him hard. Steve is smiling, it’s soft and real.
The officiant raises his hands. “By the extremely real authority vested in me–”
“Elvis!” Eddie shouts, jolting Dustin awake. He’d barely slept through the first few words before the vows.
Elvis strums three loud, incorrect chords.
“You may kiss–”
You lean in too fast. Steve laughs into it, the veil catches on his bow tie. He pulls back, and you lean in with a stumble, giggling when he steadies you with both of his hands around your waist. You share a single, slight, quick kiss – just a brush of lips, nothing more. It’s sloppy, unpracticed. Steve grins against your mouth, lifting you slightly as if to spin the both of you, and promptly loses his balance.
The two of you tumble forward, landing face-first on the floor with a thud. Laughter erupts again from your friends. You groan for half a second, your cheeks are pressed to the carpet, and then break into laughter yourself, muffled against Steve’s shoulder as he tries to regain himself, hair falling into his eyes.
He holds your hand like it’s instinct, vows that are half jokes and half painfully sincere. The others watch from their seats, while the cover sings “Can't Help Falling in Love With You” as you two share a kiss you won't even remember.
The chapel door bangs open and Vegas hits you. The three people behind you are still giggling, and Eddie keeps announcing that you’re all legally bound to absolutely no one. Some tourists passing clap either way, and Robin grabs your hands and lifts them.
“Just married,” she basically yells.
“Please don’t,” you say, laughing. The veil already long forgotten behind you in the chapel. Steve stumbles behind after throwing out his bow tie, squinting at the glowing sign above the chapel.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s… that’s permanent, right?”
Nancy adjusts her purse strap, already smiling like she’s going to remember this for the rest of her life. “It’s Nevada. Probably.”
Dustin fumbles with his disposable camera. “Everyone together! No, don’t move, wait—”
The flash goes off too early.
“Great,” Eddie says. “That’s a thumb.”
“So,” Steve says, leaning into you so you can hear him over the noise, “what do married people do in the eighties?”
You think about it. “Probably get drinks. Maybe dance to something with a terrible keyboard solo.”
“I really need a hot dog right now.” Dustin announces with a groan.
Eddie squints at him. “Buddy, we are celebrating a wedding.”
Dustin doesn’t move. “I want a hot dog.”
Everyone is still very drunk – not the quiet or manageable drunk, the kind of drunk where sitting on a curb while eating a hot dog feels more fun than actually having a proper wedding. Nancy takes a sip of her soda that she doesn’t remember buying, lifting it as if she’s about to make a toast.
“I just want to say,” she announces, swaying slightly but determined, “that this was my idea.”
You look at her. “The hot dogs?”
“No,” Nancy says, offended. “The wedding.”
Eddie cackles from beside her, almost choking on a piece of the hot dog, Dustin elbows him incessantly like someone had just told him the funniest joke.
Eddie snorts. “You said, ‘You guys should totally get married.’”
“That’s a suggestion.”
Robin grins, nudging Nancy’s shoulder with hers. “And then I said, ‘Yes, do it.’”
“And then,” Dustin adds with a mouthful of hot dog, “everyone yelled.”
Nancy nods, satisfied. “Group effort.”
Eddie lifts his hot dog like it’s a microphone. “I provided moral support.”
Steve looks between all of you, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh.
“…I can’t believe you people.”
Robin bumps his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
You take another bite of your hot dog, smiling into the night.
Still drunk. Still laughing. Still very much married.
You wake up with a pounding headache, the light seeping through the curtain that isn't dark enough to hide the sun rays peeking from the edges of the window. Silence fills the room as you push yourself against your elbows and look around, finding Robin and Nancy still asleep. Your throat burns from thirst, your body heavy in a way that feels almost unnatural.
You stare ahead, trying to remember the night before – fragments of memory coming to your mind. The strip poker you played, a dancing contest with Robin and Dustin. Too many suspicious drinks with weird colors, and an Elvis Presley cover.
Why the fuck was there an Elvis Presley cover at the casino?
At breakfast, no one seems to be handling the hangover particularly well. Eddie’s hair is pulled into a messy bun, Dustin fast asleep where he slumps against his forearm, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Steve wears sunglasses indoors, and Nancy quietly pours water for Robin like it’s a matter of survival.
“So, are we gonna talk about the wedding?” Robin asks suddenly.
Apart from Dustin, everyone else glances at each other for a few seconds. You furrow your brows. Who got married?
“What wedding, Robs?” Steve asks first, missing the clue in the way she looks straight at you for a brief second.
She stifles a giggle, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well duh, you and sunshine?”
You both turn to look at each other at the exact same time – and immediately regret it. Your head is still pounding, your stomach can barely keep food down, and now this?
That’s when a few things come back to you. A neon chapel. A fake priest. One white veil, one bow tie… and a fucking Elvis Presley cover.
“Oh, shit.” He mutters, shutting his eyes.
“There's no way we did that, is there?” You whisper to him, who still can't look at you.
His head hangs low, heart racing, and for a moment everything seems to slow down. Did he really get married to you while being completely drunk?
The moment turns into an awkward silence, Nancy and Robin trying to disguise how uncomfortable the situation became, while Eddie is the only one smiling.
“Oh, this trip keeps getting more fun.”
Steve lifts his head and sends his friend a glare. “Shut up, Munson.”
Eddie frowns and shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
You don’t want to discuss it in front of your friends — not when things with Steve have already shifted. The two of you don’t talk for the rest of the day, an uncomfortable tension settling in the space between you.
Robin tries to convince him it wasn’t the worst idea ever, while you and Nancy keep the mood light, retreating to the spa to gossip and avoid thinking too hard. Meanwhile, Dustin and Eddie are thriving.
“So. Married life. You guys thinking kids or…?” He jokes during afternoon coffee, getting kicked in the shin by Nancy. “What?”
Robin won't stop calling you Mrs. Harrington, and Dustin keeps asking if he's going to be the best man.
You decide to stay at the hotel, get some rest, find something – anything – more relaxing to do. After dinner, you settle into a chair in the lounge area. Low jazz music fills the space as you flip through the book you brought but never quite had time to read.
“Who reads a book in Las Vegas?”
His voice startles you. You lift your gaze to meet his hazel eyes as he takes a seat across from you.
“If I step foot in a casino again, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my mind.”
He chuckles, but the tension creeps up his neck. He chews on the inside of his cheek, careful not to look at you for too long.
“How are you?” His voice is cautious, like the question might take a wrong turn if he’s not careful.
You huff, setting the book aside and drawing in a deep breath. “Oh, I’m delighted. Robin won’t stop calling me Mrs. Harrington, and I’m pretty sure Nancy already has a wedding reception planned for when we get back.”
“That bad?” You shrug. “We were so drunk, I didn’t even remember there was an Elvis Presley.”
Your lips purse as a small pause settles between you. You notice how uneasy he looks, the way his right leg keeps bouncing, the way he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.
“I know I shouldn't be too worried, but it doesn't mean anything, right?” You ask. He looks at your lips, then at your eyes. Steve nods repeatedly, as though he's telling himself that it's the truth.
That it didn't mean anything. That your vows were just made up for a performance.
His tone isn't sharp, more like aggravated for pretending that he agrees with you. “Yeah, sure. Of course. So, we should annul it?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”
A silence that stretched for several seconds turned into something completely awkward. Again.
“We don't even remember it.” He says, defensively. You both chuckle nervously, he keeps tapping his fingers against the table.
You’ll be back in Hawkins in two days, and you don’t even know where to go from there. Something nudges at you from the inside, like a quiet, restless feeling that makes you stare down at your book like it might hold the answer you’re looking for.
Robin groans again, fingers tugging at her hair. Dustin watches with his arms folded, clearly amused, while Eddie and Nancy roll their eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in ten minutes.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You absolutely kissed.”
Dustin sits on the arm of the chair with his arms folded, watching the whole thing like it’s his favorite rerun. There’s a smug little smile on his face, the kind that says he’s enjoying this far too much to intervene.
You and Steve sit side by side on the bed, shoulders almost touching, the space between you loud with everything you’re not saying. She paces as he talks, gesturing excessively.
“I remember it very clearly,” she insists. “You were both standing there, and you…” she points at you, "...were laughing so hard you could barely talk, and you…” now Steve, "...kept fixing that stupid bow tie like it was gonna save you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you say immediately.
Steve nods. “Didn’t mean a thing.”
Robin scoffs. “Then the vows.”
“There were no vows,” you say.
“They barely counted,” Steve adds quickly. “It was just… words.”
Eddie snorts. “Words are usually what vows are, man.”
Nancy sighs. “You promised fries.”
“That’s not a commitment,” you argue.
“You kissed,” Robin says again, firmer this time.
“Nope.”
“No.”
You both say it at once.
“It was barely a kiss,” Steve adds, after a beat. “Like... accidental.”
“Your faces were touching,” Dustin says cheerfully.
Eddie laughs, falling back against the wall. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend none of it counted?”
“Isn’t that the whole idea? Getting married in a fake chapel, with a fake officiant. With a fucking Elvis Presley cover?” Your voice gets exasperated, and Steve forces himself to seem unbothered.
Nancy pinches the bridge of her nose. “You signed paperwork.”
Steve blinks. “…allegedly.”
Robin throws her hands up. “You were smiling!”
“That also doesn’t mean anything,” Steve says, a little too fast.
Silence settles for a moment, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint noise of Vegas outside the window.
You stare at the carpet. Steve stares at his hands. But the truth is, he wishes he could say it was real. Even if it wasn’t how he imagined getting married. Even if it was messy and drunk and nothing like it was supposed to be. Your words cut straight through him. The way you dismiss it, the firmness in your tone, the way you refuse to entertain even the possibility.
It makes his stomach churn, nausea rising as he forces himself to stay quiet.
“I loved you before I knew how to be good at it.” He slurs, but his demeanor is earnest.
You laugh and cry at the same time. “You always come back when it matters.”
Your friends cheer you up, Elvis Presley sings, and the officiant asks if anyone objects and the entire group yelling a hard “no”.
You share a single, slight and quick kiss. There's no tongue, just a brush of lips. He tries to pick you up, but he loses balance and you both fall face flat on the floor, drawing a laugh from your friends. You laugh, reciprocating the drunken glances.
You sit still, eyes fixed on the floor, not moving an inch from your spot on the bed. Your hands are folded in your lap like you’re bracing yourself for impact. The room is quiet in that way that isn’t peaceful at all. You can feel it, the weight of everyone’s attention pressing in on you. Robin has stopped pacing. Eddie has gone uncharacteristically still. Even Dustin’s usual fidgeting has paused. They’re all waiting. Watching. Like if they just give you enough time, you’ll say it.
Because for half a second, you almost do.
And then the memory crashes in, sharp and unwelcome. Steve standing there months ago, eyes full of something that looked like regret but sounded like certainty. Him deciding, on his own, that you were better off without him. Him letting go first. Him giving up.
You swallow.
“I still think it was a mistake.” Your voice cuts through the silence. Eddie mumbles under his breath and Robin groans once again.
Nancy doesn’t say anything. She just watches you, really watches you, her jaw tight as her gaze flicks from you to the doorway. Because Steve has left. You hadn’t even heard him move. At some point while you were staring at the floor and fighting old wounds, he stood up, crossed the room, and walked out without a word. The door didn’t slam. It didn’t need to.
“You're so wrong about it.” Dustin mutters, breaking the silence. His arms still folded.
The air feels heavier without him in the room. Like something unfinished just walked away. You stay where you are, eyes still on the floor, heart pounding too loud in your ears. Because admitting it mattered would mean admitting it hurt. And admitting it hurt would mean facing the fact that this time he didn’t stay.
You were not wrong, though. Getting married like that – drunk, impulsive, in the middle of Las Vegas, was a mistake, for starters. The whole thing was wrong to begin with. You shouldn’t have been standing under flickering neon, wearing a borrowed veil, saying vows you barely understood to your ex while your friends treated it like a spectacle. You shouldn’t have been laughing through something that clearly still had impact.
And you definitely shouldn’t be sitting in a hotel room now, replaying a relationship that already ended once.
So you leave.
You don’t announce it. You don’t grab anyone’s attention. You just stand, slip out the door, and let the hallway swallow you whole. The carpet muffles your steps, the lights buzz over your head. Somewhere far away, someone laughs too loud, and it makes your chest tighten.
You wander until the noise thins out, until the air feels cooler.
The garden is quiet, too oddly quiet for Vegas. You sink plop onto a stone bench and stare at the ground, jaw tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you might unravel if you don’t hold on.
You don’t know how long you’ve been there when you hear footsteps behind you.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up.
Eddie drops down beside you anyway, close but not hovering, like his presence is familiar enough to be annoying in the way only he can manage. He studies you for a second, then slides an arm around your shoulders and leans his head lightly against yours.
“You know,” he says, voice low, almost gentle, “that was pretty stupid.”
You let out a sharp breath through your nose.
“It's not stupid, Eds. He broke up with me.”
Eddie hums, like he’s turning the thought over. “Maybe he thought it was better that way,” he says. “And maybe this…” he gestures vaguely back toward the hotel. "...was the second chance you needed.”
You scoff, the sound bitter, and nudge yourself out from under his arm. “At a fucking Las Vegas fake chapel?”
He snorts. “Yeah. Fair.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Eddie turns toward you, more serious now.
“I don’t think you really mean that,” he says. “See… there’s this quote. Goes something like–” he squints, clearly calculating his thoughts, "‘a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.’”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your silence stretches, heavy and telling, and Eddie sees it immediately. His shoulders sag just a little as he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s tired but not surprised.
“M'not gonna keep intruding, but sweetheart... don't be stupid.”
He stands and smiles sweetly at you before leaving.
During dinner, no one said anything about it anymore. Your friends found other subjects to talk about. You had barely touched your food, and Steve sat across the table from you, his eyes fighting to not find you.
Steve is quiet after that. You both stayed behind at the hotel while the others headed out to the fair. Only a hallway separates you now. A few doors. It feels ridiculous how small the distance is, and how impossible it seems to cross. Eddie tried to talk to him. Eddie’s voice low and earnest, Steve’s replies clipped and evasive. He dodged every word of advice like it might bruise him. Because what would it change?
You’d made it clear. It was a mistake, you don’t love him anymore. And he should’ve known better than to hope otherwise.
You run into him later in the lobby, the bar half-lit and quiet. He’s already seated, waiting for a drink, elbows resting on the counter like he’s holding himself in place. The bartender slides a glass his way just as you approach. Your head is still echoing with Eddie’s voice. With the stupid quote. With the way he looked at you like he could see straight through your denial.
You sit on the stool beside Steve. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even acknowledge you’re there.
“So...” you say, waiting for him to look at you. “You think it was a good idea?”
Steve’s fingers curl around the rim of the glass. The thick brown liquid inside sways as he sets it down on the counter, slowly. His shoulders tense, just slightly, but you miss it.
“I think it doesn’t mean anything.” He turns his head then, quick and sharp, finally looking at you. There’s a faint smile on his face, forced so tight it almost hurts to see. “Like you said,” he adds. “It was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than you expect. A jab straight to the chest. A physical ache would’ve been easier.
You swallow, pushing through it, “should we cancel it?”
He huffs under his breath and lifts the glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey. He didn’t want this question. You can feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he avoids you again. But he feels cornered, whether you mean to or not, forcing him to agree with you – forcing him to admit how wrong it all was.
“I mean, yeah. Isn't that what you want?” He doesn't look at you this time, his eyes are fixed at some invisible point at the bar.
No.
“Yes.”
The word comes out clean. Final. A lie that sounds convincing even to your own ears.
Steve closes his eyes for half a second. He doesn’t look at you, he can’t. You can almost feel how close he is to breaking if he does. Instead, he stares at the glass in his hand and downs the rest of the drink in one go, the alcohol burning its way down like it might loosen the knot stuck in his throat.
