#please ask to tag if there's anything else! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sanguineterrain · 21 hours ago

Text

we are not alone | steve harrington

Summary: Your whole life, you felt like you crash-landed on Earth from another planet. It's just another summer where you know that should be somewhere else. Then you meet Steve Harrington.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word count: 15.8k

Warnings/tags: reader struggles to identify platonic vs romantic feelings. she feels very different/isolated from people. steve's a cutie patootie as usual. reader loves aliens (who doesn't?!) everyone lives. summer fic. post s4 volume 2. not explicitly romantic but a happy ending nonetheless.

A/N: omg it's been so long since i wrote for my bf steve<3 I started this fic last year LOL she is a labor of love. hope u enjoy (and if u do, please reblog and comment. u make writers' days when u tell us what u think!)

divider by firefly-graphics

The woods by Hunter’s Creek are still tonight, save for the chirp of crickets and the occasional car ambling down the road. Now seems as good a time as any to record what data you have. You have very little for the amount of time you’ve been out here. Of course, it’s a waxing gibbous moon tonight, and you’ve taken that into consideration—extraterrestrial activity is harder to detect during this phase.

But still. You thought tonight would be more fruitful than this, especially since it’s Memorial Day weekend. Almost everyone is either vacationing at Torch Lake or getting drunk at a barbeque. Perhaps that’s what scared off all the aliens.

You put your night vision goggles on your head and press record on your tape recorder.

“8:54pm. May 30th, 1989. Location: Hunter’s Creek, approximately fifty yards from Skull Rock. No alien activity detected. Purple finches, AKA, Haemorhous purpureus, have been silent for many hours. Reason for this is unknown, but could be a sign of a possible disruption in the atmospheric pressure. Moon is in its waxing gibbous phase. Sky is clear but there is a distinct scent of—”

Across from the thicket you’re hunkered down in, there’s a rustling. You click the off button and pull on your night vision goggles. You grab your backpack and camera, then creep through the woods towards the sound. It’s probably some kind of wildlife, but every bit of information counts. Animals are imperative to understanding extraterrestrial patterns and landings.

There’s more rustling as you approach Skull Rock. You go around slowly, so as not to startle anything. Someone moans. A red windbreaker lands a few feet away. What…?

You get to the front of Skull Rock. Through your goggles, you see two heat signatures that are definitely not wildlife. One of them screams.

“What the fuck?!” she yelps, and you watch the left blob of color separate from the right blob.

“Holy shit,” the right blob says. A boy.

“Did either of you notice any birds or insects exhibiting unusual behavior?” you ask.

“Unusual behavior?” the boy blob repeats.

You lift your goggles, annoyed. “I said, did—”

“Were you fucking spying on us?” the girl yells.

You sigh and walk past them. “Never mind. You’ve probably frightened all the creatures away.”

“What kinds of creatures?” the boy asks.

“Steve, are you fucking serious?” she snaps.

“She didn’t interrupt us on purpose,” ��Steve’ says.

“How do you know?”

“I mean… she’s wearing those army goggles.”

“To creep on us!” his less-than-lovely companion screeches.

“Thermal night vision goggles,” you say without turning around. “But yes, the military is known to use this technology. And I wasn't spying on you. I didn't know anyone would be out here.”

You kneel at the mouth of Skull Rock, studying the dirt. It rained recently. That could also be why tonight has been so inactive.

“You’re a freak,” the girl says behind you. “Something’s seriously wrong with you, walking around with–with army goggles in the woods. I don't believe you weren't spying.”

Freak makes you swallow hard, makes your heart beat faster. You haven’t been reminded of your freakish status in a while. You almost forgot you were one. Almost.

“Casey, relax. She wasn’t spying on us. She’s obviously doing science… stuff,” Steve says behind you.

Your heart slows. Slightly.

“You’re taking her side?”

You open a test tube and scoop dirt into the tube, then cap it. Steve and Casey continue to argue—well, Steve tries to reason with her. Casey just screams at him. You tune them out; you’re not keen on hearing the other mean names she’s likely calling you. And anyway, you have work to do.

Then the shouting stops. You stand and turn. Casey is stomping away and she disappears among the trees, heading toward the main road. You turn on your flashlight.

Steve is Steve Harrington, whom you last saw six months ago at a Wegman’s in the frozen food aisle. He had three frozen pepperoni pizzas in his cart, a bottle of Schweppes, and two bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. You wonder how he stays so athletic. You'd hidden behind the fish sticks then and you wish you could hide now. He stands six feet away from you in a short-sleeve navy polo and light wash jeans. His hands are in his pockets, and they come out to shield his eyes when you shine the light on his face.

“Hey, quit,” he says.

You set the flashlight on the ground so it’s not shining on his or your face. It casts funny shadows and makes the legs of Steve’s jeans glow.

“You upset her,” you say.

He sighs, puts his hands on his hips. “Yeah. No kidding.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your intercourse, for the record.”

Steve grimaces. “We weren’t doing it, we were just making out. And it’s—ah, it’s fine. I’m sorry she called you a freak. That wasn’t cool at all. I didn’t know she was like that.”

“Like what?”

“Y’know, mean. It’s clear you weren’t spying on us. You have, like, military equipment for God's sake.”

This is the strangest encounter you’ve ever had. And you found a nest of alien eggs last year.

“You didn’t have to defend me,” you say. “It seemed like she really enjoyed your tongue in her mouth.”

It’s quiet for several seconds. Then Steve snorts in laughter.

You frown. “What?”

“I don’t–I don’t even know,” he says, still laughing. “Just… just the way you say things is funny.”

Your expression flattens. You grab your flashlight and turn on your heel, stomping back to where your stuff is.

“Wait! Shit. Wait, sorry! Hold on! I’m sorry.”

Steve jogs ahead of you, blocking your path. You shine the flashlight in his face again. He grunts and puts his hands up to block the light.

“Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I like the way you talk, is what I was trying to say. I wasn’t making fun of you, okay? Can you please not blind me?”

You shine the flashlight onto his chest. Steve looks at you. There's a smudge of red lip gloss on his chin.

“You have lip gloss on your chin,” you say, stepping around him.

“I–oh. Thanks.”

He follows you down the path, twigs crunching under his shoes. You turn around, glaring.

“Don’t follow me,” you say, voice stronger than you feel. “If you want to make fun of me in private, then go. In fact, go chase Casey, apologize to her, and then talk about what a freak I am. But don’t follow me, or I’ll use my flamethrower on you.”

His eyebrows go to his hairline. “Where did you get a flamethrower?”

“I made it.”

“Are you allowed to make flamethrowers?”

“There’s no explicit law against it. I checked.” You’ve decided that the mayor doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, he’ll be the first to go when aliens take over Hawkins.

Steve takes a careful step forward, eyeing your flashlight. Your eyes narrow.

“I’m not gonna make fun of you,” he says slowly. “And I don’t care about Casey, not anymore. I didn’t realize she was so mean. I don't like her anymore. I'm serious.”

“So why are you following me?”

“I wanted to make sure you got back okay to… wherever you’re going.”

“I’m fine,” you say. “I’ve been out here plenty of times before.”

“Oh. Studying animals?”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

“That’s cool. My friend Dustin also likes science stuff. I don’t know what the kid’s talking about ninety percent of the time, but he’s really smart. You seem really smart too.”

You look away, shifting your weight between your feet. You don’t know what to say. Why is he saying that to you?

“So what kinds of animals do you study?” Steve asks.

“All kinds. I’m not really focused on the animals, though. They’re only one component of my research.”

“Huh. So what’re you out here for?”

Past experiences have taught you that generally, the people of Hawkins aren’t very open-minded about life beyond Earth. Or anything, really. Historically, Steve Harrington has shown himself to be one of those people. You've never been personally victimized by him or his stupid friends, but you've known people who were. You know what he's about.

And making out with a pretty girl at Skull Rock is exactly what you would expect from him, so logically, your observations are sound. But he didn’t follow Casey when she stormed off. He defended you. And he has kind eyes.

The last observation isn’t rooted in any logic. You don’t know where it comes from.

“I’m studying…” You take a breath and lift your chin. “I am studying extraterrestrial life. I came out tonight hoping to find more of the foreign isotopes I collected last month.”

“Whoa,” says Steve. “That’s so cool. Like UFOs? Aliens? You really think there are aliens here?”

You blink. “...Well, um, potentially. Probably not landing in Hawkins, but a lot of ufologists theorize that alien debris can penetrate our atmosphere. I think aliens have definitely flown over this area.”

Steve shakes his head in awe. “That’s amazing. Have you ever seen an alien?”

“No, but I’ve found an alien egg nest.”

“No kidding? Do you have pictures?”

“At my house,” you say, fiddling with your flashlight.

“That’s really cool.”

His watch beeps. You both jump.

“Uh… oh, shit. Sorry, I gotta go. I have to pick up my friend from work. She’s got the closing shift. But I can give you a ride home, if you want.”

“What about Casey?” you ask.

Steve shrugs. “She ditched me and walked up the road to David Quentin’s house. He’s having a Memorial Day party.”

You should definitely put that in your notes. No wonder there’s no activity tonight. Aliens are frightened of inebriated young adults.

“I don’t want a ride,” you say primly. You certainly don’t want anything from the likes of Steve Harrington.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I live nearby.”

It’s a mild night, and it’s not even dark yet. Steve seems to realize this too.

“Okay, if you’re really sure.” He smiles. “It was nice to meet you.”

You nod. You don’t know yet if it was nice to meet Steve or not. You’ll have to think about it.

Steve disappears among the trees. When he’s completely out of sight, you return to the rock to check once more for wildlife activity. There’s none, but there is the same red windbreaker from earlier. It has the initials S.H. embroidered in white on the sleeve.

You pick it up and give it a cautious sniff. It smells like jasmine and boys, but in a good way. Steve smells very nice, and you’ve smelled a lot of people in your day.

You remember Steve’s old cologne as he'd passed you in the hallway at school. He’d smelled different, overpowering. You neatly fold the windbreaker and tuck it into your backpack.

The Harrington residence has a planter of tulips on the front windowsill. You’ve never seen Mrs. or Mr. Harrington in person. There was a photo of them in the newspaper years ago. Mrs. Harrington wore a lot of pearls and had a thin, severe mouth with inoffensive pink lipstick. Mr. Harrington had a gold watch and looked like he was trying to sell something. You remember wondering where Steve had been when they’d taken the photo.

The tulips are a healthy, blushing pink. Someone takes care of them.

Steve’s windbreaker sits like an anchor in your backpack. It was easy to find his address in the phonebook. You'd washed the jacket yesterday after taking some hairs to test for alien DNA. Can’t be too careful.

It would make sense if Steve had been replaced by an alien. An alien with kind eyes. An alien who offers girls like you a ride home.

The lawn is mowed. A white picket fence surrounds the house. You pick up the latch and walk up the neat pathway. You take out the plastic Kroger bag with Steve’s windbreaker and place it on the top stair, on the welcome mat. The windows are dark, but Steve’s car is in the driveway. He and his family must be asleep.

You wonder if they’re the kind of family to have pancakes with expensive Canadian maple syrup on Saturday mornings. They could probably have sirloin steak for every meal if they wanted.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington would probably like Casey. You wonder what they'd think about Steve defending freaks in the woods.

There’s a bin of junk on the curb in front of Steve’s house. It's the only unsightly thing on the block. Loch Nora has the best junk. You’ve been to just about every garage and yard sale in Hawkins. But the one thing you’ve learned is that rich people buy a lot of crap and a lot of it goes to waste. Summertime is the best time to root through their junk, because usually, people spring clean and then go on vacation. That means there’s less of a chance you’ll get yelled at for rooting through bags of stuff that didn't make the spring cleaning cut.

You check the windows with the tulips. Still dark.

The first thing in the bin is a Walkman. You press the on button. It beeps once, then goes silent. You put it in your backpack. There’s a broken hairdryer and a toy racecar. You take those too. The rest of the stuff is true junk. You look anyway.

There’s a paperweight in the shape of a Mallard duck. Stacks of business magazines. A makeup bag filled with Estee Lauder and Clinique compacts and tubes. You open a lipstick and twist it to the top. It’s a bland pink, nowhere near as vibrant as the tulips. It’s unused, like it was bought and forgotten.

There’s a mug with a child’s handprints in green and purple paint. Father’s Day 1976 is written on the bottom in an adult's handwriting. You quickly return it to the stack, heart pounding like you’ve touched a cursed artifact.

You dig through the rest of the stuff. It’s all mostly in good condition. Rich people are wasteful. Perhaps you weren’t as wrong about Steve as you thought.

“Uh… hi?”

You shoot up and back away into the street. Steve’s in a worn lifeguard shirt and black basketball shorts. He’s at the doorway, door half-opened.

“It’s all junk,” you say before he can speak. Steve has long legs. Long, hairy, and tanned. You quickly look at his face. “You left it on the curb. I wasn’t stealing.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t look angry, just confused. But you don't always guess people's feelings correctly. Maybe this is where he joins Casey and shouts at you and proves you right.

“Oh. The stuff in the bin? You were looking through it?”

“Loch Nora has the best junk,” you say.

Steve smiles, still looking confused. His hair is sleep-ruffled. “Ha. Yeah, I guess we’re known for our junk, huh?”

“You left your jacket at Skull Rock.” You point at the bag at his feet.

He looks down and takes the bag. “Oh, man! I was looking for this.”

You make fists and squeeze repeatedly.

“I washed it,” you say. “With a cotton breeze scent. That one smells the least like chemicals.”

Steve looks up. His smile grows. “Thank you. That's really nice of you.”

You want to rock on your feet but people treat you like you’re stupid when you do that. You want to rock so badly, though. Rock the nerves away.

“D’you want something to drink?” Steve asks.

Your shoulders go tense, rising up. “Why?”

He blinks like he hadn’t been expecting that question. “Uh, because we… drink things?”

“Why would you want to serve me a drink?”

“Well…” Steve scratches his head. “I thought you might be thirsty?”

Oh. That seems reasonable.

“What are the options?” you ask.

“I have orange juice, chocolate milk…”

You hate those options. But you can never tell someone that you don’t like what they’re offering. They get very mad.

“No,” you say. “I’m… allergic to those.”

Steve stops. “Oh. I also have apple juice. Robin—my friend—she’s been on an apple juice kick.”

You don’t know how one kicks apple juice. You elect to not ask.

“I will have apple juice,” you say.

Steve nods. “Okay. Wanna come in?”

You’re back to hunching your shoulders. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to enter your house.”

Steve’s smile slides off his face. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re a stranger and if I went inside, no one would hear me scream. I will have apple juice outside your gate or nothing at all.”

His eyes widen. “That’s—I wouldn’t do anything to you.”

“We aren't friends,” you say crisply. “I don’t know you well enough to trust you. That’s my rule, and if you don’t like it, then I’ll leave, Steve Harrington.”

“No, it’s–it’s okay.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. Um, you have a point, I guess. I’ll get your juice and come back.”

Steve goes inside. You stay outside of his gate and put your backpack on the ground. He returns a minute later with two juice bottles. He goes to the gate and hands you one.

You open it, listening for the click of plastic. You drink. It’s a nice juice brand. One that doesn’t taste like cardboard. It's cold too. The perfect juice state.

“It’s very good,” you say. “Thank you.”

Steve smacks his lips, looking at the juice. “Right? I haven’t had apple juice in ages. Robin’s girlf—” He looks at you and coughs. “Her f-friend really likes apple juice, so I’ve started keeping it around. But I haven’t had it since, like, kindergarten. Remember they used to give us apple juice and cookies or whatever for snack time? I think it’s an underappreciated combo, apple juice and cookies.”

“I like grape juice with cookies,” you say.

“Yeah? Huh. Haven’t tried that before.”

The two of you stand like that for a bit, Steve on one side of the fence, you on the other, in the budding morning heat. It smells like freshly mowed grass.