“Then we'll do it.” It lands a little hard, he doesn’t soften it. Steve doesn’t take it back.
And you hate yourself for it, because this time, you know you’ve crossed the line. You were afraid, and stubborn. And hurting. By the time the realization sinks in, it’s already too late.
The damage is done.
The trip ended with a sour taste, but at least someone got something good out of it. Dustin had the time of his life; Eddie made bad decisions and ended up regretting all of them. Robin came back five hundred dollars richer and Nancy kept telling her that it was dirty money, trying to kill her mood – it didn't.
You sit a few rows behind Steve on the plane.
The weather is awful. Rain dribbles down the windows, the clouds are thick and angry, and the turbulence never really lets up. The plane jolts hard enough at one point that Steve reaches out on instinct and grabs Eddie’s hand. He never hears the end of it.
Eddie laughs so hard he nearly chokes, immediately launching into jokes about what a gentleman Steve is, how brave he is for enduring “a little shaking.” Steve shoves him, mortified, but there’s a crack of laughter there too. For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Almost.
When the plane finally touches down in Hawkins, things settle back into place. Or… close enough to pretend they have. You try to talk to him. You really do. You catch him alone once, heart in your throat, ready to fix it, to say the words you should’ve said back in that bar. But he shuts it down gently and quickly, tells you to pretend it’s just paperwork. Nothing more. After that, Steve disappears.
He decides to spend the rest of the vacation with his piblings, vanishing into family plans and forced cheer, putting as much distance between you as he can manage without being cruel about it. You feel it anyway. The absence. The deliberate space.
You feel bad.
Guilty.
And there’s something else too, something gnawing at you. Like a feeling you can’t quite name but can’t shake either. You want to fix things, to talk it through, but every time you call, he doesn’t answer. His aunt keeps saying he’s busy with relatives — and you know it isn’t true, because he still finds time to talk to Eddie and Dustin. Just not you.
He came back quieter, at least toward you. No small talk, no sharing glances, not even a word beyond “hi” and “bye” during your group hangouts. Mike and Lucas notice. They exchange looks when Steve goes out of his way to sit across the room from you, when he changes conversations so they don’t stand too close to anything resembling Vegas. He never mentions the wedding. Not once. You caught him laughing with Eddie, joking with Robin, listening intently to Nancy’s rambling plans – but when it came to you, he went quiet. Polite. Neutral.
Like strangers who shared a past no one wanted to bring up. And it hurt more than fighting ever did. The worst part is that you knew why.
You remember the night he broke up with you, how he looked exhausted, like he’d been carrying the decision around for weeks. How he kept rubbing the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the skin like he was bracing himself for something that was bound to hurt no matter how carefully he handled it.
He didn’t explain much. Just said it would be better for both of you. That he needed time to get settled first.
Things have been different ever since you came back from the trip. He flirted with other girls – something he’d stopped doing when you were together. Went on a few dates. Smiled at any girl that crossed his path. Played the part convincingly enough that most people bought it. But there was always something pulling him back. Something unfinished.
And you watch it happen in slow motion now, watch him slip further and further away from you, choosing distance over confrontation, silence over honesty.
You let him go every day.
And somehow, it hurts every time.
It isn’t until you find him alone in the kitchen that you finally decide you can’t keep doing this.
The house is loud everywhere else, voices too loud in the living room, music playing too quietly to matter, someone laughing too hard at nothing. But the kitchen is calm, and Steve stands in front of the refrigerator, door open. He stares inside like he’s forgotten what he came for. He grabs a soda, the bottle hissing when he twists the cap, and that’s when you step in.
“It was never a mistake”
The words leave you before you can overthink them.
Steve stills. Just for a second, but you see it. His shoulders tense, his hand tightens around the bottle. He doesn’t turn right away.
“Really,” he finally says, his voice carefully controlled and even. But still hurt. “Because you made it very clear back there.”
“I didn't mean that.” You swallow.
He lets out a short, humorless breath and turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “I think you did,” he says. “I think you said it.”
You almost waver, despite your effort to keep your voice steady. “I said it because you broke up with me first. Because you decided, without asking me, that we were better off without each other.”
His brow furrows. “That’s not–”
“You didn't want me to fight for us, and you didn't give me a reasonable explanation.”
He closes his eyes, throwing his head back. His throat bobs and he shifts on his foot. Steve has been absolutely wrecked ever since he tried to pretend that you were doing better that way, that he was only going to slow you down while he was being stuck.
He looks at you, something raw about his expression. Like it’s hurt, buried and uncovered.
“Fine, you wanna know why?” He asks without waiting for your response. “I didn’t want to be the reason you settled, I didn’t want you staying with me and wondering what else you could’ve had.”
Your throat tightens.
“I never thought you were a failure,” you say. “Not once. You decided that for me.”
He looks up then, eyes glassy, disbelieving.
He drags a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture making your throat ache. “But when you said it was a mistake… it felt like confirmation. Like I finally did the right thing by walking away.”
You step closer, shaking your head. “I was angry. I was hurt. And I thought if I said it first, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
It hangs there, everything you never said, everything he assumed. Neither of you moves.
“You were going places,” he says. “And I was… stuck.”
“Steve... you were surviving,” you correct. “Just like the rest of us.”
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have had to wait for me to catch up.”
“I wasn’t waiting,” you say, stepping even closer now. “I was choosing you.”
That’s when he breaks.
Not dramatically. His breath is quietly shuddering, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding something up for far too long.
“I thought letting you go was the right thing,” he murmurs.
“You don’t get to decide what’s right for me,” you say softly. “Not anymore.”
The tension eases slowly. Steve leans into you before either of you realizes it, his chest brushes against yours, shoulder pressing against yours in a way that feels tentative but grounding. His breaths are uneven and shaky, and you can feel them against your neck, a rhythm caught somewhere between relief and fear.
You let your hand brush his arm, careful at first, then more confidently as the seconds pass. The kitchen noises fade into the background – and nothing matters except this fragile closeness.
“You okay?” you murmur softly, barely above the fridge’s hum.
He nods, though his shoulders still tremble slightly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”
You press your forehead lightly against his temple, letting him breathe you in, letting him know you’re here. The moment stretches, gentle and quiet, a small reconciliation that doesn’t need words.
“At least we had Elvis Presley singing at our wedding.” You joke, your voice soft.
Steve snorts, a laugh catching in his throat. He wipes his cheeks, sniffling. “God, that is kind of lame.”
You step closer and lift your thumbs gently to his face, brushing away the stray tears. You trail them down his cheeks to his chin, careful, lingering. “I think that was kind of cool,” you whisper.
His eyes follow your movements, scanning your face like he’s memorizing every line, every expression. Your eyes, your cheeks, your lips – they’re all his focus now.
“And I think Nancy said we also had a cake, I'm just not sure what fl-”
He cuts you off without warning.
Steve’s lips are on yours before you can finish the thought, fast and urgent, and the world stops. You freeze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before letting go of the hesitation. You give him permission, matching him, letting your tongues swipe together carefully and desperate.
He groans softly against your mouth, and something in the sound makes your chest tighten.
Because you feel it. You feel the longing he’s carried since the minute he walked away. Every restrained glance, every stiff shoulder, every quiet avoidance, they all crash into this kiss. He’s been holding himself back for months, and now he doesn’t have to. You pull back just slightly, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. His eyes are wide, almost pleading, and you can feel the ache behind them.
“I never stopped loving you,” he admits.
You close the distance without thinking, pressing your lips to his again, softer this time, a promise without words.
And just like that, Vegas stops being about bad decisions. Because it led you back to him. It led him back to you.
Summary: You and Steve are exes who have managed to stay friendly after he decided to end your relationship. Robin plans a trip to Las Vegas, where it can get very chaotic – including strip poker, getting drunk in casinos, and stumbling through ridiculous drunken decisions.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader
Warnings: Alcohol use
Word count: 9.7k
The first mistake was agreeing to go to Vegas at all.
It was all Robin’s fault. She claimed it should be a celebratory trip, arguing you deserved a “happy place where the rules don’t apply” just for surviving the Upside Down.
Eddie Munson lit up at the idea, eager to make bad decisions without regrets. Nancy took over planning the entire week, and Dustin wouldn’t stop talking about finally being able to drink legally.
You only agreed because it was easier than explaining why you shouldn’t go.
Steve Harrington is going.
Steve, your ex-boyfriend, the one who said he wasn’t ready for a relationship if he didn’t have an established life. He was standing in a place where he needed to save money, figure out a way to go to college, and find a home of his own. He needed stability before he could commit, or so he said, and you’d tried to understand it, tried to convince yourself it was reasonable.
Your ex, the one who promised things would stay the same after breaking up with you, but it went the exact opposite. Every group hangout felt awkward and uncomfortable – you would force yourself to avoid staring at him for too long, especially when the stubble on his jaw grew just right, or when his laugh rang out so fully that you had to turn your head so you wouldn’t watch him. Every small gesture, every glance from him, carried weight.
Now you tell yourself you’re over him. You’ve practiced it, rehearsed it in your head so often that the words almost sound convincing when you say them to yourself. Or at least, that’s what you think. Because the moment he appears, the memories, the feelings, the weight of what you lost… it’s all still there, quietly pressing against your chest even if you try to ignore it.
You’ve saved money for months just to fly to Vegas. The idea seemed better than being trapped in a van for a day or two with loud conversations, arguments over who controlled the radio, and the constant complaints of “you didn’t fill the fucking tank?”. The thought of a plane felt like freedom. But the airport itself immediately tests your plans: it’s bright, loud, and crowded, and you’re already standing in line with Robin talking at your side, words spilling over each other, too many to process, and you realize you aren’t even listening.
Steve is there, leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t care that he’s late. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying (and failing) to look completely relaxed. He isn’t nervous because you’re here; he’s nervous because he hates flying. Turbulence makes his stomach twist. He’d rather drive across the entire country than sit on a plane, and it shows.
Eddie, of course, is oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil. He’s jabbering nonstop, telling story after story, loud and animated, pointing at things no one can see or care about. Steve nods along absentmindedly, letting the words wash over him without really listening. He keeps one hand in his pocket, the other tapping against his leg, a subtle rhythm to keep himself grounded.
He smiles when he sees you. It’s automatic. Soft. But it goes just as quickly as it came.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
There's tension between the words, like you've never noticed the rhythm of his breathing when he sleeps. And Eddie notices, of course.
“Well,” he claps his hands together. “This trip just got interesting.”
You're sitting next to Nancy, Steve across the aisle from you. His knees angled to the other side, like being close to you might mean something. Like he's afraid of proximity. His hand tightens on the armrest when the plane dips, his knuckles turning white immediately. You remember how he hates turbulence, but you don't reach for him. And neither does he.
You listen to Eddie speaking to an elderly woman who's already too entertained. She holds his thigh and pinches his cheeks as if he's her grandson. Occasionally, Steve can hear your giggles from Eddie's conversations, and his stomach flips. It's a weird sensation, he swore to himself he had done the right thing.
Vegas hits you like a sensory overload: too loud, too bright, too crowded. You hate crowds, and the thought of being pressed into the same space as dozens of strangers makes your chest tighten.
Eddie notices immediately, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “Relax,” he assures. “I’ve got you.” The small gesture makes you feel safer as the crowd surges around you.
Dustin, of course, is the opposite. He shrieks at the Fremont Street Experience, pointing wildly at the dazzling lights. You can’t help but smile a little, clinging to Eddie’s arm while chaos swirls around you.
“Dude, I really need to gamble,” he says, eyes wide and bright. “Okay, maybe I don’t… but it would be really cool to play!”
“I’ll show you the casino,” Eddie says, clapping Dustin on the shoulder with a grin.
Robin unfolds the map Nancy brought, scanning the downtown attractions with serious determination. “We should definitely start with the zip line!”
You and Nancy nod in agreement, while Steve lingers nearby, standing close enough to listen as Eddie and Dustin argue over the order of things. Finally, Eddie declares that the whole group is going on the zip line first, and then hitting the casinos after.
“You still hate heights?” Steve asks while walking beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.
You purse your lips and nod. “I kinda hate the idea, but I don't want to be a party wrecker since everyone is going.”
He knows you hate heights, hate them enough that a panic attack isn’t out of the question. Being in a plane is bad, sure, but at least you feel safer enclosed in metal, away from the open air. This… this is a different kind of terrifying. Eddie goes first. He screams the instant he jumps, his voice echoing through the entire area. You can’t help but laugh, even if it’s nervous, as he flails wildly before the line swishes him across.
You try to step forward next, but your fear roots you to the platform. Robin leans over, grinning, trying to convince you to go before her. You shake your head, refusing to look down. She frowns slightly, then gives you a sympathetic look before jumping anyway, screaming just like Eddie did. You swallow hard and glance back at Steve. He’s patiently waiting for his turn, shoulders relaxed but eyes on you.
The corner of his lips quirks up into a small, comforting smile, and just like that, you feel a little steadier. Even if the fear hasn’t left, at least you’re not facing it alone.
“You don't have to if you don't want to.” He says, his voice warm.
You keep looking between him and the zip line, your heart thumping against your chest and your head pounding with dread. Just close your eyes and go.
The end of the zip line makes you exhale in relief. Your hands are still clenched around the rope, palms marked red from how tightly you held on. Your legs shake so badly you almost stumble when your feet hit the ground, breath coming out uneven. When you finally look up, your friends are cheering, smiles wide across their faces. Eddie whistles loudly and proudly, drawing the attention of anyone nearby to the whole group – and to you.
Steve taps your shoulder lightly, lips curved into a small smile. You return it without thinking, mouthing a soft thank you. He doesn’t say anything back. Just nods, then squeezes your shoulder once before letting his hand fall away.
“See? Not so difficult.”
You chuckle, still a little nervous. It feels weird to have him touching you again after months being apart. “Yeah, but I don't think I'll be doing that for another ten years.”
He huffs a laugh, quick and soft, his teeth flashing for just a second before he smooths his expression back into calm. You shake your head, smirking at him for a brief moment, then turn to catch up with the others.
Casinos and drinks don't actually go well together. It makes every tiny win feel like a gamble worth chasing, and suddenly even a single lost dollar feels like the world is collapsing. You know you shouldn’t waste money, but you also know it’s better to lose one dollar now than a hundred later.
Dustin being the perfect example. He grumbles and mutters under his breath whenever he loses, then yelps in exaggerated triumph when he wins a hand. He doesn’t even notice how much beer he’s been drinking, the golden liquid making his reactions louder, sillier, and completely unpredictable.
Robin convinces you to try something bright blue and dangerous. Eddie dares Steve to flirt with a blackjack dealer and Steve loses twenty bucks and his dignity. You laugh at that, you really laugh. It feels light and natural, and when you turn, Steve is watching you like he forgot how to breathe for a second.
You look away first.
You have been drinking more than it should be allowed, and by the time the bar changes the music and the lights seem dimmer, the past feels closer now. Steve ends up beside you without either of you acknowledging how. His arm brushes yours. Stays there.
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I think Eddie is going to be bankrupt in the next thirty minutes if he keeps playing blackjack.”
You chuckle, watching as your curly-haired friend finally rips his shirt off, joining Dustin in their ridiculous display. Robin gasps loudly, clutching her chest like someone just shot a cannon of embarrassment straight at her. Nancy isn’t far behind – she laughs so hard she spills her drink, the liquid sloshing onto the table. The scene pulls a laugh from both you and Steve as well, messy and uncontrollable, and for a moment you forget about everything else.
You exchange a quick glance, the corners of your mouths twitching, while Dustin runs around like a man possessed, oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. Even in the mess and drunken silliness, the two of you feel the spark of something more beneath it all; fun, chaotic, and entirely impossible to ignore.