Once or twice you let your gaze roam too far and you notice Steve’s legs all over again. His calves are so muscular, and you see the muscles jump when he shifts his weight. It doesn’t repulse you, just fascinates you. You’d like to hold his calf, feel the tendon and muscle and bone underneath twitch and flex. You’ve never held a boy’s leg before or seen one up close. You imagine Steve can run impressively fast and for a long time. You'd like to time him, measure his endurance.

You finish your juice. Steve takes your bottle and puts it in the recycling can outside the gate.

“I can give you your junk back,” you say when he returns. You want to beat him to it, before he has to ask and embarrass you.

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. Are you worried about that? Take whatever you want.”

“I didn’t take any makeup,” you say. “Or magazines. I only took the stuff people won’t want.”

He shrugs. “Take all of it. My parents left a bunch of crap after they moved away.”

They what?

“Moved? Where did they move to?”

“Uh.” Steve rubs the back of his neck. It causes his t-shirt to ride up and show the smallest belly pudge and a trail of dark hair around his belly button. You had no idea boys could have soft bellies. Your chest feels funny. Perhaps you have an arrhythmia.

“I don’t really know, to be honest. Somewhere in New Hampshire. Concord, maybe? My dad’s family lives there.”

“Why aren’t you there?”

Steve glances at the junk. Shit. You’ve asked too many questions. You always ask too many questions.

“Never mind,” you say quickly. “I don’t need to know.”

Steve looks at you. “I—”

“I have to go,” you say, far too loud for a Saturday morning. You swing your backpack over your shoulders. “I have to go feed my bird. Goodbye, Steve Harrington.”

You bolt down the street, backpack banging against your spine. You don’t stop until you’re three blocks away and gasping for breath at the bus stop. Your feet ache in your sneakers.

When you get home, the first thing you do is run to your room and check your test tube with pickle juice, rainwater, and three long brown hairs. The hairs are still intact. You frown. Negative. The only alien here is you.

Unbidden, Steve’s long legs flash through your mind. You dump the mixture down the toilet and flush.

Concord is six hundred miles from Hawkins. For his sake, you’d hoped Steve was from another planet. A planet where mothers plant pink tulips and fathers keep their gift mugs.

You haven’t gone to Skull Rock in two weeks. You’re not sure what or who you’ll find, and for once, curiosity isn't enough to move you. In the meantime, you’ve charted more of the Hawkins woods, marking weather patterns, stars, and wildlife. You’ve also begun to tinker.

Steve’s Walkman is easy to fix. You spend less than a day on it. As soon as you fix it, it starts to play tinny music, cassette whirring. Someone forgot to take out the tape.

“I’ve been waiting for so long, now I’ve finally found someone to stand by me.”

You hold it up to your ear, hunched over your desk, listening to the man sing. You understand the words, the music. You know songs. But you don’t know this one. And you don’t know where the tape came from.

“Saw the writing on the wall as we felt this magical melody.”

A woman and a man. It’s a duet. Is this… Steve’s tape?

You listen to them sing, the man and woman. They sing about passion and feelings and want.

Have you ever wanted anything the way these two want? You don’t know.

Does Steve want? You don’t know that either. What could he want? Doesn’t he have everything?

You look at the junk, at the Walkman. Steve’s probably already bought a new Walkman, so it doesn’t really matter that you’ve fixed this one. You don’t own many cassettes anyway; it’s not like you’ll use it frequently.

“This could be love, because…”

Could be? Well, is it love or not? Don’t they know?

You curl your arms around the Walkman and bury your head in your arms, so that the music echoes and is channeled into your ears. You stare at the dark, feel your hot breath on your skin. Moisture gathers on the desk top and on your cheeks.

How does Steve listen to music?

Instinctively, you picture music washing over him only in someone’s living room, at a house party, a place you’d never be invited to, when he’s three drinks in and maybe has his legs out for a pretty girl to touch.

“No, I never felt this way before… yes, I swear, it’s the truth…”

But then a new image comes into view: Steve’s eyes, sober, kind, looking up at the ceiling. Maybe he’s lying on his bed. His bed has stripes, or maybe plaid bedding. Not little green aliens like yours does. No, Steve acts his age. He does age-appropriate things like kiss beautiful, mean girls at Skull Rock. He drives his BMW and gets and gives anything he wants. He's absolutely awful and he served you apple juice.

You jerk back as the music swells, startled by how you’ve lost time. Why are you even thinking about Steve? You don’t know. You hate not knowing.

“I’ve had the time of my l—”

You stop the Walkman and remove the tape. There are probably more songs, but the thought of listening to the same music that Steve does frightens you. You open your drawer and shove the tape inside, burying it under notebooks.

“And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.”

A blast of cool air from the AC hits your face, drying the sweat on your forehead instantly. You make a beeline for the fridges at the back of the store, bobbing your head in time to the music. You haven't had a Cookie Day in a long time. You used to have them all the time, especially in high school.

“And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile.”

There’s no grape juice. You search three times and flick through every bottle on the shelf. Nothing.

“We’re all out, babe!” Sheila calls from the cash register. “We’ll get more tomorrow.”

You frown at the empty shelf. What are you supposed to drink? Orange juice? As if.

And how are you supposed to eat your Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookie? Juiceless? Pop makes your brain hurt, milk is too thick, water is boring, and any other juice would be a crime to pair with cookies.

“And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’"

Sheila whistles to the music. You glumly take your cookie and go to the register. Sheila smiles at you, her teeth slightly yellow. She wears blue eyeshadow and bubblegum pink lip gloss and her breath always smells like mint gum, but her clothes smell like Marlboros. But it's okay, because you only really smell the Marlboros when Sheila hugs you. And Sheila always asks first before she gives you a hug.

It was Sheila who taught you that it's okay to refuse hugs if they make you uncomfortable. And it was Sheila who said that Cookie Days chase the clouds away. She swears that a little treat is the best medicine.

And you're in need of good medicine.

“Find any aliens this week?” she asks as she rings up your cookie. “No drink?”

You decide to answer the second question. “There’s no grape juice. Anything else would taste funny.”

Sheila nods, smacking her gum. Her sandy blonde perm bounces. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Like, when I’m watching Wheel of Fortune, I gotta have a cigarette. Watching that Vanna White makes me need a cigarette. What a woman. You saw that pink dress she had on last week? Sweet baby J in Heaven!”

You’ve seen Wheel of Fortune once; you think it’s the most boring show on the planet. The answers are too easy. You don’t tell Sheila that, though. You like Sheila. When you like people, you don’t always tell them what you don’t like.

“No, I didn’t see her,” you say, watching Sheila tap the buttons on the register. You give her a five dollar bill and she hands you your change.

“You wanna sit with me for a little while, baby?” Sheila asks, patting the stool behind her. “Today’s slow.”

You open your cookie and walk around the register, then climb up on the stool. It’s hard to do with one hand. Sheila helps you up so you don’t tip the stool over.

“There ya go. You want Dr. Pepper? Oh, wait, you don’t like pop, right? Makes your brain feel funny?”

“Yeah.” You take a bite of your cookie and remember Sheila’s first question. “I found an alien egg nest last month.”

“No shit?” Sheila pulls her hair into a ponytail with a beaded green hair tie. “What kinda alien?”

“I’m not sure. When I go to UFOCon, I’ll ask. I suspect it's an avian hybrid.”

“Like the water?”

“Like birds.”

“Oh! You’re such a smarty, using those big words.” She smacks her gum. “Good, I’m glad you’re so smart. Us girls need to be smart in this world.”

“People think I’m weird.”

“Letting the days go by, letting the water hold me down.”

Sheila opens her Dr. Pepper can. The carbonation hisses. She takes a sip and her mouth screws up.

“Whew! That’s strong. Yeah, I know, baby. People think I’m pretty weird too. Y’know, when I was your age, I almost got married to this boy. He was a decent guy, wouldn’t have hit me or nothing. Son of a farmer. And I, well, who the hell was I, y’know? Nobody.

“So my mama was thrilled I was getting married to anybody. And then on the day we were meant to be married, y’know what I did? I ran out. Climbed through the bathroom window. Didn't stop till I got to my sister’s house. She hid me for a week, till my mama cooled down.”

“Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground.”

You swivel to face Sheila. “Why’d you do that? Isn’t getting married good?”

“Ha! No, there’s about ten million people who’d tell ya that marriage is so very not good. I didn’t wanna get married, bottom line. Some people do, and that’s well and good, but I’m not them. This kid’s name was Carl. Baby, he couldn’t even shave! His daddy shaved him the day of our wedding. We had no goddamn business getting married. You got chocolate on your lip, hon.”

She hands you a napkin. You wipe your mouth. Sheila gives you a thumbs up and takes another sip of pop.

“Shit, still strong!” She smacks her lips. “Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh, yeah! Y’know, people will say you’re weird ‘cause you don’t fit in. But fitting in is usually a load of BS. And when you’re weird, you’ll find other cool people you like and who like you. Like my roommate, Carol. Carol and I are best buddies. She thinks I’m swell and I think she’s pretty fucking cool too.”

“But there’s no weird people in Hawkins,” you say, looking forlornly at your cookie. You know. You’ve been searching for a long time. Sheila isn’t weird, but she doesn’t mind that you are.

“Are you kidding! There totally are. And you know something? Sometimes you meet people who aren’t weird like you but who like you exactly as you are.”

“Time isn't holding up, time isn't after us.”

The AC drones on. You finish your cookie and crumple the wrapper, then throw it in the small garbage can under the counter. Your mouth is so dry, but there’s no juice you like.

“Sheila, have you ever been wrong about somebody?”

“Definitely, honey bunches. Plenty have been wrong about me too. My mama was the first.”

“Have you ever been wrong in a good way?” you ask.

“You mean did I ever judge someone too quickly and then realize they’re actually good people?”

You nod.

“Sure I have.” Sheila peers at you, lashes thick with black crust. “Have you done that recently?”

“I don’t know. I’m usually good at making observations about people, but so far, I’ve been wrong all the way.”

“Sometimes you just gotta get out of your own head. It's scary as shit but it's so worth it. Carol's my good friend. I love her to death. She's helping me to quit smoking. And I trust her to keep liking me even when I fall off the wagon. When I first met her, she scared me. Honest to God. I’ve never felt like that about anyone, y’know? Like I’d found my soulmate.”

You look at her. “How did you feel exactly?”

“Well, I felt jittery and a little nauseous. Couldn’t stop thinking ‘bout her. She’s a cool lady, y’understand. Works with rock stars and folk singers and circus people. Plans concerts and stuff. And who am I? I work at some convenience store. I thought, shit, Sheila, what’re you playing at? Lotta people would think I’m weird to feel this way about Carol. But y’know somethin’? Carol liked me just the way I am. Still does.”

“Oh.”

You’re so thirsty. Your feet move of their own accord, back to the fridges. Sheila pops her gum.

“Where ya goin’, babe?”

“Get a drink,” you say, though you don’t know what. You’ve never drunk anything but grape juice with your cookie.

You open the fridge and take out a bottle of apple juice. It’s the same brand as the one that Steve gave you. The same brand he poisoned you with.

Except you’ve done extensive testing since. You went to the doctor twice. There’s no sign you’ve been poisoned. Your best guess is still aliens. As usual.

“Didn’t know ya liked apple,” Sheila says as you return to the register. She waves away your money. “Nah, keep it. These cameras don’t work anyway.” She winks.

“I don’t usually drink apple juice,” you say. “But someone told me that it’s good with cookies. Like in kindergarten.”

“Is that what they fed you kids back then? Man! They fed us sawdust in kindergarten. I remember the teacher too. Mrs. Pip. She was okay, ‘cept she liked to chain smoke when we were having naptime, and…”

You drink the juice. It tastes exactly like it had with Steve. It tastes better than grape juice.

“—Anyway, the kid was fine. He didn’t eat the whole cigarette. Built up his immune system, if you ask me. How’s it taste, babe?”

You nod. “I like it.”

“Always nice to find something new to like, right?”

“Yeah.” You stare at the bottle. “It is.”

Used bookstores are truly the most perfect places on Earth.

Not only are they respite from the hellish weather currently plaguing the Midwest, but they're also filled with books. Cheap books. And books have knowledge. Knowledge that you really need.

Hawkins Local Books is the only used bookshop in Hawkins, but it holds its own in your tiny town. It smells like paper and book spines. You take deep lungfuls of the smell, happy that hardly anyone is here. Most people are out enjoying the heat. But you have work to do.

First, you check the single shelf that sometimes has books about planetary systems and extraterrestrials. There aren't a lot of books on aliens, at least not at Hawkins Local Books. If you had a car, you'd drive to Indianapolis and take advantage of what is no doubt an extensive bookstore inventory.

“Hi, girly.” Cora has spiky green hair and a tattoo of Frankenstein’s monster on her shoulder, which she showed you the second week you stopped by. She works on Saturdays and is three years older than you. She calls you girly and has never asked your real name, but you think she’s nice. Sometimes she gives you discounts on books. She also doesn’t care that you flip through books without buying them. Mostly, she blasts music that’s full of yelling and plays on her Gameboy.

“Do you have any books on boys?” you ask.

Cora squints. “Boys? Like male authors?”

“No, like, um… boys. And girls feeling… weird about boys?”

“Oh. Sure. Look back there. That’s where the romance shit is.” She points to the second room that’s equally cluttered with books.

Romance? You could be dying.

You go anyway. Cora has never steered you to the wrong shelf before. You go and find that the romance books fill six shelves, which is overwhelming. Then again, that bodes well for you when it comes to research. There’s a sticker that says ROMANCE on one shelf. The one next to it says HARLEQUIN. You wonder what that’s about. As far as you know, ducks aren’t related to romance. But you look there first, because that shelf must be about romance in nature, and that’s exactly what you’re looking for.

Except many of the covers feature long-haired men clutching women in odd poses. How do their necks bend that way? Why are the men so shiny? Steve isn't shiny… except for his hair. He has very nice hair.

All you want is something that will tell you why you keep thinking about Steve Harrington’s legs and hair and eyes and why you’ve been ill since meeting him. Luxurious hair seems to be exclusive to these men, so maybe Cora is onto something. Maybe the illness part comes later for the women on the covers.

Obviously, a part of your new feelings is that you're a scientist and Steve is a new specimen, so your brain is stuck on him. Understandable. It's just like when you found those alien eggs. But it's more than that. Your body feels clumsy and hot when you think about him, weird in a way that it doesn't when you think about the eggs. You went to the doctor for a checkup, but the results were normal. You'll have to find your own answers.

You recall a girl in tenth grade who'd described in excruciating detail what kissing her boyfriend under the bleachers felt like. Far too much saliva for your taste. But you remember the feeling she'd described: butterflies in her stomach. Which doesn't make sense, considering butterflies would melt from stomach acid.

No, of course you're not in love with Steve Harrington. But these new feelings require research, and perhaps books on the human condition of love can provide that. There might just be a link.

You scan the books. Many of them have frightening titles like Held Captive or Prisoners of Love. You hope no one will try to imprison you out of love. That would be unfortunate.

One makes you pause. Curing the Heart. Perfect! Exactly what you're looking for. A cure.

You pull it out and flip to a random page. The cover is bent like its owner read it frequently. That seems like a promising sign.

Teresa had never been alone with a man before. She was nervous, her heart beating rapidly.

A-ha! So this feeling was common. And you were just like Teresa. You've also never been alone with a man before, except for that time you got detention for hitting Martin Baker's hand with a biology textbook when he called you a baby and poured water on your sneakers. You hadn't even bruised the skin—Martin was the baby.

But being with Steve hadn't felt like detention. Still, your heart beat rapidly just like Teresa's. You keep reading.

“This pill you've given me… are you sure it will work?” Teresa asked. She followed Dr. Chase as he approached. He was bare-chested and glistening with sweat. His legs were sculpted and tanned.

A pill! Of course. That explained the physiological reactions. But Steve surely hadn't given you a pill. Although… the juice. Had you been drugged? No, it would've worn off by now.

And why was Dr. Chase naked and sweaty? No respectable person of science would carry themselves that way. You understood Teresa's admiration of his legs, though.

“Certainly, Teresa,” Dr. Chase purred, his voice like whiskey and honey. “It's the best protection on the market. Do you trust me?”

Teresa thought so. Dr. Chase had been kind to her, given her all that she needed. She felt quite hot now. She'd been married for six years and had never felt this way with Ralph. She desperately wanted to remove her clothes. It would give her everything she wanted.

Hmm. Teresa had lost you there. Removing your clothes in front of Steve was out of the question, even if it would cure you.

Dr. Chase smirked. “Are you feeling… passionate, Teresa?”

“I'm so hot, Doctor,” Teresa whined. “Help me.”

“I know, my love. Let me help you feel more comfortable.”

This was wrong. Teresa was married. Dr. Chase was only meant to be treating her foot fungus. But… perhaps her ailments were more than skin-deep. At this moment, Teresa felt like Dr. Chase was the only man who could cure her. Cure the hole in her heart.

Teresa had a hole in her heart? Well, why wasn't this Dr. Chase fixing her? Although… he wasn't a cardiologist if he specialized in foot fungus. Still! He should refer her to one of his colleagues. What a terrible, selfish man.

You wonder what Steve would do if you had a hole in your heart. He'd probably drive you to the hospital, at least. Better than this Dr. Chase, who was only getting sweatier.

“Are you ready for me, Teresa?” Dr. Chase asked.

Teresa nodded.

“Lie down on the table. The doctor will see you now.” Dr. Chase smirked again.

Hmph. He smirked a lot for a man who had drugged a dying woman.

Dr. Chase unbuckled his belt. Teresa held her breath as she cast her eyes upon Dr. Chase’s huge, throbbing—

You drop the book. What on earth! What was intercourse going to solve when Teresa had both feet in the grave? You pick up the book and stare at the title. This had nothing to do with cures. Was Dr. Chase even a real doctor?

You return it to the shelf with a disgusted sigh. Romance was clearly the wrong section. You've no idea what Cora was thinking, directing you here. As usual, you'd have to find sources alone and start with real science.

You spend an hour searching the other shelves, hunting for something to explain your reaction to Steve. There are books about anxiety and its physiology, but you've felt anxiety before. You know it well. This isn't that. Really, the only possible explanation is aliens. Maybe you inhaled an otherworldly dust that's making you behave oddly around Steve.

Hours pass before you decide that today has been a waste. You'll have to find answers elsewhere. You leave the bookstore, humid air hitting your face. You despise the heat. May has been a ridiculous mix of rain and heat. It's not too far of a walk to the bus stop, but you're not looking forward to waiting.

Down the road, a maroon BMW moseys up the hill. Steve. You hide behind a tree.

The car pulls up to the front of the comic book store down the block. But instead of Steve, a boy with curly hair gets out of the passenger side. He looks like a teenager, with his gangly limbs and Star Wars shirt. He's wearing a baseball cap that says Camp Know Where.

“Yeah, I got it, Steve!” the boy says impatiently. “Dude, I got it. Yeah, three o’clock, sure. Bye.”

He slams the door. You watch in awe as he climbs up the stairs and the car pulls away like nothing happened. Like this kid didn't just snap at The Steve Harrington.

You follow him into the comic book store. He goes directly to the X-Men section. A kid with good taste. You're intrigued. You follow him on the opposite side of the bins, pretending to look through comics. He moves on. You follow him. Then he stops. You stop. He looks at you.

“Hey! Why are you following me?” he whispers fiercely.

You look around. Then you look at him. He nods.

“Yeah, I'm talking to you! What gives?”

“Do you know Steve Harrington?” you whisper.

He squints. “Steve? Yeah, I know him.”

You sigh and walk around the table of comics to join him. He blinks at you.

“How do you know him?” you ask, crushing your hands into fists.

“He's my friend. Wait, are you into him? Look, if you want his number, just ask him. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to give it to you.”

You pull a face. “I don't want his number.”

“You don't?”

“Why would I want his number?”

He tilts his head. “Um… to go on a date?”

Your entire body flinches. “What? No! What? That would—no. Absolutely not.”

“Okay, jeez.”

A date? With a boy? With Steve Harrington, no doubt. This kid thinks that you would go on a date with Steve? There’s no possible way that you look like the kind of girl to go on a date with a boy like Steve. Unless the mystery alien dust you inhaled that’s making you think strange thoughts has also warped your appearance to others. If that’s the case, then this is much more serious than you thought.

“Hey!” He waves at you. “Hello? I’m asking you a question. What's your name?”

You tell him.

He nods. “I'm Dustin. Dustin Henderson.”

Dustin. This must be Steve's friend who likes science. But… surely, Steve wouldn't be friends with a kid his junior who doesn't match him in social popularity status. Bizarre.

“Why do you wanna know about Steve?” Dustin asks, squinting at you.

“Does he bully you?” you ask.

“What? No way! Steve's nice. I mean, yeah, he can be kind of a loser, but he's cool.”

“How is he a loser?” And how can he be a loser and cool?

“Well, like, he listens to Madonna and sings along terribly, and sometimes he says things like, ‘Let's get ready to rock and roll!’ which is so old man of him.”

You have no idea what any of that means but you nod along anyway.

“I met him a few weeks ago,” you say. “And he was different than I expected. I don't understand why. I knew him in high school. He wasn’t… like this.”

Dustin shrugs. “Yeah, he had his head up his ass back then, y’know? But now he's really nice. I promise.” He points at your bag. “Cool pin. Truth is out there, right?”

You hum. “Yes, the truth is out there. You like aliens?”

“Do I like them? I subscribe to UFO Monthly! I went to UFOCon last year.”

“No way,” you say. “I want to go to that.”

Dustin nods eagerly. “They're having it in Indianapolis this year.”

You frown. “I know. I don't have a car.”

“Duh. Steve would take us! Me and my other friends are going. You could come.”

“You're inviting me?”

“Yeah,” he says, beaming at you.

“Why?”

“Because you seem interesting and I'm pretty sure you're not a serial killer or anything.”

“I'm not.”

Dustin shrugs. “Good enough for me. I'll tell Steve when I see him.”

You shake your head. “No! No, don't. I'll… I'll tell him.”

Your palms feel clammy. You want to rock on your feet. You can’t. Not in front of Dustin.

“Don’t tell Steve that we talked,” you say.

“Yeah, sure.”

You step closer. “I mean it, Dustin. Please. I don’t want you to tell him. Alright?”

Dustin holds up his hands. “Okay, okay! Jesus. I won’t tell him.”

You haven’t done nearly enough research to be able to go anywhere with Steve Harrington. If anything, you’re more confused than when you started. You have to prepare.

“Are you o—”

“I have to go. Bye,” you say, then turn on your heel.

You walk past the bins, past the new X-Men releases, and back into the humidity. You plop yourself down onto the rickety bus stop bench and wait.

Your stomach churns. You feel like you ate too much. Maybe the juice that you had at Steve’s house had a delayed-release poison. From space. That must be it.

On your way home, you stop at the drugstore and buy a bottle of Tylenol. You swallow two outside. You’ve neutralized foreign substances in your body before, stopped a fever in its tracks. This is no different. You feel better as you walk home.

But then Steve’s legs pop into your head again. The slope of his throat and the freckles on his nose also infiltrate your mind. Sweat beads on your neck. You look around like you've been caught. Furiously, you shove the Tylenol into your backpack. Whatever ails you will require a stronger prescription.

“June 15th, 10:23am,” you say into your tape recorder. “Subject has left work and is now walking to Burger King.”

Marie coos in your ear from where she's perched on your shoulder. You pet her feathers gently, then pick up your binoculars. Steve is in his Family Video vest. He's wearing jeans, unfortunately hiding his legs, but his arms are on show and those are also tanned, toned, and equally as hairy.

“See, Marie,” you say, putting the binoculars to her face. “That's my latest subject. I'm still not sure he's not an alien like me.”

Marie pecks the lens. You quickly move it away and put it back on your eyes. Steve’s gone inside. You turn on the recorder again.

“Subject walks very fast. Approximately double my stride.”

You stay low, creeping up to the Burger King windows to get a better look. Marie goes low with you until she sees a burger wrapper on the ground and she decides to go pick at that instead. Steve is ordering inside. Two teenagers approach him. Neither one is Dustin, but Steve seems to know them well. One is a girl with red hair and she's in a wheelchair. The other is a boy with short, dark hair. The girl talks to Steve. Steve puts his hands on his hips, looking mildly agitated. She shrugs. Steve turns back to the cashier and points to the teens. They add their order before Steve pays. Huh.

Marie is trying to rip the wrapper into edible pieces. You take the wrapper and throw it away in a nearby trash can.

“Don't do that, Marie,” you say, and return to watching your subject. She decides to play with her harness leash instead.

Steve waits at the counter with the teens. When they get their food, they stay with Steve until he gets his. Steve and the other boy play around, miming basketball. You press Record again.

“Subject is…” You watch them laugh. Steve says something to the girl that leaves a quiet, fond smile on her face. “Um, subject has many friends. He's well-liked. He’s nice to non-Caseys.”

You stop recording. The three of them leave Burger King, and you crouch further behind the side of the restaurant. Marie is hopping around on the ground so you return your attention to Steve.

“Okay, but don't forget,” the girl says. “And don't spoil the surprise like last time.”

“I didn't spoil anything!” Steve says. “Robin can't lie to save her life.”

“You told her about the party, dummy.”

“Well… she pulled it out of me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure. Just be there before the party starts, okay?”

“Yeah, I'll be there. Of course I will.”

Steve claps the boy on the shoulder and squeezes the girl's wrist. They leave in the opposite direction, away from the Burger King. You let go of Marie's leash and put your things away in your backpack, searching for your camera. This is a perfect photo opportunity.

It happens in a moment. You've only just looked away when Steve yelps. You look up and see Marie on Steve's shoulder, insistently trying to take a French fry from his hand. Her leash dangles behind his shoulder. She's flapping her wings, making Steve's hair fly up. Steve squirms, trying to block her with his elbow.

“Jesus!” he shouts. You sprint to them.

“Marie!” you say, hands extended. “Stop that!”

You grab Marie from Steve's shoulder with both hands and set her back on your shoulder, wrapping her leash around your wrist so she can't fly off again. You hold her in place with your hand. Steve is staring at you, eyebrows at his hairline.

“I'm sorry,” you say tightly, and turn around, ready to run.

“Wait!”

You turn around to face Steve. He looks dazed but he's smiling a little.

“Uh,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So… that's a pigeon.”

You nod. “Yes. This is Marie. I let go of her leash for a moment. I'm sorry. She's domesticated and she doesn't have any diseases or anything. Did she peck you?”

“No, she didn’t. It's fine. I've handled way worse than a pigeon.” Steve puts his hands on his hips and leans back, shrugging like he wasn't close to fighting a pigeon. “I was just a little caught off-guard. Is she friendly?”

“Yes, she's very friendly. She likes French fries and mango, so she got excited. But she's a very good bird. I wouldn't have trained her any other way.”

Marie coos. Steve holds out a French fry.

“Can I feed her?” he asks, eyeing Marie. You nod.

Steve gives her the French fry. Marie eagerly gobbles it up. He steps back and dusts his hands.

“So how did you get a pet pigeon?” he asks, flattening his pigeon-swept hair.

“I found her when she was a squab. She had an injured wing. Pigeons aren't as wild or dangerous as we think. Many people used to have them as pets.”

“Really?” Steve asks.

You pet Marie's feathers thoughtfully. “Yes. We used them as messengers. And then we decided we didn't want them anymore. So we released them into the city. And by then, pigeons were so domesticated that they didn't know how to act like real birds. They can't make nests. They build them out of garbage. They can't survive in the wild. We did that to them.”

“Wow. That’s really shitty of us.”

You shrug. “It’s not unusual for humans, discarding what they don’t need.”

“Yeah, guess so. It’s cool that you took Marie in. Does she know tricks?”

“Sometimes she’ll find loose change around my house,” you say. “Mostly, she keeps me company. She’s my friend.”

Steve smiles. “I used to have a goldfish named Benny. But he didn’t do much. Having a pigeon for a friend sounds awesome.”

You nod. You don’t tell Steve how badly you want a human friend, how you used to cry to Marie over not having one.

“Dustin told me he saw you at the comic store last week.”

You look at him in alarm. “What did he say?”

“Just that you guys met. I didn’t know you liked comics.”

You exhale, relieved that Dustin didn’t tell Steve you want to go somewhere with him. “Oh. Yes, some of them. I like X-Men.”

“Yeah, I, uh, don’t know a lot about any comics. I didn’t even know Star Wars had comics. I only saw the movie with the teddy bear.”

“Chewbacca?”

Steve snaps his fingers. “That’s the one. See? Nothing. Maybe you could give me some comic recommendations.”

You squint. “Why wouldn’t you just ask Dustin?”

“Oh, uh… well, that kid refuses to give me suggestions. He says I’ll be bored. But I would give comics a chance! I’m open-minded.”

“I guess I could write you a list,” you say.

Steve grins. “Cool. Hey, you like stars, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s supposed to be a comet sighting next Friday. Berg–Barfen—”

“Bertenstein’s Comet,” you say. “Yes, I know of it. You follow comet orbits?”

“Psh, are you kidding? I love that stuff!” Steve says, waving a hand. “I’m actually gonna meet friends at the park to see it. Dustin’s gonna bring his telescope. It’s gonna be, like, a picnic. At night.”

“Okay. Have fun. I’m also going to observe the comet. I have to go feed Marie now. Goodbye.” You begin to walk past Steve.

“Wait, uh—” Steve jogs backward to stop you. “Sorry, I was trying to invite you.”

You tilt your head. “To the park?”

“Yeah! Dustin’s telescope is super powerful. You can see Pluto, or something.”

You squint. “There are very few telescopes that can see Pluto.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, it’s a strong telescope. Do you wanna come?”

You pet Marie and look at Steve unsurely. “But you’ll be there with your friends.”

Steve nods slowly. “Yeah…”

“We aren’t friends.”

He sags. Instantly, you feel dread. You’ve said something wrong. As per usual.

“I… thought we could be friends,” Steve says. “I wanna be friends if you do.”

You should warn him, before he goes and recklessly makes an offer like that. “I don’t have many friends.”

Steve smiles. “That’s okay. I don’t either.”

“You did.”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I just had people I was around. These days, I make friends with people I actually like.”

And you’re one of those people?

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I will watch the comet with you and your friends, Steve.”

He brightens. That fluttery feeling in your gut returns.

“Cool! So we’re meeting on the field, by the pond. I can pick you up around eight if you want.”

“The park is close to my house,” you say. “I’ll walk.”

“Oh. Okay. No problem. Lemme give you my number in case anything changes or if you have any questions.”

Steve takes out the receipt from his Burger King bag. He digs into his pockets for a pen. You watch him, limbs feeling slightly numb. Why is he giving you his number? Did Dustin tell him you want to go on a date? Or is this just to make fun of you later, to laugh at you for thinking that Steve—that anyone—would actually give you their number?

“Here,” Steve says, handing you the receipt. There are three orders, two of which aren't Steve’s. Below the total, he’s written ten numbers and a smiley face. Marie tries to take the receipt. You put it in your jeans pocket before she can.

You shouldn’t fall for this. You know better. You’ve studied people like Steve your whole life.

“I’ll see you there,” he says, turning to go. His smile is quite beautiful. “Okay?”

Your mouth is dry. Another symptom. “Okay.”

You toss your bag on your couch when you get home and make a beeline for the fridge. It’s either ketchup and macaroni or a peanut butter and Captain Crunch sandwich. Tough choice.

You settle on the sandwich and take out a plate. The picnic is tomorrow and you have no idea what to bring. You should’ve asked but you were so stunned by the invitation, you lost all ability to ask logical questions. It’s not like you.

You angrily spread the peanut butter. The receipt is in your pocket. You scowl. How stupid does Steve Harrington think you are? Here’s my number! You might be weird and uptight and a freak. But you’re not an idiot. You can imagine Steve laughing at home now about how he gave you the number to a mechanic or a pizzeria.