“God, they're so stupid.” You say, your laughter slowly dying as you sip on your drink. Steve agrees, nearly slurring something unintelligible.
The night goes on in a blur of bad ideas, too much drinking, and loud, careless laughter. You and Steve keep a careful distance from each other, only now and then with small, easy conversations about the hotel you’re staying at. About the way Dustin talks too much when he’s drunk, about nothing that matters and everything that does. The next day, you visit the Bellagio Fountain. Steve drives, having rented a car just so you could see more of the city. Later, you go shopping with Robin and Nancy, wandering store after store, while the guys stay back at the hotel, excited to spend the afternoon by the pool.
The second day in Vegas started off chaotic. Everyone is half-drunk and wandering through the casino, people are dressed in ridiculous costumes. There’s a giant dice, and a guy as a hot dog for some reason and it makes everyone burst out in laughs. You’re feeling dangerous, armed with a sharpie that can barely be erased by water. You sneak up to Steve first. You notice him for the first time today: his baseball cap is on backwards, the brim tilted just over his messy hair.
It’s a small thing, really – just a stupid little backwards cap, but somehow it sets you off. You blink, and the sight of him, all casual confidence and playful smirk, makes your chest tighten in a way that’s entirely unfair. Your hand darts out before you can stop it, scrawling a tiny, ridiculous mustache across his jawline.
“Don’t even–” He starts, but you’re faster, drawing a silly mustache across his face with a grin.
He freezes for a second, then bursts out laughing, dragging the sharpie back at you before you can react. Soon, your arms are brushing as he doodles random swirls and stars on your arm, smudging some of your previous scribbles. You laugh so hard you almost drop the marker.
“Okay, fine,” you gasp. “But now it’s fair game.”
Your eyes land on Eddie, leaning casually against a blackjack table and laughing at Dustin attempting to imitate a showgirl. You step toward him and jab your marker onto his arm, drawing a simple crown. He looks down and shakes his head, a smirk crossing his feature. But before you know it, he’s already drawing small flames on your wrist – Robin is scribbling little lightning bolts across Dustin’s hand. Nancy joins in too, trying to write something witty on Steve’s other arm.
You both end up in the bathroom, laughing so hard it’s almost painful. You’re holding a damp paper towel, Steve has a tiny bottle of hotel soap, and the sharpie marks on your arms and his aren’t budging.
“Ugh, this is never coming off,” Steve groans, scrubbing at a star you drew across his forearm. “I look like a crazy person.”
“You are a crazy person,” you tease, smearing your own doodle even further in the process. “But it’s our kind of crazy.”
He shakes his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips despite the mess. “I think you made this permanent.”
You shrug, not really caring. “Temporary is boring anyway.”
You both kneel in front of the sink, shoulder to shoulder, arms wet and slippery with soap and water. It doesn’t matter which bathroom this is – you don’t even acknowledge it. There’s no one else here, and the world outside feels like a distant memory.
“Here, let me,” he says, reaching for your wrist, his fingers brushing yours as he scrubs at a heart you drew near your elbow.
You freeze for a second, and he laughs, though it’s soft this time. “It’s just sharpie, not poison.”
“I know,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself. “But your hands are warm.”
Steve clears his throat, avoiding your gaze, and presses on with the scrubbing. A little more soap, a little more water, and the black lines start to fade, though not entirely. It’s messy, uneven.
You reach for another soap, balancing on the slick floor, when you mistakenly step on the bar that slid under your foot. Time slows for a fraction of time as you slip – arms flailing and legs kicked out in the air, landing hard on your backside. The streaked mixture of water and soap splashes everywhere, and Steve loses it. He doubles over, cackling uncontrollably, holding his stomach as the corner of his eyes fill with tears of laughter.
“Oh my god! You’re… oh man, you are such a mess!”
You groan, sitting there soaked and sticky, water dripping down your hair and back, soap bubbles clinging to your arms.
“I hate you,” you sputter, though there’s a laugh breaking through the frustration.
“Love you,” he manages between cackles, pointing at your soaked self, eyes sparkling. “You just… this–” He shakes his head, still laughing. “This is hilarious.”
You glare at him, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward. “Wait… wait. You’re not going to help me up?”
Steve snorts, grabbing a towel and holding it out just out of reach. “Not until you admit this is exactly what you deserved.”
You take a wet, slippery hand and swipe at the towel anyway, tugging it toward you while he continues to cackle like a maniac.
“You’re awful,” you growl, dripping soap and ink everywhere.
“And you’re adorable,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
You freeze mid-groan. Your laughter falters. “Wait… what?”
Steve glances at you, and suddenly the laughter catches in his throat. The sparkle in his eyes dulls just a little. “I– I mean, not like– uh…” He waves his hands vaguely, his face getting red immediately, clearly aware he’s crossed some invisible line.
You blink at him, sticky water dripping down your arm, the sharpie smudges making it impossible to look serious, yet somehow, everything feels charged.
“Right… sure,” you mutter, unsure whether to laugh or roll your eyes.
There’s silence in the bathroom for a moment, except the chaos in the casino outside. Both of you know – despite being drunk – that there’s still distance, the breakup, in there. Beneath the laughter and the soap mess.
Steve clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “…Maybe we should just, uh… finish cleaning this up?”
You nod, brushing the wet hair from your face. “Yeah… that sounds like a good idea.”
You've been visiting countless casinos. This time, everyone seems to be drinking a lot more. You’re laughing harder now, Eddie decides it’s a brilliant idea to start taking his clothes off mid-poker game. Steve sits beside him, trying not to crack up, while the strangers at the table are just as drunk as they are. The whole scene is absurd, chaotic, and completely mesmerizing.
Meanwhile, Robin and Dustin are crouched by the coin pusher machine, furiously trying to strategize how to collect every last coin without getting scooped by it. They’re whispering, pointing, and occasionally nudging each other as if it’s the most critical mission in Vegas history.
You and Nancy find Eddie and Steve halfway across the casino floor, crowded around a table under harsh lights. There are chips scattered, drinks already sweating – long forgotten. Eddie is already down a jacket, grinning like he’s winning something, even when he’s not.
“Strip poker,” he announces proudly when he spots you. “Low stakes. High tragedy.”
You look at the table, then at them. “You’re all idiots.”
Eddie beams. “Sit.”
You do.
Steve doesn’t stop you. He just watches. His elbows rest on the table, his hands clasped with an unreadable expression. His eyes flick up when you slide into the empty chair – they take in the way you cross your legs, the way you tuck your hair back. Then he looks back down at his cards.
He tells himself it’s fine. Because he’s drunk enough to blame the alcohol. But that’s not exactly true.
Eddie quickly teaches you how to play.
A few rounds in, Eddie is down to a t-shirt and jeans, dramatically lamenting his downfall. One of the other guys has lost his hat and dignity. Steve is still fully dressed, but tense in a way that has nothing to do with the cards.
Then you lose a hand.
“All right,” Eddie says, clapping. “Rules are rules.”
You consider it for a second, then shrug and slip off your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the chair. Steve goes still. Like, statue-still. His jaw tightens, his eyes flick to the guy across the table, who suddenly looks a little too interested for his liking.
“You don’t have to do that,” Steve mutters.
“It’s a jacket,” you say lightly. “Relax.”
Another round, another loss. This time, you kick off your shoes and hook them over the chair leg. Harmless, it’s barely anything. Except now people are looking. Not staring, just noticing. You’re laughing, relaxed, leaning over the table as you check your cards. Someone whistles when you win a hand back.
Steve’s patience snaps like a rubber band.
“Hey,” he says sharply, glaring at the guy. “Eyes on your own cards.”
Eddie squints between the two of you. “Wow. This got intimate.”
You laugh under your breath, eyes squinting at how your lips stretch. He turns to you, attempting flattery, with a grace of a drunk raccoon. “M’lady, if anyone troubles you, I will–”
He trips over his chair. It’s fine. He recovers. Barely.
The table erupts.
Someone snorts. Someone else actually wheezes, Nancy covers her mouth, laughing so hard she has to bend over. You clap a hand over your face, shoulders shaking, laughter spilling out before you can stop it.
“Oh my god,” you manage between laughs. “Eddie.”
“I meant to do that,” he says from the floor, muffled but undeterred. “It was a… tactical maneuver.”
Steve laughs despite himself, loud and surprised, shaking his head as he reaches down to drag Eddie back up. “You are never defending anyone’s honor.”
Steve loses a hand, groans dramatically, and tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. The table goes insane.
“Oh my god,” Nancy laughs, clapping once before she can stop herself.
You cheer too. But half a second late, your breath ended up getting caught in your chest with the sight ahead of you. He stands there for a moment, his shirt dangling from his fingers, clearly aware of the attention but pretending not to be. His shoulders are broader than you remember. His arms look stronger, a lot more than it has always been before. And his chest – You freeze. You’ve forgotten he stopped shaving it.
There’s a light dusting of hair across his chest, darker at the center, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t. But your eyes stick. Like glue, and you don’t even realize you’ve stopped smiling until Nancy elbows you gently in the side. Steve lifts both arms to rake a hand through his hair, stretching without thinking about it, muscles shifting under skin like he’s not doing anything deliberate at all. The movement sends a sharp, electric jolt straight through you.
Your mouth twitches, just a tiny, unconscious reaction, like your body remembers him before your brain can catch up. Like some old instinct flares awake and doesn’t bother asking permission. She notices it, bright and clear. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just turns her head slowly, eyebrows lifting the barest fraction. Her gaze flicks from your face to Steve’s chest and back again.
Oh, no.
You force yourself to blink, to look away, to reach for your drink like nothing just happened. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Too loud. Steve doesn’t notice. He’s busy tossing his shirt onto the pile, grinning at Eddie like he’s won something instead of lost.
But Nancy leans in close, her voice low and amused.
“You good?” she asks, sweetly innocent.
You swallow. “Fine.”
She hums, unconvinced.
Again, you lose. You have to pick between your shirt and your skirt – for obvious reasons, you would definitely not strip in front of everyone and show your underwear. Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. His brain very clearly short-circuits.
Steve stiffens immediately. Not visibly, there’s no sudden movement, but something in him goes tight, alert, like he’s bracing for impact. Nancy leans back in her chair, folding her arms, already smiling. She knows exactly what’s about to happen. Eddie points vaguely in your direction, then at Steve, then back at you.
“I… Okay, I just want to be clear that I am being very respectful right now.”
“You are sweating,” Nancy says mildly.
“I am thinking,” Eddie insists. “Carefully.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the cards on the table like they personally they're more interesting, his jaw working once as if he’s wearing out a thought he absolutely does not want to have in public.
You raise an eyebrow. “It’s just a shirt. Or a skirt. Relax.”
Steve finally looks up, aiming a sharp glare directly at Eddie, who immediately lifts both hands. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not suggesting anything! I am a gentleman!”
“You fell over a chair ten minutes ago,” Nancy reminds him.
“Physical setbacks do not negate moral values.”
You laugh, shaking your head, and decide to put everyone out of their misery. You hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt – and Steve sucks in a strangled breath. You tug the shirt up and off, revealing a laced top bra underneath it. Nothing scandalous, it’s perfectly decent, and you actually feel relieved for choosing a good piece of lingerie. The table goes quiet for half a second.
Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the past thirty seconds, shoulders dropping just a fraction. He looks away quickly, then back, with an expression that seems neutral, but inside he’s fighting off the urge to lick his lips – he swallows thickly.
Eddie slaps the table. “I need another drink. For reasons.”
Steve clears his throat, reaching for his glass without looking at anyone. “Yeah. Same.”
Nancy catches your eye, amused and knowing. Oh, she has clocked everything.
By the time the game ends, you and your friends sit down by the table to grab some food and more drinks.
“You totally didn't, that guy destroyed you two.” You say, offering your drink to Steve, who grasps the glass from your hand. Your fingers brush, and he clears his throat, struggling to pretend nothing happened.
“Oh, really? Because he was on the verge of taking his briefs off!” He shoots back, scoffing. “And by the way, who even wears briefs?”
You nearly choke to his outrage, and it only worsens when Eddie protests. “Hey, I do!”
It only takes a few seconds before the four of you burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter, everything dissolving into noise and chaos. Eddie spits his beer everywhere, and you and Steve end up nearly on top of each other, fighting for the same chair.
“You two should get married!” Nancy says, out of the blue.
You look at her, she smiles at you and Steve. The laughter dies instantly, leaving a heavy silence – only Eddie’s quiet giggle breaks it.
“You absolutely should.” Robin cuts in as she sits between you.
You both look at each other before laughing again. This time it's louder, careless.
The neon lights buzz softly in pink and blue as the sign flickers. The carpet is red and the aisle is narrow. You walk in wearing a makeshift veil they offer – you agreed to be there as part of the joke. Your dress is just a skirt and the top bra you’re still wearing from earlier, though Robin insisted that the veil would make it “official”.
Standing at the end of the aisle, Steve wears a crooked bow tie. It makes him look ridiculous and pretty all at once. His shirt is all kneaded, his hair still tousled from his hands running through it the entire night – he looks at you like he’s not really sure what is happening, but he’s not backing out. The officiant wears a priest’s collar that’s very much obviously plastic.
“Welcome,” he says cheerfully, already slurring just a little. “To the sacred institution of–”
“Elvis!” Dustin yells, a shriek of laughter coming from him.
Heads turn directly at the Elvis Presley cover wearing a jumpsuit full of rhinestone as he steps forward from the corner. Your friends are perched and leaning into each other, whispering loudly like they’re watching a movie, and it’s already being ruined.
Robin fans herself with a pamphlet. “I can’t believe this is real.”
“This is absolutely real,” Eddie says. “I will be telling this story forever.”
Steve glances over his shoulder. “Can you all… just–”
They don’t close their mouths, just keep the conversation muffled. There are giggling and whisper shouting that you can still hear. You step up beside Steve while he offers you his arm without thinking about it. You take it without hesitation. The contact shifts the air just a little.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Bob continues, “we are gathered here tonight because… Vegas.”
Laughter erupts from the benches, and you look up at him through the veil.
“Okay,” you say, pointing at him. “You.”
“Me,” he agrees.
You clear your throat. Immediately forget everything you meant to say.
“So. Um.” You laugh. “I promise to… not steal your fries. Except sometimes. When you’re not looking.”
“Impossible,” Steve murmurs.
Eddie wipes a fake tear. “Beautiful.”
Steve’s turn. He rubs his face, then looks at you like he’s trying to focus through water.
“Okay. Uh. I promise–” He pauses. “I promise to always come get you. Even if it’s late. Or scary. Or there are government guys.”
Robin gasps. “Romantic.”
“And I promise to carry heavy stuff,” he adds, gesturing vaguely. “Like bags. Or groceries. Or emotional baggage.”
You snort. Eddie makes an emotional choking noise. Nancy elbows him hard. Steve is smiling, it’s soft and real.
The officiant raises his hands. “By the extremely real authority vested in me–”
“Elvis!” Eddie shouts, jolting Dustin awake. He’d barely slept through the first few words before the vows.
Elvis strums three loud, incorrect chords.
“You may kiss–”
You lean in too fast. Steve laughs into it, the veil catches on his bow tie. He pulls back, and you lean in with a stumble, giggling when he steadies you with both of his hands around your waist. You share a single, slight, quick kiss – just a brush of lips, nothing more. It’s sloppy, unpracticed. Steve grins against your mouth, lifting you slightly as if to spin the both of you, and promptly loses his balance.
The two of you tumble forward, landing face-first on the floor with a thud. Laughter erupts again from your friends. You groan for half a second, your cheeks are pressed to the carpet, and then break into laughter yourself, muffled against Steve’s shoulder as he tries to regain himself, hair falling into his eyes.