But then… you keep thinking about his kind eyes and how he ran after you. And how he was nice to Dustin and those other kids and Marie, even when she messed up his hair. And all that seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through just to bully you. He could’ve easily joined in with Casey. Called you more names. You’re sure Steve Harrington knows a lot of ways to insult someone, cut them to the bone. You’re sure there’s a lot of things Steve could say that would cut you to the bone.

You put down your butterknife and get the receipt. Then you go to the phone and punch the numbers in.

It rings once, twice, twice and a half—

“Hello?”

Steve. That’s Steve’s voice.

You have no idea what to say.

“Uh, hello?” he says again. “Who is this?”

“It’s the girl from Skull Rock.” You pause. “Not the one you made out with.”

“Oh! Hi. Yeah, no, I figured. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“Cool. Find any alien stuff lately?”

“Not tonight. But I collected a rock sample to study under my microscope.”

“Wow. You’re like a scientist.”

You pause. “I… guess so.”

No one’s ever called you a scientist. Your cousin called you a nuisance when you wanted to look at kelp and dried sand dollars under your microscope at the shore instead of play volleyball. And you should've played volleyball because everyone else your age was playing it but you're terrible at volleyball, at anything requiring hand-eye coordination, really. And you'd just wanted to do something quiet. Something that didn't make you a burden.

“So where did you—”

“It’s a picnic,” you blurt. You cringe. “I’m sorry. I interrupted you.”

“That’s okay. Yeah, tomorrow, you mean? It’s a picnic.”

“Yes. So what should I bring?”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” Steve says. “It’s okay. We don’t expect you to.”

No, you know this trick. You know it’s impolite if you only bring yourself. People always expect more than just you, to make up for yourself.

“I can bring food,” you say. “Really.”

“Okay, if you want to. Mike’s allergic to peanuts. But everything else is fine.”

“Is anyone bringing cookies?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

You rock on your heels. “Do you like chocolate chip?”

“I love chocolate chip,” he says. “It’s the best cookie.”

“It is,” you say.

There’s a pause. Then Steve says, “I’m glad you’re coming.”

You swallow. “Okay.”

That’s the wrong thing to say. You often say the wrong thing, and that’s nothing new, but this time, you really wish you had a book to tell you what to say to boys who think you’re a scientist and who want to be your friend and who are glad you’re coming.

“Well, bye,” you say.

“Good night.” Steve sounds warm.

You hang up. You really need to figure out what mystery alien powder you inhaled. The symptoms are getting worse.

Steve is exactly where he said he’d be at the park, with several people your age or close to your age. The teens from Burger King and Dustin are there, as well as a few others. There’s an older girl and a boy who you immediately recognize as Eddie Munson. He wears the ‘freak’ label proudly. You’ve always been jealous.

There are a few other small groups here to see the comet, but they’re sitting far away. The sky is purple, kissing the night. It’s a waxing gibbous moon, the same moon you first met Steve on. The grass is dry from days of heat, but the air is cool now that the sun has gone down. It’s the perfect night to look at the sky and try to find where you belong.

Steve sees you first and he jogs to you.

“Hey,” he says, grinning. “Hey, you made it. And you brought cookies!”

You nod, giving him the plastic tray. “Meijer’s didn’t have Mrs. Fields in bulk, so I got the next best cookie: grocery store cookie.”

“They look great, thank you.” Steve leads you to the pool of blankets and people. Dustin has his telescope set up and he’s showing Eddie something through it.

“Guys, hey!” Steve introduces you. “And this is everyone. You know Dustin, and that’s Eddie. That’s Robin, Max, Lucas, El, Mike, and Will. And Nancy and Jonathan might stop by, but we’re not sure.”

“Hi,” you say weakly. There’s no way you’re going to remember all those names.

Everyone waves at you. Steve points to his blanket. It’s big and blue-checkered.

“I’m sitting there. You can sit with me and Robin.”

You shake your head. “I want to sit on my own blanket.”

“Oh.” Steve nods. “Sure, no problem.”

You’ve missed something. Maybe you can explain and fix Steve’s face. Explaining doesn’t always work, but maybe Steve will understand.

“I don’t like sitting by a lot of people,” you say. “But I’ll put my blanket next to yours.”

Steve smiles. “Got it. I can move my blanket further away. We don’t have to sit next to everyone.”

“But they’re your friends,” you say.

He shrugs. “Eh, I see ‘em all the time. Plus, once the comet passes, they’re gonna be loud as hell and crowd around the telescope to get a look.”

Something is very different about this new friend you’ve made. This boy with nice legs and kind eyes, who doesn’t mind moving his blanket for you.

Steve moves his blanket away from the cluster of teens. You put your blanket down next to his and you both sit. Steve sits back on his hands, legs extended. You stare at his legs again.

“So are comets connected to aliens?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” you say. “You can use them to hypothesize a species’ flight pattern. But they’re no more significant than stars or planets.”

“Aliens are so cool,” he says. “I hope if they ever visit us, they’re friendly.”

You hope that Steve thinks you’re friendly.

“Oh, shit.” He sits up. “I didn’t get you anything to eat! I packed sandwiches. Cheese, ham, turkey… Dustin brought Doritos. Lucas brought Moon Pies. Eddie’s in charge of the drinks.”

“Um…” You hate when you have to eat other people’s food. It’s a gamble every time. Drinks are the only safe option.

But Steve had invited you to a thing that friends do, and you want friends. You want Steve to be your friend. You can’t let your stupid freak self get in the way of that.

“I’m allergic,” you say. “I can’t eat those things. Sorry.”

Steve tilts his head at you. “Oh, really? Shit. You could’ve told me, I would’ve brought something you’re not allergic to.”

“It’s okay,” you say, guilt twinging in your chest. “I like being here. The food doesn’t matter.”

Steve half-smiles. He looks so much like a boy. He looks like a handsome boy that wears shades and drives a cool car and kisses a pretty girl, like in a movie, but for some reason, he’s here, offering you ham sandwiches. He smells good too. You like sitting next to him.

“Next time we have a picnic, you tell me your favorite foods and I’ll pack all of them,” he says.

“Okay,” you say, your neck getting hot. Why is he saying those things? Is that something friends promise? Is that something that you deserve?

Someone plops down next to Steve. A girl. She lies on her stomach. You wrack your brain, trying to remember her name.

“Hey,” she says to you, waving.

“Hi,” you say, looking at Steve, hoping he’ll say her name again. He doesn’t.

“So Steve says you have a pet pigeon,” she says.

You nod. “Marie.”

“That’s super cool. Can I meet her sometime?”

You blink. You’re not used to being cool. “Oh. Um…”

“No pressure,” Steve quickly says. “Maybe you can stop by Family Video sometime. That’s where we work.”

She groans. “The worst fucking place in the world. Next year, we’re working at the roller rink.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You can’t skate to save your life.”

“Who says I would skate? That’s your job. Pick up the kids that fall. I’ll be safely behind the counter, renting skates.” She scrunches her face at him. Steve gently shoves her.

She rolls onto her back, looking at you. “So are you dating anyone?”

“A-hem!” Steve elbows her side. She punches his shoulder.

“No,” you say. Since when is everyone so interested in you dating?

“Interesting,” she says. “Steve here is also not dating anyone, and hasn’t done so for a month. Fascinating, right?”

“Why don’t you go get a Moon Pie?” Steve says, practically shoving her off the blanket.

She obediently goes, winking at Steve. He grumbles, turning away from her.

“I’m really sorry about her,” he says.

“Why?” you ask.

“Just…” He shakes his head. “She’s just being dumb. Anyway. You can definitely stop by Family Video. I’ll give you free rentals.”

You raise your brows. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, uh, that’s what friends do.”

“Oh. Like you and…” You gesture at the empty space on Steve’s blanket. “Her?”

“Robin?” Steve grins. “Did you forget her name?”

You scowl and tuck your knees into your chest. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“No, I’m not! Sorry. I know I introduced everyone quickly and there’s a lot of us. You can always ask me someone’s name if you forgot.”

“Oh.” You relax your legs. “Okay. Yes, Robin. You two are also friends. Does she get free movies?”

“Well, she works there with me. But even if she didn’t, there’s no way I’d give her free movies. She’d just abuse it.”

“And I’m… different?” you ask carefully.

Steve smiles slowly. His lashes are very long. He looks like he knows a secret. Your heart pounds.

“You’re special,” he says. “So you get free movie privileges.”

No one’s ever called you special. Or a scientist. Or cool. Or a friend.

“It would be okay if I went to Family Video and rented a movie from you?” you ask.

“It’d be more than okay,” Steve says.

“Even without Marie?”

“Definitely. You only have to bring yourself.”

His gaze is locked on you. You look away first.

“Oh.” You swallow hard. “Okay.”

He stands suddenly. “Wanna go look through Dustin’s telescope?”

You glance at where a few of the kids are huddled around it. “Well…”

“I’ll go with you,” he says. “They won’t crowd you. I’ll shoo ‘em away.”

Steve holds out his hand. You take it. It’s rough with calluses and cool. He pulls you up easily, because he’s got strong legs and strong arms. A chill shoots down your spine.

You let go of his hand as soon as you’re standing. You follow Steve to the telescope.

“Make way, Wheeler,” he says to one boy. “My guest wants a look.”

“Yeah, dude, you’re hogging it,” the red-headed girl says.

“What’s her name?” you whisper to Steve.

He leans in to whisper back. “Max. And the one hogging the telescope is Mike.”

You nod. Mike goes to get a drink from the cooler. Steve gestures for you to look through the telescope.

“Dustin,” you say, looking up.

“Oh, hey,” he says, drinking a 7-Up. “This is the newest Levenhuk model! Cool, right?”

You nod. “It’s very good. But I think you’re twenty degrees off. You should be looking at Cassiopeia.”

“But the comet’s gonna pass at 340 degrees. That's what the report said.”

“In California,” you say. “You have to adjust for the—”

“Latitude,” he finishes, thwacking his forehead. “Duh! Okay, you’re right. I’ll change it.”

You step back while Dustin adjusts the telescope.

“See, told you she was smart,” Steve says. “Like a scientist.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dustin says distractedly.

Steve looks at you. “You’re a genius.”

You nod, overwhelmed. Are you? You don’t feel very smart right now. You feel a little dizzy with Steve’s attention on you. Another symptom, probably. You’ll be dead in a week.

“Do you want something to drink?” Steve asks.

You hesitate.

“I brought grape juice,” he says. “That’s your favorite, right? With cookies?”

“Yes,” you say. You don’t tell him that apple juice has been your most recent buy.

“It’s in the cooler. Wanna meet Eddie? We kind of have no choice.” He laughs.

“Okay,” you say, even though you don’t really want to be with anyone but Steve.

You and Steve go to the cooler. Eddie’s lounging on a lawn chair, his curls tied up in a ponytail. He’s talking to the boy from Burger King.

“That’s Lucas,” Steve says before you can ask. You smile gratefully. He winks. Your stomach flips.

“Thirsty customers!” Eddie says, gesturing to you grandly. “Please, step forth and receive your beverages. Pick your poison.”

“Coke,” Steve says.

“I would like grape juice,” you say.

Eddie gives you a thumbs-up. “So you’re the grape juice girl. Sir Steve told me to guard the grape juice with my life. They’re strictly reserved for you.”

“What–why?” you ask, looking at Steve. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You’re a very special lady,” Eddie says, winking. “Steve-o made that clear.”

You wonder if you’re special like how Sheila’s friend Carol is special.

“Munson,” Steve says sharply. “Subtlety? Find it.”

Eddie shrugs, still grinning. “Not my style.” He digs through the cooler filled with ice and water, pulling out a Coke and your juice. “Here’s your drinks. You kids have fun now.”

Steve quickly steers you away, mumbling something about some friends. He flips the tab on his Coke and takes a sip. You watch, mesmerized, at the way the long, freckled column of his throat bobs while he swallows. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. If Steve was an experiment you could take home, you’d like to feel his throat with the palm of your hand.

“Are you working tomorrow?” you ask.

Steve nods. “Yeah, why?”

“To see—I mean, I’d like to rent a movie.”

He drinks again. You watch the muscles in his jaw work. Steve smiles.

“That’d be great,” he says, and you feel like he means it.

You’ve been waiting across the street from Family Video for fifteen minutes. It’s less hot today, which is why you haven’t just gone home. You’ve been working up the nerve to go inside.

No one is inside except for Steve and Robin, and they’re talking. You don’t want to interrupt. You wish you had Marie with you.

You haven’t even planned out what you’re going to say. You didn’t really want to rent a movie. What movies have come out recently? You don’t know, except for a few that are still in theaters. And if you don’t have a movie to rent, Steve will know why you’re really there. He’ll know it’s because you don’t have a human friend, a friend who invites you to things, a friend who will give you free rentals.

Steve walks around the counter and out the door. He waves at you. Fuck.

“Hey!” Steve says. “Hey, you can come in, you know.” Then he jogs across the street and stops in front of you.

You step out from behind the tree you thought was hiding you well. “It seemed like you and Robin were having a conversation. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh, no, we were just talking about, uh…” Steve hesitates. “Dating… stuff. Anyway, you can always interrupt me. I don’t mind.”

That can’t be right. People hate when you insert yourself somewhere you don’t belong. The trouble is that you never quite learned where you do belong.

“People hate being interrupted,” you say, expecting Steve to realize his mistake.

“Well, I—okay, yeah, not, like, cutting me off. I meant that if you see me somewhere, you can always come over, even if I’m talking to someone. You're not, y’know, interrupting.”

This is a very strange rule. No one’s ever invited you to do such a thing.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay.” Steve nods, then smiles. He runs a hand through his hair. “So, uh, I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Alright. Wait.” You pull out his Walkman. “I fixed this for you.”

“Holy shit, really? How’d you do that?”

“There was some faulty wiring, so I replaced it with wiring from the toy car you left.”

“Oh, wow. Wow, you’re amazing.”

You shrug. You don’t know what to say. Again. Steve stares at the Walkman for a few seconds. Then he looks at you. And looks. And looks.

You squeeze your hand into a fist. “Aren't you going to ask your question?”

“Right! My question. My question is… well, I was wondering…” He peters off, chewing his lip.

You frown. “What’s wrong?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing! Nothing, sorry. I just, uh, I’m usually better at this.”

“Better at what?”

“Better at… talking. Hm. Yeah. Okay. Would you like to go out sometime?”

Steve watches you like you’re the only person in the world. His shoulders are tense. You don’t understand why.

“You mean just you and me?” you ask.

“Yeah, you and me.”

Well, you suppose it’s significant that this would be your first time hanging out with Steve alone as your new friend. But he hangs out with Robin all the time. Surely this is no different.

“Okay,” you say.

He straightens. “Really?”

“Yes.”

You’ve been out with Steve before. Just last week. And you’ve been to his house, technically. You’re not sure why he’s so excited.

“Great! Oh, that’s great.” He pumps his fist. “Awesome. Hah. That’s really great.”

“Where will we go?” you ask.

“Anywhere, we can go anywhere. Uh, movies, mini-golf, dinner… Do you have a preference?”

“I like movies,” you say. “I want to watch Back to the Future: Part II.”

“Yeah! Yeah, totally, we can do that.” Steve is giddy. He must be a huge Marty McFly fan. “Cool. This is so great. So how ‘bout I pick you up at seven? This Saturday?”

You can get to the movies perfectly fine on your own, but you guess it wouldn’t be so bad to not have to walk.

“Alright,” you say. “Saturday at seven.”

“Yes. Good. Great. I’ll see you then. I—”

Someone bangs on the windows of Family Video. You both jump. Robin is inside, pointing impatiently at her watch. Then she waves at you. You wave back.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Sorry. She’s hangry. Hasn’t had her break. I gotta go back to work. But we’re on for Saturday, right?”

“I already said yes,” you say.

“Yeah, sorry, just… just confirming.”

He grins, walking backwards towards the doors, and makes finger guns. You wince as the handle pokes his back. Steve grimaces, rubbing his back, then gives a thumbs-up.