He holds your hand like it’s instinct, vows that are half jokes and half painfully sincere. The others watch from their seats, while the cover sings “Can't Help Falling in Love With You” as you two share a kiss you won't even remember.
The chapel door bangs open and Vegas hits you. The three people behind you are still giggling, and Eddie keeps announcing that you’re all legally bound to absolutely no one. Some tourists passing clap either way, and Robin grabs your hands and lifts them.
“Just married,” she basically yells.
“Please don’t,” you say, laughing. The veil already long forgotten behind you in the chapel. Steve stumbles behind after throwing out his bow tie, squinting at the glowing sign above the chapel.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s… that’s permanent, right?”
Nancy adjusts her purse strap, already smiling like she’s going to remember this for the rest of her life. “It’s Nevada. Probably.”
Dustin fumbles with his disposable camera. “Everyone together! No, don’t move, wait—”
The flash goes off too early.
“Great,” Eddie says. “That’s a thumb.”
“So,” Steve says, leaning into you so you can hear him over the noise, “what do married people do in the eighties?”
You think about it. “Probably get drinks. Maybe dance to something with a terrible keyboard solo.”
“I really need a hot dog right now.” Dustin announces with a groan.
Eddie squints at him. “Buddy, we are celebrating a wedding.”
Dustin doesn’t move. “I want a hot dog.”
Everyone is still very drunk – not the quiet or manageable drunk, the kind of drunk where sitting on a curb while eating a hot dog feels more fun than actually having a proper wedding. Nancy takes a sip of her soda that she doesn’t remember buying, lifting it as if she’s about to make a toast.
“I just want to say,” she announces, swaying slightly but determined, “that this was my idea.”
You look at her. “The hot dogs?”
“No,” Nancy says, offended. “The wedding.”
Eddie cackles from beside her, almost choking on a piece of the hot dog, Dustin elbows him incessantly like someone had just told him the funniest joke.
Eddie snorts. “You said, ‘You guys should totally get married.’”
“That’s a suggestion.”
Robin grins, nudging Nancy’s shoulder with hers. “And then I said, ‘Yes, do it.’”
“And then,” Dustin adds with a mouthful of hot dog, “everyone yelled.”
Nancy nods, satisfied. “Group effort.”
Eddie lifts his hot dog like it’s a microphone. “I provided moral support.”
Steve looks between all of you, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh.
“…I can’t believe you people.”
Robin bumps his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
You take another bite of your hot dog, smiling into the night.
Still drunk. Still laughing. Still very much married.
You wake up with a pounding headache, the light seeping through the curtain that isn't dark enough to hide the sun rays peeking from the edges of the window. Silence fills the room as you push yourself against your elbows and look around, finding Robin and Nancy still asleep. Your throat burns from thirst, your body heavy in a way that feels almost unnatural.
You stare ahead, trying to remember the night before – fragments of memory coming to your mind. The strip poker you played, a dancing contest with Robin and Dustin. Too many suspicious drinks with weird colors, and an Elvis Presley cover.
Why the fuck was there an Elvis Presley cover at the casino?
At breakfast, no one seems to be handling the hangover particularly well. Eddie’s hair is pulled into a messy bun, Dustin fast asleep where he slumps against his forearm, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Steve wears sunglasses indoors, and Nancy quietly pours water for Robin like it’s a matter of survival.
“So, are we gonna talk about the wedding?” Robin asks suddenly.
Apart from Dustin, everyone else glances at each other for a few seconds. You furrow your brows. Who got married?
“What wedding, Robs?” Steve asks first, missing the clue in the way she looks straight at you for a brief second.
She stifles a giggle, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well duh, you and sunshine?”
You both turn to look at each other at the exact same time – and immediately regret it. Your head is still pounding, your stomach can barely keep food down, and now this?
That’s when a few things come back to you. A neon chapel. A fake priest. One white veil, one bow tie… and a fucking Elvis Presley cover.
“Oh, shit.” He mutters, shutting his eyes.
“There's no way we did that, is there?” You whisper to him, who still can't look at you.
His head hangs low, heart racing, and for a moment everything seems to slow down. Did he really get married to you while being completely drunk?
The moment turns into an awkward silence, Nancy and Robin trying to disguise how uncomfortable the situation became, while Eddie is the only one smiling.
“Oh, this trip keeps getting more fun.”
Steve lifts his head and sends his friend a glare. “Shut up, Munson.”
Eddie frowns and shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
You don’t want to discuss it in front of your friends — not when things with Steve have already shifted. The two of you don’t talk for the rest of the day, an uncomfortable tension settling in the space between you.
Robin tries to convince him it wasn’t the worst idea ever, while you and Nancy keep the mood light, retreating to the spa to gossip and avoid thinking too hard. Meanwhile, Dustin and Eddie are thriving.
“So. Married life. You guys thinking kids or…?” He jokes during afternoon coffee, getting kicked in the shin by Nancy. “What?”
Robin won't stop calling you Mrs. Harrington, and Dustin keeps asking if he's going to be the best man.
You decide to stay at the hotel, get some rest, find something – anything – more relaxing to do. After dinner, you settle into a chair in the lounge area. Low jazz music fills the space as you flip through the book you brought but never quite had time to read.
“Who reads a book in Las Vegas?”
His voice startles you. You lift your gaze to meet his hazel eyes as he takes a seat across from you.
“If I step foot in a casino again, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my mind.”
He chuckles, but the tension creeps up his neck. He chews on the inside of his cheek, careful not to look at you for too long.
“How are you?” His voice is cautious, like the question might take a wrong turn if he’s not careful.
You huff, setting the book aside and drawing in a deep breath. “Oh, I’m delighted. Robin won’t stop calling me Mrs. Harrington, and I’m pretty sure Nancy already has a wedding reception planned for when we get back.”
“That bad?” You shrug. “We were so drunk, I didn’t even remember there was an Elvis Presley.”
Your lips purse as a small pause settles between you. You notice how uneasy he looks, the way his right leg keeps bouncing, the way he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.
“I know I shouldn't be too worried, but it doesn't mean anything, right?” You ask. He looks at your lips, then at your eyes. Steve nods repeatedly, as though he's telling himself that it's the truth.
That it didn't mean anything. That your vows were just made up for a performance.
His tone isn't sharp, more like aggravated for pretending that he agrees with you. “Yeah, sure. Of course. So, we should annul it?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”
A silence that stretched for several seconds turned into something completely awkward. Again.
“We don't even remember it.” He says, defensively. You both chuckle nervously, he keeps tapping his fingers against the table.
You’ll be back in Hawkins in two days, and you don’t even know where to go from there. Something nudges at you from the inside, like a quiet, restless feeling that makes you stare down at your book like it might hold the answer you’re looking for.
Robin groans again, fingers tugging at her hair. Dustin watches with his arms folded, clearly amused, while Eddie and Nancy roll their eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in ten minutes.
“Oh my god,” she says. “You absolutely kissed.”
Dustin sits on the arm of the chair with his arms folded, watching the whole thing like it’s his favorite rerun. There’s a smug little smile on his face, the kind that says he’s enjoying this far too much to intervene.
You and Steve sit side by side on the bed, shoulders almost touching, the space between you loud with everything you’re not saying. She paces as he talks, gesturing excessively.
“I remember it very clearly,” she insists. “You were both standing there, and you…” she points at you, "...were laughing so hard you could barely talk, and you…” now Steve, "...kept fixing that stupid bow tie like it was gonna save you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you say immediately.
Steve nods. “Didn’t mean a thing.”
Robin scoffs. “Then the vows.”
“There were no vows,” you say.
“They barely counted,” Steve adds quickly. “It was just… words.”
Eddie snorts. “Words are usually what vows are, man.”
Nancy sighs. “You promised fries.”
“That’s not a commitment,” you argue.
“You kissed,” Robin says again, firmer this time.
“Nope.”
“No.”
You both say it at once.
“It was barely a kiss,” Steve adds, after a beat. “Like... accidental.”
“Your faces were touching,” Dustin says cheerfully.
Eddie laughs, falling back against the wall. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend none of it counted?”
“Isn’t that the whole idea? Getting married in a fake chapel, with a fake officiant. With a fucking Elvis Presley cover?” Your voice gets exasperated, and Steve forces himself to seem unbothered.
Nancy pinches the bridge of her nose. “You signed paperwork.”
Steve blinks. “…allegedly.”
Robin throws her hands up. “You were smiling!”
“That also doesn’t mean anything,” Steve says, a little too fast.
Silence settles for a moment, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint noise of Vegas outside the window.
You stare at the carpet. Steve stares at his hands. But the truth is, he wishes he could say it was real. Even if it wasn’t how he imagined getting married. Even if it was messy and drunk and nothing like it was supposed to be. Your words cut straight through him. The way you dismiss it, the firmness in your tone, the way you refuse to entertain even the possibility.
It makes his stomach churn, nausea rising as he forces himself to stay quiet.
“I loved you before I knew how to be good at it.” He slurs, but his demeanor is earnest.
You laugh and cry at the same time. “You always come back when it matters.”
Your friends cheer you up, Elvis Presley sings, and the officiant asks if anyone objects and the entire group yelling a hard “no”.
You share a single, slight and quick kiss. There's no tongue, just a brush of lips. He tries to pick you up, but he loses balance and you both fall face flat on the floor, drawing a laugh from your friends. You laugh, reciprocating the drunken glances.
You sit still, eyes fixed on the floor, not moving an inch from your spot on the bed. Your hands are folded in your lap like you’re bracing yourself for impact. The room is quiet in that way that isn’t peaceful at all. You can feel it, the weight of everyone’s attention pressing in on you. Robin has stopped pacing. Eddie has gone uncharacteristically still. Even Dustin’s usual fidgeting has paused. They’re all waiting. Watching. Like if they just give you enough time, you’ll say it.
Because for half a second, you almost do.
And then the memory crashes in, sharp and unwelcome. Steve standing there months ago, eyes full of something that looked like regret but sounded like certainty. Him deciding, on his own, that you were better off without him. Him letting go first. Him giving up.
You swallow.
“I still think it was a mistake.” Your voice cuts through the silence. Eddie mumbles under his breath and Robin groans once again.
Nancy doesn’t say anything. She just watches you, really watches you, her jaw tight as her gaze flicks from you to the doorway. Because Steve has left. You hadn’t even heard him move. At some point while you were staring at the floor and fighting old wounds, he stood up, crossed the room, and walked out without a word. The door didn’t slam. It didn’t need to.
“You're so wrong about it.” Dustin mutters, breaking the silence. His arms still folded.
The air feels heavier without him in the room. Like something unfinished just walked away. You stay where you are, eyes still on the floor, heart pounding too loud in your ears. Because admitting it mattered would mean admitting it hurt. And admitting it hurt would mean facing the fact that this time he didn’t stay.
You were not wrong, though. Getting married like that – drunk, impulsive, in the middle of Las Vegas, was a mistake, for starters. The whole thing was wrong to begin with. You shouldn’t have been standing under flickering neon, wearing a borrowed veil, saying vows you barely understood to your ex while your friends treated it like a spectacle. You shouldn’t have been laughing through something that clearly still had impact.
And you definitely shouldn’t be sitting in a hotel room now, replaying a relationship that already ended once.
So you leave.
You don’t announce it. You don’t grab anyone’s attention. You just stand, slip out the door, and let the hallway swallow you whole. The carpet muffles your steps, the lights buzz over your head. Somewhere far away, someone laughs too loud, and it makes your chest tighten.
You wander until the noise thins out, until the air feels cooler.
The garden is quiet, too oddly quiet for Vegas. You sink plop onto a stone bench and stare at the ground, jaw tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you might unravel if you don’t hold on.
You don’t know how long you’ve been there when you hear footsteps behind you.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up.
Eddie drops down beside you anyway, close but not hovering, like his presence is familiar enough to be annoying in the way only he can manage. He studies you for a second, then slides an arm around your shoulders and leans his head lightly against yours.
“You know,” he says, voice low, almost gentle, “that was pretty stupid.”
You let out a sharp breath through your nose.
“It's not stupid, Eds. He broke up with me.”
Eddie hums, like he’s turning the thought over. “Maybe he thought it was better that way,” he says. “And maybe this…” he gestures vaguely back toward the hotel. "...was the second chance you needed.”
You scoff, the sound bitter, and nudge yourself out from under his arm. “At a fucking Las Vegas fake chapel?”
He snorts. “Yeah. Fair.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Eddie turns toward you, more serious now.
“I don’t think you really mean that,” he says. “See… there’s this quote. Goes something like–” he squints, clearly calculating his thoughts, "‘a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.’”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your silence stretches, heavy and telling, and Eddie sees it immediately. His shoulders sag just a little as he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s tired but not surprised.
“M'not gonna keep intruding, but sweetheart... don't be stupid.”
He stands and smiles sweetly at you before leaving.
During dinner, no one said anything about it anymore. Your friends found other subjects to talk about. You had barely touched your food, and Steve sat across the table from you, his eyes fighting to not find you.
Steve is quiet after that. You both stayed behind at the hotel while the others headed out to the fair. Only a hallway separates you now. A few doors. It feels ridiculous how small the distance is, and how impossible it seems to cross. Eddie tried to talk to him. Eddie’s voice low and earnest, Steve’s replies clipped and evasive. He dodged every word of advice like it might bruise him. Because what would it change?
You’d made it clear. It was a mistake, you don’t love him anymore. And he should’ve known better than to hope otherwise.
You run into him later in the lobby, the bar half-lit and quiet. He’s already seated, waiting for a drink, elbows resting on the counter like he’s holding himself in place. The bartender slides a glass his way just as you approach. Your head is still echoing with Eddie’s voice. With the stupid quote. With the way he looked at you like he could see straight through your denial.
You sit on the stool beside Steve. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even acknowledge you’re there.
“So...” you say, waiting for him to look at you. “You think it was a good idea?”
Steve’s fingers curl around the rim of the glass. The thick brown liquid inside sways as he sets it down on the counter, slowly. His shoulders tense, just slightly, but you miss it.
“I think it doesn’t mean anything.” He turns his head then, quick and sharp, finally looking at you. There’s a faint smile on his face, forced so tight it almost hurts to see. “Like you said,” he adds. “It was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than you expect. A jab straight to the chest. A physical ache would’ve been easier.
You swallow, pushing through it, “should we cancel it?”
He huffs under his breath and lifts the glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey. He didn’t want this question. You can feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he avoids you again. But he feels cornered, whether you mean to or not, forcing him to agree with you – forcing him to admit how wrong it all was.
“I mean, yeah. Isn't that what you want?” He doesn't look at you this time, his eyes are fixed at some invisible point at the bar.
No.
“Yes.”
The word comes out clean. Final. A lie that sounds convincing even to your own ears.
Steve closes his eyes for half a second. He doesn’t look at you, he can’t. You can almost feel how close he is to breaking if he does. Instead, he stares at the glass in his hand and downs the rest of the drink in one go, the alcohol burning its way down like it might loosen the knot stuck in his throat.
“Then we'll do it.” It lands a little hard, he doesn’t soften it. Steve doesn’t take it back.
And you hate yourself for it, because this time, you know you’ve crossed the line. You were afraid, and stubborn. And hurting. By the time the realization sinks in, it’s already too late.
The damage is done.
The trip ended with a sour taste, but at least someone got something good out of it. Dustin had the time of his life; Eddie made bad decisions and ended up regretting all of them. Robin came back five hundred dollars richer and Nancy kept telling her that it was dirty money, trying to kill her mood – it didn't.
You sit a few rows behind Steve on the plane.
The weather is awful. Rain dribbles down the windows, the clouds are thick and angry, and the turbulence never really lets up. The plane jolts hard enough at one point that Steve reaches out on instinct and grabs Eddie’s hand. He never hears the end of it.