What a bizarre reaction to going to the movies. Sequels usually aren’t even that good.

Halfway to the bus stop, you realize that you didn’t even try to rent a movie. You hope that Steve didn’t notice.

Steve’s car seats are soft and squeak when you move around. You’re focused on staying perfectly still due to this.

“So did you see the first movie?” Steve asks.

“Of course,” you say. “You can’t watch the second without seeing the first.”

“Really? I saw the second Star Wars first. Didn’t really matter to me.”

“That’s very unusual,” you say, and look out the window. You watch the houses pass by.

Steve is similarly dressed to how he was that night at Skull Rock. His hair is coiffed higher than usual. You want to ask him about it, but you’re not sure if that’ll anger him. Sometimes when you ask questions, people think you’re being rude. You’re always guessing.

“I like your jeans,” Steve says. “I like the stars on the leg. Did you add those?”

“No, they came like that. Thank you.”

You look at the yellow star patches sewn on the bottom of your left jean leg. You’ve had these jeans for years. You don’t think there’s anything particularly nice about them. Especially compared to the kinds of clothes Steve wears.

Steve parks close to the theater. It’s moderately busy inside. You feel people looking at you. You can’t imagine why. You’re at the movies just like them. Are you walking funny? Do you have something on your face?

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask Steve.

He shakes his head. “Nope. Your face is pretty as always.”

You look away, heartbeat ratcheting. You took another Tylenol today but it didn’t help. You kept thinking about Steve’s legs.

Steve buys your tickets and then you go to the concession counter.

“Want anything?” he asks.

“Why are you making purchases for me?” you ask. “I will pay you back for the ticket.” You take out your little green money purse. It has a UFO on it.

“What? No, no, I’m taking you out, remember? It’s all on me. Seriously, pick whatever you want.”

“But then I will owe you money,” you say. People can get very mean when you owe them money.

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t. Do you like popcorn?”

“Yes… Okay, I will have a small popcorn.”

“Or, um, we could share,” Steve says. “Get the big bucket?”

This is true. Plus, getting the big bucket is better worth your money.

“Good idea,” you say. Steve smiles. You turn to the worker. “And can we get two empty nacho boxes?”

“Sure, dude,” he says, shoveling the popcorn into the bucket.

“Why the boxes?” Steve asks.

“So we can share the popcorn.”

“Oh. Well, I thought we could just share the bucket. Y’know, with our hands.”

“No, that wouldn’t work because one of us would inevitably end up getting more popcorn than the other, and that wouldn’t be fair. Besides, we’d be touching the fresh popcorn with the same hand we use to eat. Our saliva would mingle.”

The worker gives you the popcorn and the boxes.

“Thank you,” you say, and go to the napkin counter to divide the popcorn.

“See?” You hand Steve his box. “Now it’s even. And sanitary.”

“Uh, yeah. Good thinking.”

Steve buys slushies: cherry for him, blue raspberry for you. Then you go into the theater. It’s fairly empty since the movie came out three weeks ago. You’re happy that the theater is empty. You tell Steve as much.

“It makes for a much more enjoyable experience,” you say.

Steve grins. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

You get comfortable as the previews begin.

“Want some of my slushie?” Steve asks you halfway through.

“You want me to use your straw?” you ask.

“You can use yours, if you want.”

“But then you’d mix cherry with my blue raspberry slushie. That wouldn’t taste good.”

Steve shrugs. “It’s okay, it’s not a big deal.”

Slushie flavors should be kept separate. Why doesn’t Steve know this?

“I’m allergic to cherry slushies,” you say. “So we have to keep them separate.”

“Oh…” Steve looks at you like he’s figuring something out, then smiles. “Okay. We don’t have to share anything.” He settles back in his seat.

The movie begins. Steve's already shoveling popcorn into his mouth. Your eyes are glued to the screen, not wanting to miss any details.

“Hey, Alex P. Keaton!” Steve whispers when Marty comes on. “Wow, they made another one of these?”

“Yes,” you say briskly, trying to cut the conversation short.

“The first one was weird. He kept trying to bang his mom.”

“No, he didn't. If anything, she tried to have intercourse with him,” you say.

“Still a weird as hell story.”

“That isn't the story.”

“Then what's—”

“Steve.” You look at him in the dark. “I want to watch the movie. We can talk later.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

The movie ends up being decent, even if the plot is a little convoluted and there are plot holes. You prefer the first. The lights come on. You blink at the sudden brightness.

There's only one other couple in the theater. They're locked in a wet tongue-kiss three rows in front of you. You make a face.

“Why would they waste money just to kiss here?” you whisper to Steve.

“They're probably on a date. Or dating.”

“That's dating?”

Steve laughs a little, rubbing his neck. “Sometimes.”

Dating looks horrible.

You and Steve get up and leave the theater. The couple doesn't even come up for air.

“How’d you like the movie?” Steve asks, throwing your cups and containers out.

“It was alright. Not as good as the first one.” Steve follows you down the hallway. You keep talking. “And there were a lot of unresolved plot points. For example, there was no disruption of the time-space continuum. But Marty going to 1955 and seeing himself from the first movie would’ve unraveled time as we know it. They severely understated the disastrous effects. Doc Brown should've known better.”

Steve nods as he holds the door open to the exit for you. “Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

“Also, what stopped Biff from killing George McFly in the first movie? He was more successful than George then too, and clearly just as big of an asshole. Was it the almanac that was the deciding factor? Did it make him more confident? We should’ve been given more psychological analysis. And what about the multiple timelines theory? Why did—”

You stop. Steve’s linked your hand with his. You look down at your joined hands, then back at him.

“Why have you done that?” you ask.

Steve looks like you just accused him of murder. He drops your hand. “Oh! Sorry. Do you not want to hold hands? We don't have to.”

Well, you really don’t know, to be honest. No one’s ever tried to hold your hand. Certainly no boy.

“Um.” You look at your hand. Bizarre. “I suppose it’s okay.”

Steve takes your hand again and gives you a small squeeze. “Yeah?”

“Yes. It’s alright. I like when people ask me before touching me.”

“I’ll ask from now on. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He smiles. “Keep telling me what you thought about the movie.”

“I’m not annoying you by picking the movie apart?” you ask.

“No, I like listening to you. You're so smart.”

Your face gets hot. Bizarre, indeed.

So you keep talking. You talk all the way home, in fact, going through the mental list of plot holes you made in your head. Steve responds a little but mostly, he lets you talk. And he doesn’t get frustrated or bored.

Steve stops in front of your house and gets out to open your car door. He walks you to your front step.

“Well,” you say. “Despite all of my criticisms, I did have a nice time. I enjoyed going to the movies with you.”

Steve beams. “I liked going out with you too.”

You nod. This is satisfactory. You have done a good job at going out with a friend. A friend who’s a boy, no less. A boy friend with long legs who’s not an alien and just likes spending time with you.

“I’m really happy you agreed to go out with me,” he says, suddenly shy. “I, uh, wasn’t sure if you liked me that way.”

“We’ve been out before,” you say. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I know, but it’s just… different, you know? And I didn’t wanna ruin our friendship if it didn’t pan out.”

Wow. Steve sure put a lot of pressure on Back to the Future Part II. You don’t know if you’d do that to a sequel.

“It would’ve been fine if it hadn’t been a good movie,” you say. “I wanted to watch it. I wouldn't have blamed you for it being bad.”

“Oh… uh, yeah. I mean, it’d be a letdown, but yeah, of course.”

You nod, fiddling with the pocket of your jeans. You don’t know why you’ve both been standing here so long.

“You look really pretty,” Steve says.

You don’t know why he says that. You didn’t put extra effort into your appearance tonight. You simply checked the weather and dressed accordingly.

“Thank you,” you say, to be polite, even though you’re doubtful. “You’re handsome. But that’s nothing new.”

Steve laughs, cheeks turning pink. “Ha, wow. You sure know how to compliment.”

“It’s a fact.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I know you wouldn’t lie about that. That’s why it’s so nice, I guess. And that’s why I, uh…”

Steve leans in, eyes beginning to close. You freeze, watching his mouth approach your mouth area. Your heart pounds, realization dawning on you. What’s wrong with Steve? Doesn’t he know that you don’t know how to do this? Doesn’t he know you don’t belong here?

You don’t think. Your hand comes up and blocks his face. Steve’s eyes fly open. His lips are on your palm.

“Oh no,” you say, and swing open your door.

It slams shut in Steve’s face. You rest your head on the wood. It would appear you’ve miscalculated.

Sometimes, you wonder what your home planet is like.

You imagine that it's always a little cold because you’re hot even when no one else is, and you get impatient in the summer. On your planet, no one reads something in your tone that isn't there. You never make anyone unnecessarily upset and they never make you upset either. Earth isn't ideal because so many things make you upset or nervous or afraid. People scare you. You don’t think an Earth native is this afraid all the time.

Above all, on your planet, you'd know when a boy likes you like a friend and when he's asking you on a date. You'd know when and how to kiss. You wouldn't run away. You wouldn't lose.

Steve stops by your house three days later. You see his car outside and you watch him from the upstairs window as he comes to the door and rings the doorbell. He calls your name. You go downstairs and stand behind the door.

“I’m really sorry,” he says. “I don’t know if you’re here or if I’m just talking to a door like an idiot… but I see a light on so I think you might be here. Anyway, I’m really sorry about Saturday. I thought you knew what I meant but you didn’t and that’s on me.”

You open the door. Steve steps back, startled.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is so soft. You don’t think anyone has ever spoken to you so softly.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hey, God, I’m so sorry. I was so dumb, seriously, and—”

You shut your eyes. “I thought we were friends.”

“What? We are.”

“I didn’t understand,” you say.

“Hey, we are.”

You open your eyes. “I didn’t understand. I never understand. I always mess it up.”

“No, hang on—”

“I thought we had a good time.” You wrap your arms around yourself. “I thought that was enough.”

“It is! We did.”

“I thought…” You will not cry. “I thought you liked me as I am.” Your voice is small. People take advantage of your small voice. You hope that Steve won't.

“I do,” Steve says. “Hey, I like you a lot. Listen to me, please. I wasn't a good listener because I didn't try to find out what you wanted. I thought, ‘okay, I'm good at taking girls on dates, so I can do this.’ But you're not like most girls, are you?”

You turn around. Why is he doing this? Why is he reminding you of how much you don't belong here?

“Please don't be mean," you say. “I really like you. I thought you were nice, Steve.” You don't know what else to do but beg. “No one ever tells me. I’m always guessing and pretending. I always guess wrong. I pretend wrong. I don’t know what to do, Steve.”

“Hey, no, no, it’s okay. It's okay that you're not like everybody else. It’s not a bad thing. I'm the dummy for not understanding that. I should've been clear and asked if you were interested in going on a date with me. I should've let you lead. Can I touch your shoulders?”

You sniffle and nod. Steve gently turns you around, hands on your shoulders. You bow your head. You can’t bear to look at him, but Steve leans in and tries to find your gaze. His voice is still so gentle.

“We don’t have to be more than friends,” he says. “You don’t have to guess. We can be whatever you want.”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you say. “I’ve never had this happen. I don’t know how to behave around a boy like you. I think that I like you as more than a friend, but it’s confusing. I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” he says. “We don’t have to stop being friends. We can figure it out. We’ll do as much as you’re comfortable with.”

You cover your eyes and try to keep years of hurt in. “You're pretending.”

“I'm not pretending. Why would I pretend?”

You drop your hands. Steve is blurry.

“Because no one has ever liked me enough to accommodate me.”

Steve stands there for a second as you cry and wish that the aliens would take you then and there.

“This is wrong,” you say, breathing getting tight and fast. “This–this isn’t what happens to me. You aren’t supposed to like me. I shouldn’t want more.”

“I like you,” Steve says quietly. “You like me. I think that’s enough.”

You shake your head. There’s so much noise between your ears. Static and frequencies and wrong words. What are you doing? You have never known. You will probably never know.

“I don’t know—” You heave gulps of air in between cries. “I don’t—Steve, I don’t know."

“Is it okay if I hug you?”

You nod. Steve pulls you into a hug. You don't hug a lot of people; you can't remember the last time you got a hug. Maybe months ago, from Sheila. They're not typically your favorite. But right now, it's good. It's peace. It feels like Steve knows the right thing to do and you let him do it, and maybe that really is enough. You cry harder and Steve rubs your back.

“I'm really sorry,” he says. “I'm sorry. I like you a lot. I want to accommodate you.”

“I'm sorry that I don't know how to kiss you,” you say through tears. “I don’t know how to identify this feeling. I didn’t know we were supposed to kiss.”

“What? No, that's okay. We aren’t supposed to do anything. It's fine, you don't need to know.” Steve pets you between your shoulder blades, like how you pet Marie when she gets nervous during a storm. You can feel the heat of him, the warmth that emanates even when you aren’t touching. He smells even stronger like this.

“But you like kissing,” you say, voice wobbly. “You like girl tongue.”

“I, uh—I’ve never heard it called that, but, um, no, it really doesn’t matter. I didn’t go on a date with you to get your tongue in my mouth. That would’ve been super shitty of me. I just wanted to hang out with you because I like you as a friend and as something more, yeah. And I misread the situation and thought you wanted to kiss, but you didn’t, and that’s fine.”

“I ruined it,” you say, face hot and wet. You clutch Steve’s nice hairy arms, feel the biceps twitch. “This isn’t how it should go.”

“You didn't,” Steve says, easy as anything. “It can go any way we want it to. I want it to go your way.”

He feels so good. A boy you like has his strong, warm boy-arms around you. Have scientists discovered this yet? Perhaps only the writers know.

“I always ruin things,” you say. You don't know how to put a lifetime of crash-landing into words, but Steve seems to understand. He steps back and wipes away a tear on your cheek with his thumb.

“It's shitty that people made you feel that way,” he says. “But you don't ruin things. Okay? That's bullshit. I like you. You didn't ruin anything.”

“I thought we were just seeing a movie,” you say.

Steve nods. “I know. It can just be that if you want. We can just be friends, it's okay.”

You shake your head. “No. I think… that I reciprocate your feelings.”

For years, it felt wrong to like a boy. You didn't want to subject anyone to that. You can't act like a girl who likes a boy; you've never been able to. Everyone has told you that you don't act right, no matter how hard you try to copy them.

“That’s really nice if you do," Steve says. "But you don’t have to like me like that.”

“Is it okay if I do?”

“Definitely.”

You stand there for a few moments. You wipe your cheeks. Maybe this world is yours too.

“What do you feel like doing?” Steve asks.

You take a deep breath. “I would like to get a Mrs. Fields cookie and a bottle of apple juice. And go somewhere cool.”

Steve offers his hand. You take it. He squeezes.

“We can definitely make that happen.”

#Steve Harrington x reader #steve Harrington x you #Steve Harrington fanfic #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #Steve Harrington imagine #sanguineterrain #stranger things #steve harrington

86 notes · View notes

guiltyfemcel · 1 day ago

Text

Puppy dog

•*⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ *•*⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧*•

•ᴥ︎• Anon asked: Imagine reader being joost new dogsitter!! He’s away for tour or something and he constantly asks her for updates on his dogs :-)) when he returns they have some tension ?? Friends to lovers if u may

•ᴥ︎• a/n: longest chapter yet! of course lmk how it is constructive criticisms always welcome (✯◡✯)

•ᴥ︎• (dog) tags: 5.3k words, Joost POV, mentions of anxiety etc, mildly angsty, Tantu :p

part one, part two, part three

•*⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ *•*⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧*•

Part 3

The sound of rubber wheels humming against cool asphalt lulled the moving cabin. A land ship splitting a midnight sea, soaring through the black glittering sky. The rock of the tour bus had long swept everyone else to sleep but there was one glowing light hidden deep in the soft shadows of night.

Joost couldn’t pry his eyes from his phone, his crew mates had already maliciously made fun of his screen time. Here he was, the start of his big tour and he was always found hunched in a corner, with his face buried in his phone. It was easy enough to tell them that he was handling business emails or even looking at fan content but he wasn’t exactly telling the truth when he said that.