Eddie laughs so hard he nearly chokes, immediately launching into jokes about what a gentleman Steve is, how brave he is for enduring “a little shaking.” Steve shoves him, mortified, but there’s a crack of laughter there too. For a moment, it almost feels normal.
Almost.
When the plane finally touches down in Hawkins, things settle back into place. Or… close enough to pretend they have. You try to talk to him. You really do. You catch him alone once, heart in your throat, ready to fix it, to say the words you should’ve said back in that bar. But he shuts it down gently and quickly, tells you to pretend it’s just paperwork. Nothing more. After that, Steve disappears.
He decides to spend the rest of the vacation with his piblings, vanishing into family plans and forced cheer, putting as much distance between you as he can manage without being cruel about it. You feel it anyway. The absence. The deliberate space.
You feel bad.
Guilty.
And there’s something else too, something gnawing at you. Like a feeling you can’t quite name but can’t shake either. You want to fix things, to talk it through, but every time you call, he doesn’t answer. His aunt keeps saying he’s busy with relatives — and you know it isn’t true, because he still finds time to talk to Eddie and Dustin. Just not you.
He came back quieter, at least toward you. No small talk, no sharing glances, not even a word beyond “hi” and “bye” during your group hangouts. Mike and Lucas notice. They exchange looks when Steve goes out of his way to sit across the room from you, when he changes conversations so they don’t stand too close to anything resembling Vegas. He never mentions the wedding. Not once. You caught him laughing with Eddie, joking with Robin, listening intently to Nancy’s rambling plans – but when it came to you, he went quiet. Polite. Neutral.
Like strangers who shared a past no one wanted to bring up. And it hurt more than fighting ever did. The worst part is that you knew why.
You remember the night he broke up with you, how he looked exhausted, like he’d been carrying the decision around for weeks. How he kept rubbing the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the skin like he was bracing himself for something that was bound to hurt no matter how carefully he handled it.
He didn’t explain much. Just said it would be better for both of you. That he needed time to get settled first.
Things have been different ever since you came back from the trip. He flirted with other girls – something he’d stopped doing when you were together. Went on a few dates. Smiled at any girl that crossed his path. Played the part convincingly enough that most people bought it. But there was always something pulling him back. Something unfinished.
And you watch it happen in slow motion now, watch him slip further and further away from you, choosing distance over confrontation, silence over honesty.
You let him go every day.
And somehow, it hurts every time.
It isn’t until you find him alone in the kitchen that you finally decide you can’t keep doing this.
The house is loud everywhere else, voices too loud in the living room, music playing too quietly to matter, someone laughing too hard at nothing. But the kitchen is calm, and Steve stands in front of the refrigerator, door open. He stares inside like he’s forgotten what he came for. He grabs a soda, the bottle hissing when he twists the cap, and that’s when you step in.
“It was never a mistake”
The words leave you before you can overthink them.
Steve stills. Just for a second, but you see it. His shoulders tense, his hand tightens around the bottle. He doesn’t turn right away.
“Really,” he finally says, his voice carefully controlled and even. But still hurt. “Because you made it very clear back there.”
“I didn't mean that.” You swallow.
He lets out a short, humorless breath and turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “I think you did,” he says. “I think you said it.”
You almost waver, despite your effort to keep your voice steady. “I said it because you broke up with me first. Because you decided, without asking me, that we were better off without each other.”
His brow furrows. “That’s not–”
“You didn't want me to fight for us, and you didn't give me a reasonable explanation.”
He closes his eyes, throwing his head back. His throat bobs and he shifts on his foot. Steve has been absolutely wrecked ever since he tried to pretend that you were doing better that way, that he was only going to slow you down while he was being stuck.
He looks at you, something raw about his expression. Like it’s hurt, buried and uncovered.
“Fine, you wanna know why?” He asks without waiting for your response. “I didn’t want to be the reason you settled, I didn’t want you staying with me and wondering what else you could’ve had.”
Your throat tightens.
“I never thought you were a failure,” you say. “Not once. You decided that for me.”
He looks up then, eyes glassy, disbelieving.
He drags a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture making your throat ache. “But when you said it was a mistake… it felt like confirmation. Like I finally did the right thing by walking away.”
You step closer, shaking your head. “I was angry. I was hurt. And I thought if I said it first, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
It hangs there, everything you never said, everything he assumed. Neither of you moves.
“You were going places,” he says. “And I was… stuck.”
“Steve... you were surviving,” you correct. “Just like the rest of us.”
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have had to wait for me to catch up.”
“I wasn’t waiting,” you say, stepping even closer now. “I was choosing you.”
That’s when he breaks.
Not dramatically. His breath is quietly shuddering, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding something up for far too long.
“I thought letting you go was the right thing,” he murmurs.
“You don’t get to decide what’s right for me,” you say softly. “Not anymore.”
The tension eases slowly. Steve leans into you before either of you realizes it, his chest brushes against yours, shoulder pressing against yours in a way that feels tentative but grounding. His breaths are uneven and shaky, and you can feel them against your neck, a rhythm caught somewhere between relief and fear.
You let your hand brush his arm, careful at first, then more confidently as the seconds pass. The kitchen noises fade into the background – and nothing matters except this fragile closeness.
“You okay?” you murmur softly, barely above the fridge’s hum.
He nods, though his shoulders still tremble slightly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”
You press your forehead lightly against his temple, letting him breathe you in, letting him know you’re here. The moment stretches, gentle and quiet, a small reconciliation that doesn’t need words.
“At least we had Elvis Presley singing at our wedding.” You joke, your voice soft.
Steve snorts, a laugh catching in his throat. He wipes his cheeks, sniffling. “God, that is kind of lame.”
You step closer and lift your thumbs gently to his face, brushing away the stray tears. You trail them down his cheeks to his chin, careful, lingering. “I think that was kind of cool,” you whisper.
His eyes follow your movements, scanning your face like he’s memorizing every line, every expression. Your eyes, your cheeks, your lips – they’re all his focus now.
“And I think Nancy said we also had a cake, I'm just not sure what fl-”
He cuts you off without warning.
Steve’s lips are on yours before you can finish the thought, fast and urgent, and the world stops. You freeze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before letting go of the hesitation. You give him permission, matching him, letting your tongues swipe together carefully and desperate.
He groans softly against your mouth, and something in the sound makes your chest tighten.
Because you feel it. You feel the longing he’s carried since the minute he walked away. Every restrained glance, every stiff shoulder, every quiet avoidance, they all crash into this kiss. He’s been holding himself back for months, and now he doesn’t have to. You pull back just slightly, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. His eyes are wide, almost pleading, and you can feel the ache behind them.
“I never stopped loving you,” he admits.
You close the distance without thinking, pressing your lips to his again, softer this time, a promise without words.
And just like that, Vegas stops being about bad decisions. Because it led you back to him. It led him back to you.
Hi! I'm here to say how much I loved bring me to life and how important this story is for me. I hope you make a part 2 with Eddie's girlfriend helping him graduate and finally go to college. I'm sorry if I wrote something wrong. English is not my first language
Hi!! Thank you so much for reading and I really appreciate it, that means a lot for me.
And I might look into it in the future, see how I can develop the story after that first one 🥰
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: High school became a distant memory for him – almost fifteen years earlier, he used to tease you for being too smart. The breaking point for you left him with a punched temple and the reminder of you. He was never good with feelings, he never knew they existed until you parted ways. He never took a step further that precipice that kept hidden inside his chest. Until you met again.
Warning: Smut (18+ DNI), strong words, fluff, a little angst, mention of blood
Word count: 9.2k
Johnny Storm wasn’t bad at getting women. He did that all the time. He dates, he fucks around – wears his reputation like a badge of honor. When people thought he wasn’t listening, they whispered he's a man whore. That’s the entitlement he earned long before he became Human Torch.
But that doesn’t mean he’s good with feelings. He’s terrible at sharing them, he doesn’t know how to be gentle enough. He isn’t even close to being completely comfortable around someone for too long.
Sure, he knew how to make someone laugh. He knew how to charm his way into anyone’s night, anyone’s bed, anyone’s story for just long enough to leave them wanting more. He had a face that belonged on a billboard and the reckless grin to match it. Before all that mess — and that means ages ago — there had been you.
You, who he used to pester all the time. To the point of making you change seats in your classroom just to keep a safe distance from him. Johnny used to torment you every chance he would get, calling you “professor” every time you answered a question too quickly, the one who thought it was funny to keep messing with until you clocked him at a birthday party. Because that was his way of showing his feelings for someone.
Not exactly something very straightforward, and you swore he hated you. Or at least despised you just because you were smart. You weren’t friends, neither were you enemies. It was just whatever.
And when he called you that stupid nickname in front of your friends and the other teens from school, that made your blood boil. Because he had crossed every line of being a jackass.
You landed a punch on his temple back then. It was supposed to hit his jaw, but you had never punched anyone in your life before. His eyebrow opened in a small cut as soon as your knuckles met him. Johnny was shocked at first, his hand flying up immediately to cover his skin, and his eyes widened – all while everyone started to whisper in the background. A few people were teasing, whistling in a way that showed surprise.
Blood smeared his fingers from the slit, and he rushed to the bathroom with his friends right after him.
It left him coming back with an ice pack over his temple. His eyes never met yours; either from embarrassment or just resentment from pushing the limits when you’d told him countless times to just stop being a brat.
He never stopped, until you punched him.
And then, things changed. When he looked at you during classes, his fingers would twitch and his breath would catch in his throat. Johnny thought it was because you made him feel ashamed in front of his classmates.
But it was never humiliation. Feelings are something funny – when you notice, you’re already on the edge of a precipice, feet ready to take the fall.
And he noticed that when you graduated and never saw each other again. There was a sharp pang in his gut when he looked at the small scar on his face; a tightening in his chest whenever he walked past the school and thought of the way he would either mock you or just tilt his head at you and smirk before asking to be your partner in math.
Because he knew you would say no and he would try to persuade you into passing him notes before a test. Under the sole excuse of being terrible with numbers. Just because he wanted you to give him some attention. So he could look at your pretty lashes and your nose, at the freckles spread over your face.
The thing is: Johnny is a lot smarter than he generally lets on. He knows more than people give him credit for. He might be dumb as a hobby, but he’s always been smart.
Years passed and eventually he forgot about you. Most of the time, honestly. Because that scar will always make him go back in time and remember that party.
New York is busy as it is. It’s chaotic, it’s messy. It’s the kind of city where you need to watch where you’re going, especially if you’re walking downtown. While the city is large, it’s not that hard for people to find acquaintances.
It takes you nearly fifteen years to come across him. Him – in all his blonde hair and blue eyes glory. Older, broader, and not exactly subtle. Subtlety had never worked with him. In a hurry, you were carrying many things for just two hands and two arms. A cup of coffee being the challenge as you swayed among all the people.
You muttered an apology, adjusting your grip on the cup, and that’s when you heard it.
Your name.
Spoken low, like a question, like the speaker didn’t believe it could actually be you. You turned toward the voice, frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. For a second, it was like being thrown backward in time. All the memories you’d carefully boxed up cracked open: late nights when you’d write him notes for the math tests, the way his eyes would pierce through you whenever he called you that nickname you ended up despising.
You hadn’t seen him since then. You hadn’t planned to. And now he was standing five feet away from you, looking at you like the city had stopped just for this.
“Holy shit” He said, voice rough with disbelief, and then he laughed under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t trust his own eyes. “It’s really you.”
Your chest tightens “Johnny.”
You were not sure you wanted to keep a conversation with him.
You were both just teenagers at the time, still going through puberty. Kids often act annoying, bully others, and try to feel superior. And on top of that, you knew he was just trying to get under your skin to see you angry.
Your mind goes back in time — to the day your fist met his face in the wrong place. To how mad you were at him for not giving you a break even when you weren’t at school.
And maybe he’d changed. You know this Johnny. The Human Torch, the womanizer. The man who doesn’t waste any chance to fuck any woman who crossed his way.
Maybe he hadn’t changed and he’s still a douchebag. But the way he said your name and the way his eyes glinted at the sight of you… that shows a lot more than it should.
Again: subtlety wasn’t his forte.
He didn’t hesitate before closing the distance, his presence making you a little lightheaded. He smelled of smoke and something musky. It was weird seeing him that close now, as if his eyes were about to light on fire at any moment. His smile was there, of course. So bright, practiced, magnetic; but up close, you saw the twitch of uncertainty in it. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d earned the right to use it on you anymore.
“Fifteen years” Johnny said, his gaze looking you over like he was checking that you were real.
He was definitely checking you out and you swallowed hard at his demeanor.
He tilted his head, a spark of mischief tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You could’ve at least warned me you’d look better than I remember.”
Your laugh was short, startled, not entirely steady “You haven’t changed at all.”
“Not true” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like the city was eavesdropping “I’m way worse now.”
The quip landed, but his eyes didn’t let you go. They look softened, warmed with something you didn’t know how to distinguish after all this time. He shifted his weight, nerves creeping in as he rubbed his palm against his jeans before stuffing it in his pocket.
“Listen” He said in a quick tone, with urgency breaking through the smooth front he usually wore so easily “I can’t just let you walk away again. Not after… not after running into you like this. Let me buy you a coffee. Or hell, a drink, if you’re not working. I don’t care what time it is. Just – don’t tell me we’re about to do another fifteen years of silence.”
Of silence. You repeat in your head. It’s not like you were each other’s favorite person, and the tone he was using seemed to carry more than just nostalgia.
You shouldn’t have said yes.
But the word slipped out anyway, a little tight and irritated, as if you were only doing it to shut him up. He grinned like he’d just won the lottery, and his head tilted to the cafeteria standing near the spot you were still rooted on.
The bar was dim and crowded, the kind of place where conversation had to be shouted over the music, and Johnny thrived in the chaos. He slid into a booth opposite you, stretching out like he owned the space, flame-bright eyes never leaving you.
“Professor back in the flesh” He said, raising his glass in a mock toast when the drinks arrived “Still smarter than everyone in the room, I bet. God, I’ve missed that face you make…” He wrinkled his nose, mimicking the way you used to glare at him whenever he sassed.
“Careful” You warned, sipping the drink in your hand “You’ll end up with another bruise.”
“Mm, promise?” His grin turned a little ravenous “I told you, best punch of my life. You had one hell of a right hook. Still do?”
You rolled your eyes, leaning back “Why are we even doing this, Johnny? You haven’t changed. Same smug little–”
“–devastatingly handsome, charming, irresistible…” He cuts you, tilting his glass toward you “…pain in your ass.”
You rolled your eyes, lips almost turning into a twitch that you managed to hold back before he saw it. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
The conversation turned into something else, the subject barely changing back to high school. But each gesture of your hand or the way your eyes found his blue ones as you spoke about your job, Johnny found himself being fifteen again.
Every tiny detail of you and how you deliberately talked about anything with a tug of a smile on your face made his brain short circuit.
He tries to reminisce about the times where your classmates made the absolute living hell of school days. Always bringing chaos to light up the mood. PE was never the same after Cole Davis brought frogs and hid them under the bleachers just to scare the girls. You and your friends were among the few who didn’t seem fazed by it. Johnny watched as you picked them up and tried to put them inside the box, almost taking the blame for Cole’s madness.
You didn’t even remember offering to do that, but the man in front of you seemed to carry the memory in the back of his mind. He would think ‘how smart and selfless’ you were – right there, he was already walking toward that precipice. He just never took the jump.
You stayed longer than you were supposed to. With the clock nearing eleven, you knew it was time to leave. Part of you still wanted to learn a little more about things you couldn't remember, things you didn’t know about. Part of you wanted to stay and talk to him. Even though he never apologized for being the biggest jerk you’d ever seen.
Johnny offered to walk you home, still calling you that name. Professor should have annoyed you, the way it always had, but instead it stirred something sharp and unwanted in your chest.
-
The grocery store was quiet for once, no weekend rush, just the hum of refrigerators and the faint squeak of a cart wheel as you pushed it down the aisle. You were debating between two different jars of pasta sauce when a shadow fell across your arm.
“Professor.”
You froze, fingers tightening around the glass jar before you even turned. Of course. Johnny Storm, leaning against the metal shelf like he owned the whole damn place. Baseball cap low, hoodie unzipped, smile curling like he’d been waiting to use it on you again.
“Do you live to annoy me?”You asked, sliding the jar into your cart without looking at him.
“Not live” He said, already walking beside you, hands shoved in his pockets “But it does keep me entertained.”
You kept moving, eyes fixed on the shelves “Pretty sad if tormenting me is the highlight of your week.”
“Highlight of my week” He teased, tilting his head like he was thinking it over “What does that say about you, huh? Still unforgettable.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, enough to cut. He didn’t flinch, didn’t drop the grin. And that annoyed you more than anything, because all at once, it was fifteen years ago again. Him sitting across from you in class, whispering just loud enough for you to hear. Him calling you “Professor” every time you raised your hand. Him wincing when your fist caught his temple – first five seconds laughing after it – before the shock washed over him.
That was the highlight of the day for you, because he wouldn’t expect it coming.
You shook the memory off “You’re in the wrong aisle, Storm. They don’t sell ego here.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice like it was just for you “Careful. You keep talking to me like that, and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”
You keep walking, not giving him the opportunity to comfort his own ego. He thinks that you ignoring him is your way of showing how much you want him. Which is why you turn your head over him, smile on your face.
Johnny takes in your reaction and grins.
“If it helps you sleep at night.”
You push the cart without looking back at him, forcing your way out of the aisle, toward a shelf of milk.
You don’t need that right now. You don’t need to waste your time with someone who still thinks he’s a teenager trying to win you over a few one-liners. Johnny doesn’t follow you, he watches from the distance as you keep yourself entertained. That should’ve made him feel embarrassed, or even disappointed. But he doesn’t.
Because he was the one who kept a watch at your building, who saw you leaving and followed you there. And he doesn’t know what’s exactly driving his system into doing those things, because he had dated before. He had said “I love you” before, but never even took the time to watch over anyone. Now he’s doing it with you.
Johnny didn’t “run” into you ever since that first time. But he was still there. Carefully looking over you, a weird sensation nagging at him. Afraid something might happen.
“Now you’re giving me stalker vibes” Your voice breaks him out of his daze, his head snapping toward you.
It’s the first time he actually sees himself feeling intimidated by you in over fifteen years.
“Didn’t mean to. Just making sure you’re going to get home in all pieces” His voice is honest, suddenly shaken.
“Uh-huh” You say “You say that to every woman you end up sleeping with?”
The smirk faltered for half a beat, then came back sharper, like he was trying to mask the hit. “Only the ones I actually like.”
That made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t ready for. You rolled your eyes, stepping ahead, forcing him to keep pace if he wanted to follow “Congratulations. That’s still creepy.”
“Creepy’s better than careless” He said easily, sliding his hands back into the pockets of his hoodie, trailing after you “Besides, if memory serves, you’ve hit me harder than anyone else ever has. You’re the last person I should be worried about.”
You hated that a laugh almost escaped you.
Walking home wasn’t always a blissful moment when it came to the alleys you always have to walk across. And you only let him make you company because he might turn whatever's in front of you into a barbecue if he wanted to. He still tries to make you laugh, always landing a joke or light remark just to make you feel less sharp toward him. But that doesn’t work the way he hopes it does.
Johnny knows you were disappointed back then. And still, he acts like the same boy, still using the same treatment. The apology never comes. It just feels as though things would keep the same.
You hated that if he apologized, you would forgive him just like that. It’s not common sense, he wasn’t being that nice back in school. It should be more difficult than that, but the thought of making him feel miserable didn’t cross your mind. That would be immature.
Johnny brought a woman to his apartment that night. Fucked her out of her mind, left her begging for more, her hands trembling as he slammed his hips against her ass. And yet, he wasn’t there. His mind completely detached from his brain. Thoughts and memories crumpled as images of you flashed through his closed eyes. To your skin, your smile, your hair. Your smell.
He couldn’t stop picturing your pussy squeezing him so tight his waist almost buckled, his knees nearly faltering. Your breasts bouncing each time he hit you from the back, your fingers clutching his sheets tightly as you choked out moans of his name.
Why the fuck was he thinking of you now? Why would he think of you while he was fucking someone else?
His hands dug under her skin, her flesh being squeezed between his fingers. She couldn’t stop moaning and chanting “Johnny” and all he could fucking think about was you. He groaned under his breath and forced his eyes open to look down at her – different hair color, different skin. Long nails, hair perfectly shaped in blonde waves, ass bouncing as his cock pushed further into her.
He fisted her hair and pulled her into him, holding her waist with one of his hands. She didn’t smell like you, didn’t have a honeyed voice like you. But her sultry words and her grinding helped doing the work.
“F-fuck, you’re so good” He rasped, the other hand gripping one of her breasts forcefully as he squeezed her skin.
You’re not her. You’re not her. You’re not her.
But the more he thrusted into her, the more he thought of you.
It wasn't her in his bed this time, it was you.
Johnny pulled out without warning, making you yelp in surprise – swung you over the bed until your head dropped to the pillow. He played with his tip against your slick slit, dripping with both his precum and your juices, making you squirm under him. His eyes were a blaze of fire, ignited by the thought of it being you under him. You moaning his name. Just you.
His cock slipped inside you again mercilessly, sloppy sounds filling the bedroom as he fucked you again. Pulled your legs over his shoulders, your feet trapping his head. His hips slapped against you quicker and hungrier, each stroke of his tip into your walls making your pussy flutter and throb.
“Johnny, that’s so good. Yes– Ruin me, please!” You begged under your cock-drunk state. Eyes squeezing shut as his hands pressed your breasts once again.
He groaned, his pace nearly faltering as his balls slapped against your skin. His thumb found your clit haphazardly, rubbing desperate circles as you cried out another moan. Johnny couldn’t stop thinking of you, his brain completely fogged by the image of you squeezing him, your pussy clenching around his aching cock.
He felt the way you tried to grind on him and meet him halfway, lips quivering as you couldn’t control the way your legs shook violently on top of his shoulders.
He added pressure to your clit, mumbling unintelligible words under his ragged breath – your walls were so tight his cock almost became trapped inside you. He felt a jolt in his chest, white-hot lasciviousness as he pushed into you harder once and you screamed. It was enough for him to lean in and fuck into you as if those were the last minutes of his life.
When Johnny came, he could’ve sworn he almost broke into a whimper of your name on his lips. If it wasn’t for the woman nearly convulsing under him. She was still asking for another round and he was worn out. Pulled out of her without hesitation, didn’t even look at her before cleaning himself in the bathroom. Had her dressing herself, only offering a glass of whatever and a morning-after pill for her.
It shouldn’t be such a disgusting problem for him. But by the time he finished his shower, he felt concerned. Concerned for what, exactly? You weren’t even his friend, he even doubted you would actually enjoy being his friend at this point.
You didn’t even judge him for being like that, because he’s mostly sure you think he’s a man whore – like everyone else does.
Johnny changed his sheets, his pillows. Just because, somehow, it still had the images of you sprawled out for him. He’s sure he’ll never be the same after that.
Walking down that path again. Johnny is unwittingly making his way to the precipice again.
Life still goes on. You go to your job and you do your work. You meet your friends, you go out. You watch the Fantastic Four do their jobs. Watch Johnny featuring magazine covers, billboards. Watch him flirting with every single thing that breathes. It doesn’t surprise you, never had.
He's been busy with his life, which explains why he hasn’t shown up like a creep.
The door to the restaurant opens, and the warmth hits you first, the kind that makes you grateful you wore a light jacket. Music hums softly, conversations weaving into the background like a comfortable static. You scan the room and spot a table with familiar faces, friends from the city and a couple of mutual acquaintances.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him. Johnny Storm. Leaning casually against the buffet, with a drink in his hand and that same mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Your stomach tightens. You hadn’t expected him to be here.
And of course, he spots you immediately. That grin sharpens and you see that he’s already halfway across the room before you can decide whether to make a break for it.
“Well, well” He says as he slides onto the chair next to yours as if you’d invited him “Didn’t think the smart girl would show up at something like this.”
“Smart enough to avoid it” You reply, but your tone is more playful than it should be.
Johnny laughs, low and warm, the sound cutting through the chatter around you “Guess I’m lucky, then.”
The first few minutes are what you expect: playful jabs about high school, memories of tests you aced and his antics. But slowly, the rhythm changes. He stops tossing out one-liners and actually listens when you answer. When you talk about your work, he asks questions, genuine curiosity threading through his words.
“You really stuck with that?” He asks “I remember you swearing you’d burn out after one internship.”
“I didn’t. It’s… been more interesting than I thought”
He nods, almost impressed “I get it. Makes sense. You always had a knack for sticking with things.”
Something in the way he says it catches you off guard, not teasing, not sarcastic, just… acknowledging. You shift in your chair, feeling the tension in your chest ease slightly.
“You’ve really changed” You say after a moment, daring to look at him directly “You just like to act like a teenager sometimes.”
He smirks, but there’s a flicker of something quieter behind it “Yeah? I like to think for the better. But the other side is just… I don’t know, maybe for show. For you.”
You tilt your head, not really getting his point.
The conversation drifts to lighter topics again, but there’s an underlying share of glances, brief touches when passing dishes, the brush of knees under the table that lasts a heartbeat too long. Every little movement feels amplified. At one point, you catch him watching you while you laugh at someone else’s joke. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t tease. It’s not meant for anyone else. Your heart stutters.
And though you’d never admit it out loud, the boy who once drove you crazy in high school, the one you hit and swore you’d never forgive, feels like the man who might just unravel you completely.
Something weird happened that night. He hasn’t called you professor like he usually did whenever you found each other. Johnny used your last name many times, like it was the right thing to do. As if your name weighed on his tongue, as though it wasn’t his right to call you by it.
You got an Uber home, something weird dropping in your stomach as you left the car and walked up to the gate. The driver didn’t wait for you to get in this time. And as you’re about to get inside, a hard pull on your forearm has you being yanked back and a rough hand holds you in place. The man’s grip is immediate, too forceful, and your stomach drops. His other hand tried to press against you, and panic clawed up your chest. You struggle, flailing, your mind screaming for a way out, for anyone to notice, for someone – anyone – to help.
The world seemed to shrink to the sharp smell of his cologne, the coarse scrape of his fingers against your clothes, and the sudden, terrifying realization that you were completely at his mercy.
And a sudden burst of heat cut through the air like sunlight in the middle of the night.
“Hey!”
For a second, the man froze and when he turned, you saw him: Johnny Storm. Human Torch. His hair tousled like he’d been running, eyes burning gold with that pulling intensity, jaw tight, fists flexed.
“Back off” He growled, voice low and dangerous, fire brimming behind his words. His presence hit like a physical thing, heat radiating from him even without the flames, wrapping around you, shielding you.
The man slowly hesitated, still surprised, and Johnny was on him in a heartbeat. The force behind him was enough to push the guy back, make him stumble, make him reconsider. He grunted, backing off like he suddenly remembered what fire could do to him, and then he was gone, disappearing into the dark, leaving Johnny standing there.
You were shaking, legs weak, chest heaving, adrenaline running through every vein. Johnny lifts a hand up to the side of your face, cradling you. Not too tight, but grounding, anchoring you.
“Are you okay?” His voice was rougher now, urgent, eyes scanning you as if trying to read every reaction, every tiny tremor.
You swallowed hard, still breathless, heart hammering “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.” He stepped closer, the heat from him suddenly overwhelming in a way that wasn’t just the fire. His gaze softened for a fraction of a second, gold flickering with worry “That guy… he wasn’t gonna get away with it. I wouldn’t let him.”
You felt a strange mix of safety and heat coursing through you, and for a moment you just leaned into him, letting the solid, terrifyingly warm presence of him center you.
“Thanks,” you murmured, voice quiet, almost lost.
Johnny’s grin returned, though it was laced with intensity rather than teasing “I’ve got a rule” Said in a low tone that dragged more than just worry “No one lays a hand on someone I care about.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the words. The city hum faded around you, the gate to your building long forgotten, the street, even your heartbeat – it all felt suspended, leaving only him, watching you, fire still glowing faintly at the edges of his skin, eyes locked on yours.
You didn’t have to ask him to walk up with you. His hand found the lower of your back and he just stepped into your apartment. A strange silence filled the air before you turned on the TV. The first thing you do is fill a glass with water.
Johnny scans the room, looks at the amount of frames you have in the living room. Some people are friends. Some are family. You have a couple of polaroids with friends from school. Cole in the background is on one of them – purposely.
He doesn’t feel very comfortable watching your house for longer, just making his way to the couch – where you drop your weight a minute later.
“Were you–“ You say at the same time he asks “How are you feeling?”
And he does that face. That tug in his lips as he mumbles for you to go first.
“Were you spying on me?”
He breathes a laugh “Not spying. Just… watching over you. For research.”
You raise a brow “Really?”
He doesn’t look at you and doesn’t find a plausible answer. Just shrugs.
“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. Wouldn’t want to ruin any plans you have.”
Johnny glances at you with nothing more than softness now “Didn’t have any.”
He did. Couldn’t even bother to cancel the date. If that was supposed to be a date in the first place.
You nod, hands still a little uneasy over the stress and the shock.
“I'll feel better soon, thank you” You smile at him, one hand sliding up to his shoulder where you leave a little squeeze.
His brain starts doing that thing it used to do back in school.
Like a million ants are digging into his skull and just walking all over it.
No words leave his mouth, it’s like he lost the ability to speak. Just over a touch. And with the way he keeps shutting down the thoughts of him fucking you – well, no exactly you – he knows he’s done for.
His feet are still stepping into the hazardous zone of the precipice.
“I know this might sound a little… weird” You say, a little embarrassed “But can you stay over tonight? Just... so I don’t feel completely alone. Not after that.”
Your voice is low, uncertain. You bite your lower lip as you fumble with your hands. You’re always confident, always too empowered. You feel so small and so weak right now, it's almost ridiculous. But you know better than to blame yourself for something like that.
Johnny takes a look at you and smiles, not the ravenous type. It’s a nice one. For the first time in fifteen years, he finds your hands and pulls you in a little closer – careful to not scare you off. Warm fingers slipping against your back as you lean against his shoulder and stay there. His body spreads all the warmth through you. It’s honestly hot, literally.
But it’s good. And you cherish the moment.
You both stay quiet for the next few minutes, until he breaks the silence. Voice dripping with tenderness.
“You have a nice apartment. It smells a little too sweet, but it’s pretty” He says, making you a muffled chuckle fall from your lips.
“If you’re trying to flirt, you gotta try harder” You tease and he gasps, feigning offense.
“You wound me!” Johnny clutches his chest theatrically and you swat his hand playfully.
That exchange of slight touches sparkles something in him that he hadn’t felt in years.
Then, he exhales, slow and deliberate, like he’s been holding it in for decades. “I–” He stops, running a hand through his hair, finding the right words before speaking “I’m sorry.”
You blink. “For?”
“For… all of it. For teasing you, pushing you, for… never stopping when I should have. I should have… I don’t know… handled things differently” His voice drops to something almost vulnerable, raw under all the bravado.
You stare at him with your heart pounding against your chest. Because this is Johnny Storm, Human Torch. He’s the master of charm, fire, and confidence – saying something real. Something that feels like it’s peeling back all the layers he’s carefully built around himself.
“But…” He adds quickly, eyes darting away, then back to you. “There’s more I should say. I… just–” He swallows with tension, there’s heat flickering faintly over his skin, his gaze is gold “…I can’t.”