Joost had been scrolling through your messages like a crazed fan, watching and rewatching every little clip you sent him. He had to stop himself from leaping to his phone every time he heard the subtle vibration from across the room. He couldn’t stop the smirk that would skate his lips when a new picture was sent through though, resigning himself to opening each message cowering with his back turned. Joost had grown far too fond of your close company, he only realized when it was much too late. Before all this it was easier for him to be happy with what he had, Weekly meetings and bar hopping with you was plenty to keep his mind satiated. With the added space between you now, he couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing anytime there was a break in his day.

It was almost wasteful, all this traveling and seeing beautiful places, meeting interesting people and indulging in rich cultures; yet his favorite part of the day was when everyone would turn in for the night and he could stare at the pixels dancing on his phone for as long as he pleased. This was the source of his guilt, knowing there was nothing more fulfilling than waiting for your quiet ringtone to disrupt the steady night air.

Even as the tour dates started to roll by, moving from venue to venue and performing for sold out arenas, he found himself looking for you in the crowd of fans, seeking anything that reminded him of your company. He felt his heart skip if he saw someone that looked like you from the corner of his eye, he pulled his phone out and snapped a photo anytime he saw something he knew you would love. Joost would just let them sit in his camera roll, though, never working the courage to text you about anything other than his dogs.

He felt at odds with himself, He knew this emotional turmoil would be the result of all this yet he was much too selfish to not take advantage of the opportunity. He invited you over anyway, the image of you living in his house so nonchalantly was too tempting to give up. He knew it was bad when his heart hammered in his chest at a picture you sent of yourself in his bed. The camera was focused on the multiple dogs laying on top of each other like a can of worms, but the mirror on the desk across the room caught the tousled morning look you sported. He couldn’t pry his eyes away from the soft tired smile you unknowingly posed for the camera, just like he couldn’t look away from any other sliver of content you appeared in.

It was easy enough to convince himself he was just worried about his pets, that it wasnt strange to check in so often. It was a temporary feeling, just long enough to get him through the sound checks and calls with venues. Not long enough for him to properly hide the way he glanced at his phone as soon as he had a free second. Its not like you were making it easy either, sending ample videos of your adventures with his pups. Joost could never tell you how many times he watched the video of you on the couch in the early morning, wrapped in his blanket on his couch. He remembers laughing at the video, reminding him of something he would see online, he tries hard not to remember how many times he watched the end of the video. He couldn’t help the way his heart thumped at your voice, enamored as you panned to the last dog.

In the video, his whitest dog licks the camera,the screen blurs with spit but your morning voice can be heard in the background as you recoiled from the slobber. “ewwwww” your voice played through his headphones dozens of times, blue light illuminating the pink tint of his cheeks. He blesses his dog mayo everyday for pulling that grumbly voice out of you on camera for him.

The videos were his favorite part, watching as you played with his dogs. His heart was full at the way they interacted with you, obvious in the wagging tails and panting faces they loved you as much as he did. The combination of that and your voice in the background, cooing or calling them over, it was his newest drug. He certainly didn’t tell anyone about how he felt when you sent a video of you and mayo playing fetch, ball of white fur plopping a wet ball in your hand. The ‘good boy’ you aimed at the dog in the video making joost feel much more perverted than he was ready to admit. Yet shame didn’t stop him from replaying that clip a million times over.

Even with Joost greeting crowds of entranced fans all obsessed with him, reaping the benefits of the hard work put in his craft, he was always trapped in his head. His mates all thought the stresses of tour were getting to him, or some form of imposter syndrome had him feeling anxious. Joost was okay with letting them think that tour was the source of his distant behavior because he wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with him himself.

The truth though- he knew exactly what was wrong, just not how he would say it to the people around him. He couldn’t just say “Oh sorry, im just feeling strange because my best friend sent a video of them calling my dog a good boy, nothing crazy”, so he leaned into the lie, quick-drawing his email app open any time anyone entered the room. He figured, if he tried long enough he would believe it was tour that was making him feel so spaced out. That worked well too, he could almost convince himself it was true! Yet he couldn’t stifle one thing…

he could not stop texting you…

It was like he was at odds with himself- the devil on his shoulder already typing out a message as the angel pleaded with him, begging himself to think of anything besides your place in his home. The angel warned him about the danger of temptation, knowing if he kept up such close contact with you the fuzziness in his chest would continue to burn into something he couldn’t control. No matter how hard the sensible part of him prayed he would pull away from his phone, choose the righteous path to preserve his friendship with you, he always listened to the darker side.

The devil in him told him there was truly nothing wrong with what he was doing! Theres nothing obscene with checking in with your best friend, its only really because you’re watching his dogs. Its not his fault he had to text you to see his own beloved pets! Plus it’s not like it wasn’t normal to miss such a close friend. He could say with confidence he had started texting Apson more too, and its not like he was falling for him!

Joost knew, deep down, that he wasn’t being fully truthful with himself, knowing it was his fault you were there, that it was true the warm buzz in his heart would keep growing the more he reached out to you. It was simply easier to focus on the easy truths than the hard ones, easier to let himself focus on the heat of his phone than the one on his cheeks.

So thats what he did, rewatching clips of his pets bounding around, tongues flapping as they played or lounged. He watched through a screen as they let you into his life so easily, comfortable with you as if you had raised them yourself. Joost convinced himself his worries were inflamed by the distance between his home and the stresses of tour. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad to seek refuge in a close friendship, its not like you were able to see him through the phone!

Unfortunately, this didn’t work well for him

Joost knew he was in deep shit when you sent a specific picture of his dog mayo. The picture broadcasted the snowy white fur, fluffy tufts illuminated by the warm sun rays. mayos tongue hung out of his mouth, smiling as much as a dog could. The top half of picture was perfect, like something out of an ad for dog food or pure breed competitions. The bottom half was not as perfect, showing the stained white fur and mud caked paws he unabashedly sported off.

The picture wasn’t the problem of course, the real issue was where his mind went when you sent it. Joost could only think about you standing over him, scolding him for making such a mess of his long fur. Crouching down to the dog as mayo looked up at you unashamed, he imagined your will breaking at his pleading eyes as you pulled your phone out to take a picture. Joost wondered if you did that soft smile you always did as you sent him the picture, captioned “accidental masterpiece”.

It frustrated him how you could go on, sending him the most beautiful pictures and living unaware of how he could only think of you. How was it possible that you could seem so unaffected by your place in his one home, while he toiled internally over a picture of his own dog. His brows furrowed as he stared at the picture, willing himself to try and think of anything but you. The longer he stared the more upset he felt, how could such a picture incite such a stupid response in him? How? How??

“Hey man, are you good?”

Tantu’s voice yanked joost out of his thoughts. He had barely felt himself rise and start the day, only assuming he did as he found himself sat on the tiny couch in the rocking tour bus. The rays of early morning light filled the bus, Tantu swayed as the tour bus pushed ever forward against the rough road. Joost damn near jumped out of his skin at the sound of his friends voice, he felt his face heat up like he was caught doing something scandalous. Tantu glanced down at the picture of the dog then back at joost, who’s mouth was opening and closing in search for an explanation. Still, Joost spoke before he thought.

“Im fine man, it’s nothing” Joost said, it came out much colder than Tantu (and Joost) was expecting, it wasn’t often he would see his friend so closed off. Sure, they had been through many hardships side by side, but for Joost to act so harsh surprised him. Tantu wasn’t going to allow Joost to push him away so easily though, instead he sat in the space beside his friend, who’s face was turned silently toward the ground.

“You know you can tell me anything man, right?”

Joost’s head turned to his friend, his brows turned up as the words settled in the air. The devil on his shoulder erupted, “how could he say that when he had no idea what was going through our head! If we told him what we were really thinking he would think we’re crazy! and stupid!” The angel however, only saw the honest attempt of a friend reaching out to him. Tantu saw Joost’s behavior and was worried enough to sit next to him, maybe it would be helpful to talk to him.

“I don’t know i’m just- i guess… i’m feeling anxious.” Tantu took in every word from Joost as he struggled to find the proper way to say how he was feeling, he still wasn’t ready to share what he was thinking because he himself wasn’t sure what he was thinking. He didnt really want to tell Tantu the truth, but saw no escape from the questioning.

“Is it because we are heading toward Stockholm?” Tantu’s voice barely softened as he tilted his head towards him. Joost had almost forgotten that there were actual real issues he had to worry about. He had been on the road traveling from his last show in Olso Norway, to his next show in Sweden. The last time he was here it was one of the worst times of his life, he knew this, and he was worried but he knew it wasn’t truthful to say thats the only reason he was upset.

“I guess… yeah.” Joost lied.

Tantu hummed at his response, looking away as he searched for the right words to comfort his friend. Joost was Angry with himself for lying, the devil on his shoulder rejoiced at his weak will.

“well… thats definitely a good reason to feel nervous, but what good is it to spend your time worrying?”

Joost listened as his friend’s words hung in the air. Tantu continued.

“ I mean, it might be scary, its true anything could happen, but you should think about all the good times you had there, too. Its not like you’re not meant to be there, you got a sold out tour for a reason!”

Tantu’s words helped to ease some of Joost’s worries but he still searched for more.

“I just feel like anything i do makes it worse… but its not like its easy to just walk away, but it might be easier to just… forget.” Joost wasn’t lying anymore, but he knew to be careful with his words.

“It might seem easier to distance yourself, but thats not what you want, is it?” Tantu lied a sturdy hand on his friends shoulder as he spoke, Joosts glassy blue eyes watched him from behind thick frames.

“Think about it, if you didn’t go people would’ve found something to be upset about anyway. The only thing you can focus on is what you want, thats all you have control over.” There was a pause, his words hung in the air as they clarified Joosts jumbled mind.

“What do you want?”

“i just want to be… good.”

Joosts shoulders slumped as he opened up, the fear of doing the wrong thing was what was eating up at him. He always felt whatever choice he had would end up badly for him, not just what happened at Eurovision but now again with you. He was scared no matter what he did it would dive a wedge between you, all he really cared about was your friendship, how could he put it in jeopardy by introducing complicated feelings.

“You are good, why do you think you have all these people waiting for you?”

Tantu was more right than he ever knew, though he was referring to the crowds of fans waiting for him, Joost only thought of you waiting for him at home. You had never let Joost down before and it was almost unfair of him to expect the worst from you.

“ You’re right, man in just scared of… losing everything, yknow? I Feel so out of control, Its scary…”

“It is scary, but getting in your head about it wont make you feel any better. You can’t control how they feel about you, only how you respond.” Tantus expression softened as he looked at Joost. “Plus, its not like you to run from a challenge! what happened to “dream big”!?” He shook Joosts shoulder as he gave him a pep talk, shaking him back and forth like he was trying to transfer the energy to him manually. Joost laughed as he did, the words skillfully easing his mind.

“Thank you, Tantu… i needed to hear that.” They shared a long look before Joost yanked him into a tight hug, scared he might shed a tear if they sat in silence any longer. Tantu jumped with shock at the sudden attack of affection, but wrapped his arms around him nonetheless. They shared the silence, Joost sat in the still calming air of the hug with his eyes closed before Tantu once again broke the silence.

“soooo…. can i see that picture you were looking at?” Joosts phone sat beside him, still open to the picture that you took. He loosened his grip on Tantu, lingering in the the comfort of his embrace before pulling away to grab his phone.

“Sure bro…” Before this conversation Joost would’ve lashed out or told him that he wasn’t looking at anything, but Tantu’s calming company soothed his ire. He handed the open phone to Tantu, who cooed at the happy face of mayo before he laughed at the absolute mess captured in the picture. Joost couldn’t help but to laugh with him as he clutched his stomach with laughter.

“This is beautiful” was all Tantu could say about the picture, smiling at Joost as he handed his phone back to him. Joost could only nod his head in agreement,

it was beautiful.

It was almost beautiful how horrible the night went. Its not like Joost wasnt expecting pushback after everything thats happened, but he was not prepared to fight the anxiety that came with. Despite the fact that there was no real charges against him and he had a good reason to be there, they still held him at the border.

Two hours he spent stewing with himself, two sides of him fighting each other. One side told him it would be better to turn away, the law was incessantly searching for anything to incriminate him. Hours of prodding at him wore him down quickly, he almost believed that he was wrong for trying to come back to the source of his modern troubles. The other side was much stronger though, Joost knew he had fans waiting for him in Sweden, he knew he was innocent, why else would they be searching so hard for something, anything to stop him from getting through. The good side reminded him that he couldn’t turn his back on the people who were waiting on him. No matter how hard they would make it, he would fight to do what he loved most.

The one thing that truly ruined his night , after all the troubles of the day, the only thing pushing him through the day was the thought that he could come back to your messages and fill his brain with the pictures you sent to his heart’s content. After everything that happened, nobody was in the mood to party or hang around, they decided it was probably best to lay low while they were in Sweden. This left Joost to stalk back to his end of the bus before slipping into the shadows of his sheets to fully indulge in his guilty pleasure.

Imagine his surprise when he checked his phone and not a single message was from you. He scrolled through every notification, praying he missed something but his heart sank into the bed when he saw nothing he hadn’t seen already. He lied the phone flat against his heart, maybe he was expecting too much from you. The devil on his shoulder was quick to speak up, was it fair to use you as a brace for his emotions? How could it be fair for him to rely so heavily on your company to feel sane?

Joost thought about what Tantu asked him:

“What do you want”

Joost knew exactly what he wanted most and he decided he wasn’t going to mess up the one good thing in his life this time. He knew he savored your time spent together, knew that the way you could carry a conversation was unlike anyone he had met. Sometimes it felt you were reading out his journal, the way you could perfectly describe feelings he struggled to put words to. The way you appreciated the arts and little things in the world, it was so refreshing to see. Joost’s memories with you are blurred with tears from laughter, He cherished your humor, your viewpoints, your company. There wasn’t a person he confided in as much as you, and he was scared shitless to mess up the relationship you had.

He didn’t want to complicate what you had by getting lost in his delusions.

Joost thought maybe it was time he distanced himself from you, he was terrified of developing unhealthy habits that could change your friendship. He thought maybe, if he didn’t pour so much of his mental energy holding onto your every message he could stop this feeling. Your connection was much more important to him than his feelings, such too sacred to muddy up with confessions.

Tonight was the first night Joost spend doing what he told everyone he was always doing, checking emails, opening and closing apps like they could distract him from anything. He even texted Apson, who never responded, probably asleep as it had been well past midnight already. It wasn’t long before Joost resorted to staring at the ceiling of his nook, counting the bumps in the road as the bus rolled down the dark path.

Just as the angel on his side shook his head in pity, the phone laying against his heart shook as well. The vibration made him jump out of his skin, he lifted the screen up instantly- squinting at the blinding light of the display. His eyes were met with the name “mary puppins”. Joost rubbed his eyes, not from lack of sleep, but disbelief. He felt guilty as had to tell himself not to get excited, it wasn’t normal for you to call so late in the night, much less a video call, what if something happened to his babies!

He was quick to answer your call, he saw the own worry on his face, he missed how it melted away when he saw your appearance. You pouted into the camera, visibly tousled as your pajamas sat crooked on your shoulders, your eyes were barely open as you looked down into the camera.

“Joooost” your voice came out ghastly, it was evident by the way you grumbled you had just been asleep. He had to lift his phone off his chest so you wouldn’t hear the way it thumped at your tired voice. Joost brought the phone closer to his face whispering into the microphone, scared someone would wake and see the content smile he hid off screen.

“Is everything ok?” His brows furrowed, but he could tell by your calm demeanor no bad news was going to be relayed.

“Noo! Everything is not okay!” Your whines rang through the phone speakers, lack of sleep making you delirious. Joost couldn’t stifle the chuckle that slipped as he watched your dramatic display.