And just like that, the apology hangs in the room, heavy and incomplete. You want to press him, want to know why all of this – the teasing, the pushing, the fire behind every glance – happened, but you also sense that this isn’t the right moment. That whatever he’s holding back is enormous, and he isn’t ready to let it out. So you let it lie, just for now, letting the quiet between you stretch, filled with the brush of knees, the ghost of his hand against yours, and the unspoken electricity that neither of you can or don’t want to name yet.
He sleeps on the armchair in the corner of your bedroom that night. Couldn’t just stay away from you after the trauma you’d just experienced. Wouldn’t dream of anything happening to you while he was on the couch. That’s the excuse he found. But he knew this wasn’t enough to explain why he had the need to protect you.
And then he found himself flying over the city, flames flashing through the sky in a not very subtle way. But he didn’t want to have to answer your questions, because you would ask them. His body floats in the air as he watches you walk in the street. Guarded, a little more careful. Maybe scared something might happen again. You’ve bought pepper spray, a taser and a pocket knife. Johnny had said those were helpful in situations like that. Although he wished you wouldn’t need them and you could swear you saw worriness in his eyes.
Day after day watching over you. Sometimes running into you and – unlike he wishes – it’s always unplanned. He didn’t want to look like a creeper, always over a shadow behind you. And with the way he couldn’t stop thinking about you, picturing you as he fucked others, he wouldn’t want to be near you.
But the more he tried to avoid it, the more he stepped into the edge.
Two more steps in, and he takes the fall.
He’s a moment from taking it.
But he doesn’t. Not when he sees you with someone beside you, walking too close. Closer than he would. You’re laughing as the man gestures frantically, like he’s telling a story or a joke. You feel safe, you know you can trust him, because unlike any other man who tried to approach you, he knows you. Your best friend from work, someone who took interest in you ever since you were hired. A conversation shifted the friendship and he decided not to make a move on you.
He's seen you and Johnny. He’s seen the way you look at him. He’s more aware of your intentions than Johnny himself. But the Human Torch sees red and he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not fair.
He doesn’t stop watching. Johnny is always there. Doesn’t stay too long when he sees you getting inside your building, or the building you work at. Doesn’t let himself watch if someone waits by for you.
When you text him, ask for him — he swears it’s just because you want to check in on him. Because he hasn’t been around like he did. And it’s making you long for him. For whatever reason.
You meet him at your favorite spot. The rock bar where you go to ever since your friends from work introduced it to you. Where you spend the night distracted from the world outside as you watch the cover bands. Johnny takes in the view. You’re basically a version of the lead singer of the band that’s performing on stage right now. Dark jeans, boots and a black tee. He swallows thick, hands scratching the fabric of his pants. The hairs on his neck stand at the way you walk up to him.
The bar was loud, pulsing with distorted guitars and the kind of energy that made your chest hum in rhythm with the bass. You loved this place; the dim lighting, the chaos, the music that drowned out everything but the moment. You didn’t notice him at first, not until a shadow fell across your peripheral vision, and that familiar, infuriating grin made your stomach clench. He tried to play it cool. Truly, he did.
One hand wrapped casually around a glass, his other resting on top of his lap, almost nonchalantly. But inside his head, it was chaos. Every laugh you let slip, every flick of your hair, every time your eyes lit up at the music; it was like a flame igniting somewhere deep in him, impossible to put out. He kept reminding himself not to slip, not to make it obvious, not to let a single comment, glance, or touch betray how completely undone he was.
And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop replaying every moment of the last few days, the grocery store, the streets, the way you’d looked at him after all those years. His pulse ran hotter than the music around you, but he stayed steady, poised, all charm and nothing else.
Until you pulled him.
It was sudden, a tug at his hand as you led him into the crowd, weaving between bodies that moved with the music. Your fingers tangled with his, and the contact that should be casual sent a shock through him. Almost too close. His chest tightened in ways that had nothing to do with the loud music. He leaned to speak over, voice brushing your ear, and in the motion, you turned just slightly and your noses bumped.
The world tilted. For a second, everything shrank to that contact: the heat of his skin, the scent of him, the faint pulse of his heartbeat against your own. The crowd, the music, the bar’s wild chaos. They all melted away, leaving only him and that almost imperceptible collision, and the quiet realization that the fire he’d been holding back wasn’t going anywhere.
He cleared his throat, grin slipping back into place before your eyes could catch the storm behind it.
“Sorry” He muttered, though the way his blue gaze lingered on yours betrayed him more than words ever could.
You couldn’t help but smile, because you knew now. You knew the chaos behind the calm. And, God help you, it thrilled you. But the moment didn’t last too long. You kept watching the band, Johnny on your side, both a little too shy to speak after that moment. But a woman came out of nowhere and just swiped him off his feet from beside you, tugging his arm like she already owned part of his attention. You froze, stomach twisting.
It wasn’t that he was into her – he clearly wasn’t. But the way he stood there, trying to be polite, letting her flirt with words and touches that weren’t his, ignited something in you. Jealousy, frustration, and a pinch of something you couldn’t quite define. You clenched your drink, trying to act casual, pretending you weren’t seething as he laughed politely at something she said. He didn’t want to push her off, didn’t want to be rude, and yet every second he let her corner him felt like a memory of every time you’d hated letting him get to you back in school.
Finally, you walked out to the bar. Not toward him, not anywhere near him, just far enough to signal that you were done watching. Ignoring him became a kind of armor, but inside, your pulse was racing, heart thudding with irritation and longing all at once.
The moment he notices you’re gone, he immediately rushes to the spot you were before moving to the crowd, but you weren’t there. And he started to panic, because God help him if you read it all wrong. When he found you, his jaw was tightening and there was a flicker of impatience, a flare of something hotter.
“Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” He called out, trying to be casual, but it came out rougher than intended.
“Nothing” You muttered, knowing you shouldn’t be reacting like that.
Because he is not yours and you are not his.
You set your glass down deliberately, picking up your bag and walking toward the door.
“Seriously? Walking out already?” He said, raising his voice over the music, not knowing why you’re suddenly giving him the cold shoulder “Come on, it’s not… wait, I didn’t–”
You didn’t stop, and he didn’t stop you. The words hung in the air as the door closed behind you and you slipped into the street. He stayed inside, fuming a little, watching the door close after you. Even though the place was crowded, the bar suddenly felt empty without you. He felt irritation, fire burning behind his eyes – and he knew. He had pushed too far.
Not a minute later, he walks out the door and finds you leaning against the wall, arms crossed and brows creased. Você se vira para ele, sua voz um tom um pouco mais alto do que provavelmente deveria, mas não estava ligando naquele momento.
“You know what, Johnny? You haven’t changed. You’ll never change. You don’t care, do you? You’ll always be that asshole from high school. The one who teased me, who pushed me, who made me punch you in the temple and still grinned like it was a game. You’re the same. You always will be.”
He froze, caught mid-step as the words hit him like a physical force. For once, there was no smirk, no smart remark, no charm. Just the heat of your words hanging in the air, the glint of his eyes sharpening, and the sudden, dangerous stillness that made your pulse spike.
“I–” He started, but you cut him off, your voice rising, trembling with a mix of anger and exhaustion.
“You don’t get to hide behind your jokes anymore. Not tonight. Not ever. You’ve always been reckless, cocky, selfish, and I… I can’t–”
Before he even let you finish, Johnny stepped closer to you. Something in the way he moved was different – felt too focused, deliberate and not a hint of teasing in his demeanor this time. Your back hit the rough brick of the building beside you as he trapped you against the wall, hands resting on either side of your head, heat radiating from him in waves that made your knees feel weak.
His face hovered too close, his lips were parted, breath a little quick. He tightened his jaw like he was trying to hold himself back “You think I don’t care?” His voice was low, rough with something unguarded, almost desperate “You think I’ve been joking all this time?”
The words got caught in your throat and your heaving chest. He leaned closer, so close that your noses bumped, breaths mingling, the smell of him. Smoke mixed with cologne and heat, overwhelming in the best and worst ways.
“I’ve been a fool” He whispered, his voice breaking just enough to make your stomach twist “A reckless, stupid, teasing fool who didn’t know what he wanted… until now. I’ve been holding back for years, pretending it was just fun, pretending… I didn’t know how to tell you that I’ve been… I’ve been wanting you. Always. Since high school, since that damn punch, since every time I teased you because I couldn’t– couldn’t… say the truth.”
He almost tumbled over his words and you couldn’t speak. He looked raw and unfiltered, like he was letting himself off the facade he built for too many years after that. You could feel the fire in him flickering low, the heat from his skin pressing through the thin fabric of your clothes, the weight of every roaming like gravity around you.
His voice broke into a near growl “I can’t hide it anymore. And I don’t care if it’s the wrong place, the wrong time… I had to tell you. I had to.”
You felt the world narrowing to him, to the space between you two as you felt your heart hammering. And he probably felt that too, with his chest pressed flushed against yours. For the first time in years, the teasing, reckless boy from school. The man who’d haunted your memories and invaded your thoughts was gone, replaced by someone entirely, terrifyingly honest.
And you knew, with the certainty that made your knees weak, that nothing would ever be the same again.
You stood frozen in place with your back still pressed against the wall. His eyes locked on yours as if he were memorizing every reaction, and you refused to move – afraid the moment would slip away in a blink of an eye.
“I… I don’t even know what to say” You whispered, you wanted to step back; to regain some control, but your feet felt rooted to the ground.
“You don’t have to say anything” He murmured, voice rough with cautious energy, hands still braced on the wall beside you “I just needed you to know. That’s all.”
You swallowed, feeling the heat from his body, remembering every teasing look, every push, every moment he’d made you want to punch him and laugh at the same time.
“And… Now what? You think saying all that fixes anything? That it changes fifteen years of you being… you?”
You watch a slow grin plaster over his face, dangerous and teasing at first, but softer then.
“No. I’m still me. But I’m not hiding it anymore. I’m not… pretending.” His gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest second before snapping back to your eyes “I can’t promise I’ll stop being an asshole sometimes, but I can promise you this: I’ve wanted this, wanted you, for years. And I’m done pretending otherwise.”
Right there, he let himself hang his foot over the air, waiting for the drop.
You couldn’t help but meet his gaze, to see the flicker of fire in his skin, the gold in his eyes that always seemed to burn just for you. You felt something coil in your stomach in a mix of exasperation.
“I don’t know if I can trust that” You muttered, voice shaky but strong “You’ve been… you for so long, Johnny. I don’t know if anything’s really going to change.”
He leaned just slightly closer, enough for the heat from him to wash over you, enough that your breaths mingled “Then don’t. Not yet. Just… let me be honest, let me show you. No games. No jokes. No pretending.”
If you leaned in just a few inches, you’d finally discover what he tasted like. What his lips felt like against your lips. But you didn’t, because that would be a dangerous attitude, and you wouldn’t want to waste the moment. Not right now, not when he’s looking at you like you hung the moon for him.
-
Johnny Storm showing up at your apartment wasn’t exactly part of any plan you could have imagined. He was usually somewhere else, doing something else, charming someone else. But tonight, the knock at your door carried an unfamiliar weight. He wanted to show you something, wanted to let you know how much he cared about you, even though he tried to deny the thought of you throughout the years in high school.
He was too smart, always thinking ahead of his intentions. He knew what he was doing when he asked for your notes before the tests – whether the tests or homework. Always keeping the notebook pages folded inside a box. No one would ever think he was this type of guy. He didn’t know he was this type of guy until he realized what that meant.
Feelings. He remembers when it first crossed his mind – snorting and trying to wave it off.
Now he stands there in front of your door, wearing a hoodie unzipped, sneakers slightly scuffed, and a small, carefully wrapped package in his hands. No flames, no smirk; well, maybe just a flicker, like he was holding it back, saving it for later.
“You came” You said, surprised, crossing your arms.
“I did” He replied simply, a little too steady, like he’d been rehearsing it all day. “I said Friday. Dinner. I wouldn’t call it off.”
And that means a lot, it carries significant weight. Because he often cancels plans when he isn’t in the mood or if he feels a woman is being too clingy. He calls it off immediately. But with you, when it comes to you, he would clear his entire schedule for the week.
The two of you look at each other for a few seconds before you finally step aside to let him into your apartment. Johnny usually doesn’t feel nervous or intimidated, but something about you makes him feel like he’s sixteen again.
“What’s that?” You ask, glancing at the package in his hands, his fingers fidgeting with the material as a clear sign of nervousness.
“Uh, just… something I wanted to show you” He smiles slyly, his eyes crinkling slightly as his grin stretches wider.
You nod, but don’t press for details – not until after the two of you finish dinner. The conversation flows easily, as if you’ve been friends for years. His gaze on you grows more and more intense, his knees bouncing restlessly, and he can’t stop picking at his nails. He tries to hide it, shoving his hands under the table so you won’t catch him in the act.
As soon as you sit on the couch, Johnny grabs the package and hands it to you, his fingers almost trembling with hesitation. He has no idea why he’s acting so restless. Curious, you unwrap the paper and find a stack of notes. Pages from your notebook, filled with countless class notes Johnny had asked to borrow so he could study – or rather – pretended he needed them.
Your heart clenches in a way that feels like you’ve been pulled back fifteen years. Back to when you’d stay up late, scribbling down the important parts of lessons you thought he might need. “You… kept all of this?”
He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly “Honestly, I didn’t need them. I’d always studied before exams and did my homework…”
You raise a brow, not understanding what Johnny means.
He lets out a cracked chuckle “It was just an excuse to get your attention– to have something, anything, tied to you back then. Because, well… I didn’t know how to handle feelings, didn’t know what it meant to like someone. By the time I realized what I was doing, we’d already graduated.”
Your first reaction is to open your mouth in shock. Completely stunned by his confession.
He mutters, suddenly feeling the hotness in his ears “I know, it sounds ridiculous. But I was never good with feelings and… anyway. You were smart, patient, and you helped me… without ever realizing it.”
The old weight, the teasing, the push-and-pull; it all made sense now. His cocky charm, his relentless pestering, his refusal to take anything seriously, it was armor. Defense. Fear. And he’d kept it up for years, too stubborn or scared to drop it, to admit he’d wanted more than jokes and fights.
You blink at him, words catching in your throat “And you–”
“I was scared” He interrupts softly, his eyes dropping for the briefest moment “Scared I’d fall over the edge and lose myself if I… if I tried to feel something real. So I… I pushed, teased, pretended. Because pretending is easier than falling, right?”
And for the first time in years, he was standing on the edge of that precipice he’d always avoided. Leaning in close, vulnerable, ready to finally take the fall he’d been holding back from.
And then, you smiled, glancing down at the pile of papers in your hands and back at him. Blue eyes, with a flicker of fire behind them. Now you understand the reason – the reason behind all of Johnny’s teasing, all the excuses he made to tease you. It was his way of saying he admired you, that he liked you.
He just didn’t know how to say it.
You set the papers down on the coffee table, shifting to sit closer to him. Your eyes hold a trace of hesitation at first, but the moment Johnny reaches out and lays a hand on your thigh, every argument you had about not taking the next step flies right out the window. The two of you lock eyes, his gaze a striking shade of blue; so close now it feels like it’s burning against your skin.
It wasn’t the Human Torch. It was just him. His eyes, his touch. And with the brush of his other hand against your face, gravity pulled you both closer, and in that instant all Johnny could feel was the explosion in his chest. The ache and longing of having you near again, after so long, hit him with overwhelming force.
He almost grunted between your lips, finding in himself the urge to push his tongue past your mouth, finally touching your tongue in a way that sent shockwaves through your system. Johnny’s lips pressed against yours, this time harder, more urgent, hunger threading through the touch that had been tentative moments before.
Your hands went to his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt. He groaned softly against your mouth, a low, guttural sound that made your pulse spike. The restraint, the careful distance, the slow teasing – all of it evaporated in the heat of this kiss. He deepened it, tipping your head slightly to one side, letting his hands roam gently but firmly over your shoulders and down your back, pulling you flush against him.
The fire in him wasn’t literal this time, but the way his body radiated heat, the way his lips and tongue moved against yours, made it feel like it might ignite. You responded in kind, leaning into him, letting your fingers curl in his hair, pulling him flushed against you, needing him as much as he needed you. The kiss was feverish, desperate in a way that spoke of years of longing finally finding a voice. It wasn’t messy; it wasn’t reckless – but it was alive, hungry, and utterly consuming.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, his forehead rested against yours again. Gold eyes shimmering with heat and vulnerability, he whispered “I’ve wanted this… for so long.”
You smiled against his lips, fingers brushing lightly against the side of his face.
“Thought this would never happen” He pecked your lips once, heat blooming in his chest “Thought I’d lost you after we left school, that we’d never see each other again.”
Your heart rate picked up at his words, goosebumps erupting all over your body.
“Well, you found me” You kiss his jaw in a chaste way and he groans, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the sound.
“You… you have no idea what I’ve been holding back” He whispered, voice low, almost broken “But I can’t… not anymore. I need you. I need this. I need you.”
And with that confession, every touch, every brush, every fevered kiss intensified, the slow burn finally erupting into something raw, intimate, and wholly consuming.
Summary: He just wants to feel a fleeting pleasure. Something momentary – no strings attached, no feelings. But when you're the one in his bed, messing with his head... he just can't stop thinking about you.
Pairing: Lex Luthor x f!reader
Warnings: Angst, hurt/no confort (just a smidge), allusion to smut (unprotected p in v).
Word count: 2.8k
He’s used to a temporary bliss, to the way skin distracts him from the silence – to the way he dismisses all women right after sex. He never walks them to the door, barely says goodbye.
Lex is used to the crowd of women who crawl at his feet. And you know that very well.
You’re in charge of all his business calls, interviews, and deals. Responsible for rescheduling his appointments after late nights. The one who smiles efficiently while canceling a date he would never have shown up to.
You're reliable. Professional. Unfazed. And he likes that about you. Too much. Which is exactly why it surprises him when you’re the one who ends up in his bed.
It happened on one of those hot, stifling nights, after a long, grueling day at LuthorCorp – the place that made Lex into who he is today. Some days are worse than others: work that strays from the plan, deals that fall through, stocks that end up dropping. And it costs him money.
Despite his relaxed posture, even with his tie hanging loose around his neck, he complains. He yells. He paces from one side of the room to the other, gesturing sharply. And you don’t flinch, you just watch him.
Always quiet, always alert. You’re always closer than he would normally allow any other woman to get to him.
You pull him into bed, into you, into the one place that feels less empty for a few hours. He touches you like he’s trying to forget the world. You let him pretend you’re not you.
But you never pretend he’s not him.
And when it’s over, when sweat still glistens on his skin and his pulse finally starts to slow, you get up. No drama. No hesitation.
You step into the bathroom to freshen up, reapplying your lipstick and adjusting your blouse. Lex watches you through the mirror, leaning against the doorframe. His biceps flex as he crosses his arms, his chest broad and solid. He’s undeniably handsome, there’s no use pretending otherwise. But behind that tide of blue eyes, you know there’s nothing but coldness and greed.
That’s why you keep yourself detached from whatever you might feel. because the fall would be far too painful.
Because he would never fall in love with anyone.
His voice cuts through the quiet “You don’t have to leave.”
A soft laugh escapes your lips as you glance at him through the mirror “You always want them to leave.”
“But you don’t have to.”
Whatever he’s trying to say, you don’t let it sink in. You keep it from crossing your mind.
Lex looks at you differently, though you have no idea. He fucks other women with your image in his head — bends them over and fucks them like he’s starving, because it’s the only way to relieve the crushing pressure in his chest from the way you’ve invaded his mind without the slightest bit of subtlety. He doesn’t whisper your name, but he can’t see anything else.
It's like the more he wants to pull you out of his mind, the more he thinks of you. He feels this sort of addiction toward you, a magnetic feeling that he can only satiate when he's with you. He doesn't want to admit that there's some pain in a way that's frustrating when he doesn't see you next to him in the morning.
Isn't that what he didn't want? To not keep it serious, to fuck and leave. To not get attached and have feelings. It's as though he's betraying his own thoughts. Maybe he should take a break, stay away – maybe he should hire someone else. But where would he find someone so dedicated like you?
The second time it happens, he tells himself it’s just because he’s tired, stressed. He needs to get it out of his system. And you... Well, you’re convenient. That’s what he says, anyway. But you’re not convenient, you’re maddening. You kiss him like you know him. You scratch his back when he buries himself in you, and you nearly choke him when he gets too in his head. You never ask to stay. Never bring it up the next morning. Never linger.
And that’s what wrecks him.
Because you don’t text. You don’t call. You show up at work like nothing happened. And he starts checking his phone, staring at your office door like maybe this time you’ll slip up, maybe this time you’ll show your hand.
You treat him like he’s disposable – exactly how he’s treated everyone else.
It's not always right to bring you home. He knows that. He feels like he should put some distance, especially when he's not feeling well. But you're not giving him the answer he needs, you're being cold just like him.
And when he lies down, he wonders what he did wrong; whether he said something or did something that bothered you. Or worse, that he simply wasn’t enough to keep you interested. Something Lex has never had to worry about before, something that has never been a problem. Because every woman he’s ever flirted with, every single one, has slept with him. Every. Single. One.
Later, he sends you a text. He regrets it immediately, because he’s not the kind of man who texts, who chases after someone. Who seeks someone out. Who cares.
Did I do something wrong?
You don’t reply right away. You wait hours before answering him. But not because you’re uninterested, or because the sex wasn’t enough, or because he treated you poorly. Quite the opposite, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Lex knows all too well how to satisfy a woman, and more than that, he looks at you as if you’re made of glass, as if you might shatter if he held you any tighter.
We said this wasn’t supposed to be emotional. You’ve got nothing to worry about.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He wants you to worry. Because he wants it to matter.
And it seems to you that he was worried you weren't going to be his backup anymore. You’re at your desk early the next morning, fingers working as you type reports nobody will read. Your phone buzzes.
A message from Lex.
“Are you coming back tonight?”
You stare at the screen like it’s a trap. Because it is. You don’t reply. You tell yourself you’re done waiting for words you don’t want. You’re done hoping for something real from a man who thinks emotions are weaknesses. You bury your feelings under cold professionalism — like you always do. But deep down, you ache.
You wonder how many nights he’s spent staring at his phone just like you.
And you don’t know he does that every single night.
-
He's been at his desk for hours, his collar is already loosened, sleeved rolled up where you can see all the veins stained along his forearms. A sight to behold. You have a weakness you have never shown him. Maybe you never will. He taps mercilessly on his tablet, something about Financials, threats or whatever. You stand near the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to flinch when he curses and shoves a document off the table.
“Goddammit!” He hisses through his teeth, standing up so fast his chair slides back “Why can’t anyone do their jobs around here?”
You don’t respond. You know better than to feed the fire. But this time? You’re tired too.
“It was signed off by your legal team” You say calmly “Don’t shift the blame because you’re too–”
He spins around “Too what?”
Your heart thuds and you try to hold your ground.
“Too distracted. By whatever it is you’ve been doing with me.”
Lex’s eyes narrow, sharply; pupils almost dilated with rage.
“This again?” He mutters.
“You come to me at night. You use me. Then in the morning, you pretend I’m nothing but your secretary.”
He laughs once – a cold, guttural thing “You think I use you? Don’t flatter yourself. You’re the one who never stays.”
You snap. There's an obvious reason for you to do that, and you don't want to be the one being kicked out of his penthouse feeling humiliation biting your ass.
“I don’t stay because I know how this ends. I’ve seen how you treat the others. I’m just... next in line, right?”
He steps closer, jaw tight, eyes flaring “You’re not like them.”
“But you still treat me like I am” You whisper.
For a second, neither of you breathe. The silence is deafening. Then he speaks with a lower, but bitter voice.
“You knew what this was.”
You laugh, but there’s no humor in it “I knew what you were.”
Lex looks away, clenching his jaw. His fists tighten too hard “Then stop expecting more.”
That one cuts deep.
You nod once, swallowing the ache in your throat “Fine.”
You grab your purse from the chair, your heels echoing like gunshots against the marble floor as you walk past him.
“Where are you going?” He calls after you, voice suddenly strained.
“Home” You say, without turning around “Some of us don’t have the luxury of shutting the world out just because it doesn’t obey.”
You don’t look back. You don’t see how his hand curls into a fist against his desk. You don’t see the way he watches the door long after you’re gone — the city outside now impossibly quiet.
You make it impossible for him to go back to his old habits. He wants to blame you, to paint you the villain. Wants to claim this is all your fault. When clearly it's not. He knows he thinks too much into it – what's the point of doing this every night if you're giving him nothing but a heartless lullaby? As though you're killing his dreams. Lex wants to think that was the last time, that he wanted you to make up your mind.
But he's the one not making the whole thing something meaningful. There's no label, no attachment. Why should he ask something of you in the first place?
You're messing with his head, you just don't know that. You don't know that he wants you to give him something, something hopeful. A word, maybe. Reassurance. Whatever. You have no idea Lex is holding back the urge to stop touching you like he always does if it's just a temporary bliss.
It's what he wanted. A temporary bliss. It should make sense, but it just doesn't fit anymore.
He struggles to keep you away. You're literally his assistant, it's impossible. It's been days on end after that fight. Lex reaches for his drink — the scotch he always keeps hidden under the file cabinet, not for clients, but for moments like this. Moments when the edges blur and the world pushes too hard.
He drains it. And when the silence still presses in. He checks his phone once, the screen displaying no messages, of course not. He doesn’t text you either, and Lex knows he could; he should. But the idea of reaching first makes something twist in his chest — pride, or maybe fear. Instead, he throws his phone across the room.
It doesn’t shatter, thudding against the carpet with the same hollow sound as every night without you.
“Pathetic” He mutters to himself “You let them see too much.”
He turns away from the window. But it’s no good, because all he can see is your back as you walked out. The way your voice didn’t shake. The way you looked at him like you were finally done holding out hope. And maybe he deserved it, right?
-
You hadn’t meant to cross paths with him tonight.
Lex Luthor wasn’t supposed to be in the building. You checked the schedule. You checked twice. But there he is, stepping into the elevator just before the doors close, all broad shoulders, expensive cologne, and months of emotional wreckage that still somehow looks like a man in full control.
He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.
But the silence between you is almost deafening, it's as though the sharpness of it could cut glass. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just stands there with his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, jaw locked like it’s been sealed shut since you left his apartment that night.
But he reaches for the elevator panel and pushes a button. It immediately stops with a jolt.
You blink “What the hell are you doing?”
Lex turns toward you fully now, the kind of slow, deliberate turn that pins you without touching. His expression is unreadable. His voice is calm. Controlled.
“Let’s not play games tonight.”
You laugh once. Dry, without any sense of humor “Right. Because you’re so straightforward.”
He steps forward. You retreat a half-step before catching yourself. He notices that too.
“You’ve been avoiding me” He says flatly.
“And you’ve been pretending that you didn’t make that easy.”
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Lex keeps moving, backing you toward the mirrored wall. “Acting cold. Distant. Like what happened between us didn’t mean anything.”
“I’m not one of your girls you can trap in a glass cage” You manage, even if your voice betrays you, trembling at the edges. “I don’t care how many penthouses you own. I don’t care how many times you-”
“Then why do you keep coming back?” His voice slices through the quiet “You pretend you don’t want this. You walk out like it means nothing. So either you're lying to me… or to yourself.”
You flinch, but only for a second.
You can't stand the way he tries to blame you for that “I come back because it’s good. Because it’s convenient, Lex. Because it’s easier than pretending I’m still looking for something else.”
He scoffs “Convenient? That’s what you call this?”
He takes another slow step toward you, the elevator makes it feel the size of a closet. You can smell his cologne, that clean, sharp scent that always sticks to your clothes long after you leave.
You clench your jaw, watching the way he intends to corner you “What do you want me to say, Lex? That I wait for your texts? That I hate myself every time I leave? That I wish for once you’d ask me to stay?”
And through the silence, he doesn't blink or speak, there's a weight of your own words hitting you like a freight train. Your hands are shaking.
“…Say it” You whisper “Say you wanted me to stay last time.”
Nothing at first, his throat works, but no sound comes out. So you go colder, just like the way he taught you.
“Of course you won’t” you laugh bitterly “Because that would mean you actually feel something.”
Before you can press the emergency button, Lex moves quickly. It isn’t rough or cruel, but charged with the urgency of someone who’s been without air for far too long. His hands catch your wrists, pulling you close. Close enough for his mouth to brush against yours. It’s a desperate, swift action, as if he’s trying to inhale you. There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing soft. But it carries a force so overwhelming it feels like it might drown him.
You gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage of it, deepening the kiss like it’s the only way he remembers how to speak. His hand is in your hair. The other gripping your waist too tight. And it hits you, all at once:
He wants you. Not in the lustful way, no.
You feel his breath stutter as he leans his forehead against yours. His chest heaving, his eyes are shit. He still hasn’t said a word. But he doesn’t have to.
This is the answer. The only one he knows how to give.
His hands find your waist, then your thighs, hoisting you up until your back scrapes the cold wall. You gasp, locking your legs around him, digging your nails into his shoulders.
“You wanted to walk away” he growls into your neck “But you stayed. Why?”
You don’t answer, you can’t even think straight. Not with the way he’s pulling your underwear aside like he’s starved for you. Not with how his body presses into yours, hard and aching.
“You wanted this ” He rasps, his voice breaking as he sinks into you “Say it.”
Your head falls back. The world narrows to the slick drag of his hips, the sharp edge of the tension finally breaking; not with relief, but with need.
“You wanted me to stop you” You whisper.
He thrusts deeper.
“I wanted you to stay.”
The elevator shudders to a halt and the lights flicker until there's only a half-shadow. Lex’s fingers wrap around your wrist in a firm grip, pulling you hard against the chill of the metal wall. His other hand finds the curve of your lower back, holding you up.
His breath is hot against your ear “You asked for me to admit it” he rasps “Now I’m claiming what’s mine.”
You don’t answer, your fingers tangle in his hair as his mouth crashes against yours, bruising and demanding. When he pulls back just enough to sink his teeth into your lower lip, you moan, giving him the one permission he didn’t need.
He tips his head, and with slow, powerful precision, pounds on you now. There’s no tenderness here, only the desperate press of his body against yours, the slick slide of give and take, the tight groan he buries against your neck when you rock into him. The elevator hums, but it might as well be the drum of your racing hearts.
Your nails dig into his shoulders as he sets the pace; first slow, testing, then harder, deeper, each thrust punctuated by your name on his lips. You’re caught between need and exhilaration, breathless pleas turning into stifled moans as the tight space amplifies every sensation. Your back arches into him, nipples grazing his chest, and he angles you against the wall, fucking into you with relentless insistence.
He buries his face in your hair “Stay” he whispers, his voice thick with both demand and confession “Stay here, with me.”
You answer only with the soft press of your lips against his neck, the ache in your veins, the fervent pulse at your core. And in that stifled, stolen moment, with metal beneath you, you two collide, neither of you willing to let go.
Lex knows what his decision could cost him, but he can’t keep denying the relentless pull he feels toward you. And it’s more than just desire. It probably hasn’t been just that for a long time, though he wouldn’t recognize what it means to actually like someone — to feel. Now he has no choice but to face the weight of his own emotions.