“I was already upset when i woke up, I was having the best dream! but i had to pee sooo bad… it took me forever to get free from that fur trap and when i finally do, Mayo fucking steals my slipper!” Joost watched as you flipped the camera, at first he only saw the couch, plush blankets tossed over the back, barely visible in the low light of the night. It wasn’t long before two white fluffy ears were visible on the opposite side of the couch, Then Mayos head popped up from his hiding spot, tail wagging as a plush slipper was wedged in his mouth. He watched as you attempted to close the distance, but mayo bounded to the opposite side of the couch. You chased him again and once again he trotted to the other side, dropping low as if this was a game.

“ugh! He thinks i’m playing with him, even if i tell him to sit he just speeds away when i get close!” You groaned into the quiet room, mayo still happily whipping his tail, the fur of the slipper was visibly wet from slobber as he panted around it.

“Well, have you tried telling him to drop it?” Joost whispered into the phone, voice low as to not wake anyone else.

“have you tried telling him to drop it??? wow what an interesting thought, hadn’t thought of that one!” You scrunched up your face, imitating Joost with a nasally voice. He deadpanned into the camera, stifling a laugh to convey a unimpressed face.

“Hmm, it’s obvious you dont need my help so… bye-“

“wait, wait! im sorry just… listen i tried to tell him to drop it but he doesn’t listen, look.”

Joost watched as the camera flipped again, mayos wagging tail visible as you slowly approached again.

“Mayo, sit.”

He sits

“Mayo, drop it!”

His head tilts to one side, he doesn’t drop it.

“Drop iiiiit.” You urged

His head tilts to the other side, white ears flopping over.

“Mayo, please”

He drops down low, long white tail whipping in the air, before bounding away from your dejected figure. You flip the camera back to yourself, pouting your lip you wordlessly pleaded with Joost, eyes screaming “help me”. He tried not to enjoy this moment too much.

“You know it’s because he speaks Dutch right?”

“I know that, but…” He watched as you paused, deep in thought, tired eyes fluttering in the low light. There was a long pause before turned back to your phone with a bashful look.

“You don’t remember it, do you?”

Joost watched as your shoulders slumped, he stifled a laugh as you mumbled about being too tired and swearing that you were practicing.

“I feel like this is something you could’ve googled…” He tried not to think about the fact that in your sleepy stupor you thought to call him first. Instead he just smiled as you cursed, apologizing for calling him so late for such a stupid reason, he was quick to brush it off.

“why don’t you look at the cheat sheet i sent you?” He watched your eyes light up before the call paused, there was silence as he assumed you were looking through their messages for the picture he sent. He heard a quiet “aha!” before the camera turned back on.

“Ok i found it, watch this.” Your voice was littered with confidence, more awake now and more focused on winning this “game”than anything else. The camera panned across the corner where Mayo was hiding, he sat on the opposite end of the hallway, slipper in mouth and ready to bolt off any second.

“Mayo, sit”

Once again, he sits.

“Now, loos-lay-ten”

Mayos head tilts again, his mouth twitches like he almost understands. Joost’s snicker echos through the phone speaker.

“You laughing at me?” You squinted at the screen.

“I think he’s having a hard time with your accent, no offense.”

“This is your fault! you were supposed to teach me all this stuff before you left!”

“…I did…”

There was a pause.

“Whatever, how would you say it?”

“Its “Loslaten, los-lat-e” say it” His low voice rumbled through the night, he watched you take in his words.

“Could you say it again, I didn’t hear…” He looked into your eyes through the screen, It was hard to tell if you were doing the same. Joost repeated the word, drawing out each syllable so you could repeat it. He watched as you stared at the screen, it was hard to tell what you were thinking about but you didn’t show it.

“Ok loslaten, got it.” You flipped the camera again, mayo was chewing your slipper as you approached.

“Mayo, loslaten!”

He dropped the slipper immediately, ears sagging in sadness as he looked up at you behind the camera. He listens quite well when he understands! Joost watched as you bent down to pick up your slipper, squealing when you touched the wet fur. He watched as the camera panned back to Mayo, you sighed as you reached out a hand to pet him. Joost watched your fingers dance around the white fur, scratching under his chin and behind his ear. He fixated on your hands, fingers curling around blond fur as you whispered out “good boy”. Joost prayed it was too dark for you to see the flush on his cheeks, he used one hand to cover the pink blush- feigning like he was wiping his face.

He watched as mayo led you back to the bedroom, climbing on the bed and curling up among his pack.

“At least he tuckered himself out…” You sat on the edge of the bed, flicking on the bedside lamp. There was a short pause, Joost could tell now was the time to say goodnight but he couldn’t bring himself to end your time together. It didn’t seem like you wanted to leave either, your eyes danced around like you were searching for something to say, it wasn’t long before you broke the silence.

“So, you were in Sweden today? How did it go?”

Joost let out a long sigh, he couldn’t hold back from spilling his thoughts. He told you about everything, how he knew it wasn’t gonna be good, how he felt on edge all day. He told you about what Tantu said, how it helped but could never prepare him for what actually happened. You listened as he laid it all out, the prodding, the questions, how he felt guilty for keeping everyone waiting. It was so refreshing to talk to you, You comforted him when he spoke of anxiety, cursed for him when he mentioned the criminal treatment, even reassured him when he lamented for letting his fans down. When you told him everything would be alright, it was much easier to believe.

Eventually, when everything that needed to be said was said and you had both caught your eyes fluttering closed, you reluctantly parted ways. “Goodnight” You said,

He said it back.

The end of the call brought him right back to the dark shadows of the tour bus. He craned his neck up, looking out the window behind him. Joost watched as the stars floated in the sky, the contrast between having your company and the suffocating silence was intense. Just a moment ago he felt so good, the relief you brought so palpable it was hard to think of anything else, now he felt so numb. Right before that call he swore he would try harder to suppress these feelings, but as soon as you called it was evident he was much too weak to ever push you away. The thought was chilling, he hated the feeling it brought.

He knew he was trapped, couldn’t risk your friendship but couldn’t drown the growing feelings. It pained him to think of, made his heart ache, he hated the feeling- it was overwhelming, everything was too overwhelming. Joost just wanted it to stop, so he quieted the rushing thoughts the only way he knew how, numbing his mind to everything, pushing out any thoughts, any feelings that weren’t focused on just tour.

He listened to the hum of the bus, let the drone fill his mind. Joost couldn’t stop the waves of sadness wading through him,He couldn’t accept a life where you weren’t there. His ship split the asphalt sea, an endless horizon of darkness in all directions. A subtle rocking as he blindly surged forward, blue eyes clamped shut, too scared to see the moon lighting his way.

The bereaved man, Captain of his own ship.

𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹𓁹

Taglist: @ginerotica @punk-in-thetrunk

#joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost klein rpf #joost fanfic #rpf fanfiction #joost x you #guiltyfemcel

72 notes · View notes

vingtetunmars · 3 days ago

Text

Stevie Doesn't Know...

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: Things between you and Eddie start to deepen—what began as something small and secret grows into something real. Between hidden moments, shared smiles, and stolen time, you both find something neither of you expected: happiness.

part 1 / part 2

tags: Reader is Steve’s twin sister, roughly takes place between season 2 and season 3, SFW, overall fluff, established relationship, secret relationship, insecure Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, Reader is a sweetheart, they're just soft for each other your honor. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Here it is! the continuation. Honestly writing fanfics turns out to be so fun. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

word count: 3.642

Dating Eddie Munson wasn’t like anything you expected.

It was better.

It wasn’t candlelit dinners or school hallway hand-holding. It was late-night walks behind the football field, shared fries in his van, long drives with the windows down and his mixtapes blasting through your bones. It was laughter that felt real, and stolen kisses in parking lots, and the way he said your name like it wasn’t just something to call you—but something to hold.

It was yours.

You hadn’t told anyone.

Not because you were ashamed—never that. But because once you said it out loud, once people knew, it wouldn’t be just yours anymore. It would become a thing to talk about, to ask questions about. It would stop being quiet and soft and secret and would turn into something loud and watched.

So you kept it on the down low. Just for now.

You met up after school when no one was looking. You kissed behind bookshelves and shared knowing glances in hallways. He picked you up two blocks away from your house just to be safe. You stole moments between responsibilities like you were rationing joy.

And in those moments, he was everything.

But sometimes—just sometimes—he would pull away from a kiss too soon, eyes cast down, like he was remembering something he’d promised himself not to forget.

“I still don’t get why you even want to be with me,” he muttered once, lying next to you in the back of his van, his fingers tangled with yours.

“What do you mean?”

He was staring at the ceiling of the van like it had answers written in the rust.

“I mean…” He hesitated. “You’re you. And I’m—”

“Eddie,” you said gently, reaching for his hand. “You’re you too. That’s the whole point.”

He looked at you then, wary and amazed all at once. Like part of him still didn’t believe he was allowed this.

You squeezed his fingers. “I don’t want you to be anything else.”

His eyes softened. “You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

That earned a laugh. And then a kiss.

Sometimes he still needed reminding.

That first month felt like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

He brought you little trinkets from thrift stores—ugly keychains and weird pins he thought you’d laugh at. You slipped them into your pencil case or coat pocket, just to keep something of him close during the day.

You brought him snacks from your locker and left doodles tucked into the back of his D&D folders. Things like “roll for a kiss” and little sketches of devils making out with elves. He kept every single one.

You weren’t together all the time, but when you were—it was like the world got quieter.

It wasn’t always smooth. You still had to lie to Steve sometimes. Pretend you were doing student council stuff when you were really in Eddie’s van, listening to Metallica and eating gas station candy. You still had to act normal when you passed Eddie in the hallway, even when your chest ached to touch him.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You found a stray piece of paper inside your locker.

The paper was folded in half, hastily shoved into your locker like the sender was in a rush or trying not to be seen. You glanced around before opening it, even though the hallway was mostly empty.

Scrawled in messy, slanted handwriting:

“Closet by the science wing. 3rd period. I got five minutes.

—E”

You smiled instantly, cheeks heating before you could help it.

You slipped the note into your pocket like it was contraband and made your way down the hall.

The old utility closet was tucked between two classrooms no one paid attention to. Mop buckets. Stale air. Cleaning supplies and dust. Definitely not on the official tour of Hawkins High.

You barely had time to knock before the door opened and you were pulled inside by a familiar pair of hands.

“Eddie—”

He kissed you before you could finish, mouth hot and a little reckless, like he’d been waiting all day for this exact five-minute window.

You grinned into it, your hands already finding the collar of his jacket as your back hit the wall.

“Hi,” you mumbled breathlessly when he pulled back for air.

“Hi,” he said, eyes wild and grinning. “You came.”

“You told me to.”

“Yeah, but I figured you were too good for shady janitor closets during school hours.”

“You’re lucky I like you no matter what,” you teased.

“Luck doesn’t even cover it,” he muttered, kissing you again.

You let yourself get pulled back in, the two of you tangled up between mops and shelves and the faint smell of bleach. His hands slid under the hem of your sweater, fingertips grazing the edge of your waistband, and you let out a tiny laugh against his lips.

“Eds,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice down, “we have class.”

“Five more minutes,” he murmured, already trailing kisses along your jaw.

“You said that five minutes ago.”

“I lied.”

You giggled, smacking his chest lightly before resting your forehead against his. “If I get caught skipping calculus for you, I’m gonna fail my perfect attendance streak.”

“Worth it.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. Softer.

You melted for a second, just one.

Then you gently pushed him back by the shoulders, eyes crinkling with a smile. “We’re gonna get caught.”

“I’ll take the blame,” he said, hands still on your waist. “Say I lured you in with promises of forbidden love and stolen Fruit Roll-Ups.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing again as you straightened your shirt. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep showing up.”

“Guess I’m impossible too.”

He opened the door just a crack, peeking out. “Coast is clear.”

You leaned up, pecked him once more on the cheek. “See you after school?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

And just like that, you slipped back into the hallway, pulse still racing and lips still tingling, blending in with the rest of the world like nothing had happened.

Nobody noticed. And that made it even sweeter.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Harrington house was quiet, The kind that only felt quieter because the house was too big and too empty, and the only sounds came from the soft clinking of cutlery and the low hum of the radio in the background.

Just you and Steve at the table. A rare sit-down dinner between siblings that hadn’t been microwaved at separate times.

He finally spoke after a beat of silence.

“You’ve been very suspicious lately.”

You looked up, mouth full. “What?”

“You heard me.”

You chewed slowly, narrowed your eyes at him. “Suspicious how?”

He gestured vaguely with his fork. “You’ve been disappearing a lot. Like… ghosting at weird times. Coming home late. Whispering on the phone. You never used to whisper.”

You tried to keep your face neutral. “Student council stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Student council cannot be that busy.”

You shrugged, grabbing your water. “It is when the senior prom budget gets cut in half and everyone suddenly forgets how to behave like functioning humans during meetings.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, still eyeing you like he was trying to crack a code. “You sure that’s all it is?”

“Yes, Steven.”

He squinted at you.

You took a deliberately long sip of water.

Finally, he sighed and gave you a little smirk. “Okay. Fine. But if I find out you’re running a secret gambling ring behind the school gym or joining a cult, I’m telling Mom.”

You grinned. “Cool. I’ll make sure to invite you to the next blood sacrifice.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head as he stabbed another bite of pasta. “You're lucky I love you.”

You smiled into your bowl. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

He let it go after that, turning the conversation to his never-ending battle with job applications and his growing theory that the dryer was eating his socks again.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You knocked twice on the faded door of the Munson trailer before pushing it open just a crack, letting yourself in like you had a few times before.

“Hey, Eds? it’s me,” you called softly, peeking around.

The inside of the trailer smelled like coffee and cigarettes, with a faint trace of bacon from the morning. It was small — tight-knit in the way that made every sound bounce off the walls — but warm. Lived in. Worn, but loved. Mismatched furniture. Faded carpet. A pile of old TV Guides next to the recliner.

And from that recliner, Uncle Wayne looked up, smiling with his eyes before he even spoke.

“There’s our girl,” he said gruffly, reaching for the remote to lower the volume. “Come on in.”

You stepped inside, clutching the sleeves of your jacket like a polite little kid meeting the principal. You’d been here twice before, always for brief hellos and quick pick-ups. But every time, you still felt a little nervous. This wasn’t just anyone. This was Wayne — the man who raised Eddie.

“Hi, Mr. Munson,” you said, polite and a little too formal.

Wayne gave you a long, amused look over the rim of his mug. “Didn’t we go over this already? It’s Wayne.”

“Right. Sorry. Wayne.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t believe a nice, polite girl like you ended up with someone like him.”

From down the hall, Eddie’s voice echoed.

“Hey! I heard that!”

You laughed, cheeks warm, and Wayne gave you a knowing nod as he stood up to head toward the kitchen.

“You kids go on,” he said. “I’m headed to bed soon anyway. Gotta be at the plant by six.”

“Sweet dreams, Wayne,” you said, genuinely.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Eddie met you halfway down the narrow hallway, his hair half-tied back, his usual band tee and ripped jeans on like he’d just rolled out of bed. He gave you a crooked grin, eyes softening the moment he saw you.

“You’re so polite to him, it’s almost weird,” he said, voice low as he tugged you into his room.

“He’s weird,” you whispered back. “In a cool, intimidating way.”

Eddie snorted. “He once fell asleep standing up in the kitchen and claimed it was meditation.”

The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly the world went quiet again.

His room was exactly what you'd expect — posters of bands, some D&D maps tacked to the walls, piles of cassettes and dice on the dresser, a messy bed with the same plaid blanket you always teased him about. It smelled like incense and laundry detergent, and faintly like him.

Your shoulders dropped the second the door closed. Like they always did here.

You flopped down onto the bed, letting out a long sigh. “It’s cozy in here.”

“It’s a disaster.”

“It’s you,” you said, grinning up at him.

Eddie climbed in beside you, propping himself up on one elbow as he looked down at you.

“Wayne likes you,” he said, a little too casually.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“He wouldn’t say it. But if he didn’t, I’d know.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers over his. “Good. ’Cause I kinda like you, too.”

He smirked. “That right?”

Before you could answer, he leaned down and kissed you — slow, easy, comfortable.

Just the way you liked it here.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Eddie lay on his bed, arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, though he wasn’t really looking at anything. The lamp in the corner cast a warm golden haze across the room, but the softest light came from his chest — or at least, that’s how it felt.

She’d been here a few hours ago. Left her chapstick on his nightstand. Cherry. He kept glancing at it like it might disappear.

It still didn’t make sense sometimes. That she chose him.

Steve Harrington’s sister.

He’d spent half of high school trying to dodge guys like Harrington, the basketball clique, the parties, the fake-smile hierarchy of Hawkins High. And she was part of that world — at least, on paper. Perfect grades. Popular enough to be seen. Always polished, always put together.

But somehow, under all that, she wasn’t them.

She was her. Just… kind. Smart without being a show-off. Funny in a way that caught him off guard. She didn’t flinch when he ranted about Dio or got sidetracked talking about campaign arcs. She listened. She actually listened.

And she liked him.

God, that was the part that kept tripping him up.

Because yeah, he’d had flings before. But this? This wasn’t a fling. This was her crawling into his bed after a crap day and just lying there, curled into him like his presence meant peace. This was him caring enough to wipe off the grease smudge from her cheek without making a joke about it.

She made him feel… like he was allowed to be soft.

But still — the world wouldn’t get it. Not yet.

And maybe, just maybe, he liked that this was theirs alone.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual chaos. Trays clattered, the jocks were too loud, and the mashed potatoes looked like someone forgot what seasoning was.

Eddie plopped down at the Hellfire table, late as usual, a smirk already on his face.

“Apologies, gentlemen,” he said, dramatically sweeping his jacket behind him like a cape. “I was detained by... secret society business.”

Gareth rolled his eyes. “You mean you were smoking out by the dumpsters again?”

“Maybe,” Eddie said, popping a grape into his mouth. “Maybe not.”

Jeff squinted at him. “You’re acting weird.”

Eddie froze mid-bite. “Define weird.”

“Like... I don’t know,” Gareth said, leaning in. “You’re humming.”

“I hum.”

“Not Van Halen ballads,” Jeff added. “Also, you showed up to lunch on time two days in a row.”

“And you said ‘please’ to Ms. O’Donnell in chem,” Doug said, pointing an accusatory finger.

Eddie tried to shrug it off. “So I’ve matured.”

“No,” Jeff said flatly. “You’re smiling. Like, not your ‘I just told a dirty joke in my head’ smile. Like, soft. Puppy dog soft.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, trying not to actually smile — which only made it worse.

“Okay, alright,” he said, grabbing his soda. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

“Good mood?” Gareth echoed. “What, did you finally get your hands on that Iron Maiden bootleg?”

“Or maybe,” Doug said slowly, “maybe Munson’s got a crush.”

Eddie nearly choked on his drink.

“Crush?! On who?” he scoffed, coughing through it. “I’m uncrushable.”

Gareth narrowed his eyes. “Then why do you disappear for twenty minutes between third and fourth period? And don’t say it’s the bathroom. You don’t come back smelling like the bathroom.”

Eddie leaned back, looking way too casual.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “You wound me with your lack of trust.”

“Just saying,” Jeff muttered. “If you start writing poetry, we’re staging an intervention.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Leaves rustled lazily overhead as you leaned back on the threadbare flannel blanket Eddie had spread on the grass. The little clearing by Lover’s Lake was technically off school property, which made it perfect — private, quiet, and far from any curious eyes.

Eddie sat cross-legged beside you, nervously watching your face as you took a bite from the sandwich he’d made.

You chewed carefully. And slowly.

“…Is that—jam and…cheese?”

“Okay—okay, look.” Eddie held his hands up defensively. “I was aiming for sophisticated. Sweet and salty, right? Like those expensive charcu—charcoo—whatever boards.”

You tried to keep your face straight. “It’s not terrible.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

You grinned. “No, seriously. It’s edible.”

He fell back dramatically onto the blanket. “I knew I should’ve just gone with peanut butter.”

You set the half-eaten sandwich down and leaned over him, hair falling around your face as you hovered above. “You tried,” you said softly. “You planned all this. You packed a lunch, picked a spot, stole this blanket from your uncle—”

“Borrowed,” he corrected from the ground.

“—and didn’t even forget napkins. That’s a win.”

He glanced at you from beneath a tangle of curls, expression softening. “You really don’t mind?”

“Eddie,” you said, voice quiet now. “This is the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in… I don’t even know how long. I’m not just happy about the food, or the blanket, or this dumb sandwich. I’m happy with you.”

His eyes flickered. “You mean that?”

You nodded. “Yeah. You’re the only person who sees me for more than my name, or my grades, or being Steve’s sister. And you don’t treat me like I’m porcelain.”

“You’re not,” he said immediately. “You’re steel under all that sugar.”

Your heart caught on the compliment. You didn’t reply — just lowered yourself beside him, your fingers brushing his as the wind stirred the trees.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

Then, Eddie murmured, “I think about you all the time. And not just, like, the way a teenage guy usually thinks about a girl. I think about how you laugh when you’re trying not to. How you always line up your pencils. How you tilt your head when you’re listening to something you care about.”

You turned your head toward him, surprised.

“I just…” he trailed off, unsure how to land the plane. “I like you. A lot.”

You smiled, eyes glinting in the sunlight. “I like you too, Munson.”

He nudged your knee. “Even though I’m bad at sandwiches?”

“Especially because you’re bad at sandwiches.”

You both broke into laughter, letting it roll through the trees and across the lake, untethered and light.

You were just two people — lying in the sun, hearts on your sleeves, perfectly happy.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

On Saturday night—or Sunday morning—a knock on your window came at 12:42 a.m.

Three soft taps — your signal.

You shot upright in bed, brushing hair from your face as you crept to the window, already biting back a grin. And sure enough, there he was. Perched in the oak tree just outside your second-story bedroom, clinging to the branch like some dramatic, smirking forest goblin.

“Rapunzel,” Eddie stage-whispered, grinning through the leaves. “Let down your—oh shit, wait, you don’t have hair that long.”

“You’re going to break your neck,” you hissed back, trying not to laugh as you unlocked the window.

He wobbled theatrically, then swung a leg across, hoisting himself onto the ledge before tumbling—gracelessly—into your room with a thud. You grabbed his arm to keep him from knocking over your nightstand.

“Shh! My brother’s literally down the hall!”

Eddie straightened with a cheeky grin. “Then I’m right on time.”

You gave him a look but couldn’t hide your smile. His hair was windblown, he smelled faintly like motor oil and incense, and he was still wearing his battered denim jacket over pajama pants with tiny skulls on them.

“God,” you muttered, crossing your arms as you stepped back. “So this is how Nancy felt.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You shook your head, laughing. “Never mind.”

The room settled into a warm quiet, the kind that only happened after midnight when the world felt softer. You both sat cross-legged on your bed, knees touching, his fingers absently tracing the hem of your blanket.

“Didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” you said.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “Just… couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe if I saw you, I’d remember how to breathe again.”

You stared at him, heart tumbling.

And before you could think better of it, you whispered, “I actually have something for you.”

His eyes lit up. “A gift? For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“I mean it’s not huge, don’t get excited,” you said quickly, reaching for your desk drawer. “I found it at that thrift store by Elm, the one with the spooky mannequin that always stares at me.”

He leaned in, curious.

You pulled out a small cloth pouch and pressed it into his palm.

He opened it slowly — revealing a chunky silver ring with a deep red stone in the center. Worn and slightly scuffed, but unmistakably him.

Eddie blinked. “This is… sick.”

“I thought so too,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You have, like, twenty already, but I figured one more wouldn’t hurt.”

He stared at the ring for a beat, then at you. “You saw this and thought of me.”

You nodded, suddenly shy.

“I love it,” he said, sliding it onto his index finger. “Now I’m up to twenty-one, which is obviously a magic number.”

But before either of you could bask in the sweetness, a voice cut through the hall.

“Hey, you still awake?” Steve’s voice.

You both froze.

“Shit—” you hissed, grabbing Eddie by the wrist.

He was already halfway to the closet, no questions asked.

You shoved open the door, pushed him in, and slammed it shut just as your bedroom door creaked open.

Steve poked his head in, eyes squinting. “Why are your lights still on?”

You turned, innocent smile activated. “Couldn’t sleep. Reading.”

Steve raised a brow. “Without a book?”

“I just finished one. I was… reflecting.”

He stepped in, suspicious. “You’ve been acting weird again.”

You crossed your arms, hoping he couldn’t hear your heart pounding. “It’s 1 a.m., Steve. Everyone acts weird at 1 a.m.”

He sniffed the air.

You held your breath.

“I swear it smells like smoke in here.”

“I burned a candle earlier,” you lied smoothly.

He stared a second longer, then backed out slowly.

“Get some sleep,” he said.

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

The door clicked shut.

You waited ten seconds before yanking open the closet. Eddie stumbled out, trying not to laugh, hair tousled and eyes wide.

“Okay,” he whispered, grinning. “I love you, but I’m never doing that again.”

You grinned, grabbing his jacket and pulling him in for a kiss.

“You love me?”

He froze, then broke into a smile. “Well… yeah. Obviously.”

You kissed him again — breathless, giddy, and still full of adrenaline — knowing that somehow, all the sneaking around was worth it.

─⭒End of story.

Thank you for reading !!

part 1

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x harrington!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson imagines #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things #kar's fics ☆

105 notes · View notes

l1v-jzn · 2 days ago

Text

„Bite The Blade” Series – Chapter 08 – You Belong To Me

pairing: Ghostface!Seong-Je x Reader

genre: Horror, Thriller, Dark Romance

summary: She didn’t remember falling. Only that when she woke up, the door wasn’t locked… and he was waiting—coffee in hand, smile like a secret.

He says he saved her. He says she’s been pretending for too long. And in the silence of a house with no clocks, no mirrors, and no way back—she starts to wonder if he’s right.

Because he looks at her like she’s holy. Touches her like she’s breakable. And whispers like he already owns her soul.

Every part of her says run. But something deeper—darker—wants to stay. After all, he never said I love you. He didn’t have to.

"She thought she was stolen. But what if she was just... returning home?"

taglist (only for this series): @thepoeticfirefly @kyungjunnies @hikaerys @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @miyawwn @sanaxo-o @feralmaneater @jeewhat @satorustorm @jaymiwrld @satoru2716 @heeknow @indarius @yinyangcchii @gacktsa @ruruyinn @inom17 @ellaaa505 (please just comment in here if you want to be tagged only for this series)

— Previous Chapter — — All Chapters —

she stared at the timestamp like it meant something. Like it meant everything. 2:47 a.m. It wasn’t just a call. It was a reminder.

she sat up straighter in Hu-Min’s bed, the blanket falling away, the silence pressing down harder now—thicker. Like the air had decided it didn’t want to be breathed anymore.

there was nothing in the room to be afraid of and yet.

she slid off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. The wood creaked slightly beneath her weight, a sharp, fragile sound that felt like a scream in the quiet.

Hu-Min’s door was cracked open. Somewhere down the hallway, a kettle clicked. The kind of click that only happened when it finished boiling. But no one had turned it on.

she didn’t call for him. Didn’t move.

her hand tightened around the phone, screen still lit. The fingerprint—that single, meaningless mark of contact—burned into her mind. She hadn't imagined it. She never picked up that call, never even heard it ring.

but it rang. And whoever made it… didn’t need to leave a message. They just needed her to know.

she turned the screen off. Locked it. Put it face down on the table beside the bed. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing.

and when Hu-Min’s voice called softly from the kitchen, “Hey. You awake?” she flinched. Not because it startled her. But because, for just a second, she wondered if it was really him.

a few seconds passed. Then his steps padded closer. Gentle. Careful.

Hu-Min leaned against the doorframe, eyes half-shadowed under messy hair. He was still wearing the hoodie from last night—the sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he’d been pacing or doing something with his hands just to stay busy.

When he spoke, it was quiet. Like he was afraid even the words might hurt her. “Did you sleep okay?”

her mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. She blinked slowly. Nodded, once.

“That’s a lie,” he said softly, like he already knew. He always knew.

she didn’t argue. Just shrugged, eyes trained on the blank wall like it might explain the way her chest still felt too tight to breathe.

Hu-Min stepped into the room fully, crossing to her. He sat beside her on the bed without saying anything else, knees almost touching hers. His hands were clasped in his lap, fidgeting. Twisting his ring. He didn’t look at her, not yet.

“You’re safe now,” he said. It sounded like he needed to hear it out loud as much as she did.

“Did the call wake you?” he asked. “I heard your alarm… then I saw your light.”

she hesitated. Then nodded. “It rang at 2:47 a.m. It was an unknown number.”

he finally looked at her. His jaw tensed. Just slightly. But his voice stayed calm. “...Did they say anything?”

she shook her head. “Nothing. Just the call. Like—like they wanted me to know they could.”

Hu-Min’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The kind of expression that meant his brain was already ten steps ahead, thinking of lock codes and burner phones and new escape plans.

but then he looked at her again—and suddenly he was just Hu-Min. The same boy who used to race her to the swings and bring her strawberry milk when she was sick.

his voice dropped even lower. Barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.” She looked up at him.

“I shouldn’t’ve left you alone last night,” he said, eyes glassy. “I should’ve been there sooner. You should’ve never been in this mess. I—”

she touched his hand. Light. Barely-there. But grounding. “You came,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

his breath shook. For a second, he didn’t speak. Just sat there, head bowed, her hand still over his. And when he finally looked up again, there were tears in his eyes he didn’t bother to hide.

“Yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “And I’m not leaving again.”

on the way to Seong-an High — 7:56 a.m

the streets hadn’t changed.

same old cracks in the pavement. Same old rusting signs. The scent of soy broth from the breakfast cart on the corner still hung in the air like muscle memory. But everything felt different.

Y/n tugged Hu-Min’s hoodie tighter around her. Her hair was still damp, skin still a little raw from scrubbing too hard in the shower at her apartment. Like she could wash last night off. Like she could erase the blood in her lungs and the sound of her heartbeat echoing in an alleyway where it almost stopped.

Hu-Min was beside her, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Silent, like always. Like he knew words wouldn’t fix it. Like his presence was the only bandage he could offer now.

they walked the rest of the block to the campus gate.

she caught her reflection in the glass of the convenience store window. Same face. Different girl.

and just for a second, she thought she saw something move behind her in the reflection.

but when she turned—Nothing. Just Hu-Min, waiting. “You sure you wanna go in?” he asked quietly.

Y/n hesitated. Her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her backpack. “If I don’t... I think I’ll fall apart.”

he nodded. And then, in a rare moment, his hand brushed against hers. Not holding. Just—touching. Grounding. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me, you know.”

“I’m not pretending,” she whispered. “I’m surviving.” She then turned to the gate and bid goodbye to Hu-min.

the school bell rang. Sharp. Cold. Too loud for a Monday.

Y/n flinched—but just a little. Just enough for her lashes to flutter and her breath to hitch for half a second. No one noticed. The classroom buzzed with half-slept conversations and the rustle of notebooks and snack wrappers.

she slid into her seat like muscle memory. Smiled when someone said “hey.” Opened her textbook. Nodded at the right time when the teacher droned on about postwar industrial growth. Laughed—actually laughed—when Soo-min passed her a note doodled with a cat wielding a bazooka.

on the outside, she was fine. But her hand trembled when she took notes. Just a little.

and she jumped when a chair scraped too loudly against the floor.

“Y/n,” Soo-min whispered, nudging her during break. “You good?”

Y/n turned to her. That same practiced smile. “Yeah. I just didn’t sleep much.”

Soo-min’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading something deeper—but she didn’t push. She just handed Y/n a milk carton and opened her chips like it was just another day.

that was all Y/n needed to keep going. That one little gesture—quiet. Unshaking. Constant.

period after period blurred by. She nailed the quiz. Answered a question with ease. Laughed again, for real this time, when someone in the back row got caught texting and blamed it on “ghost possession.”

by the time dismissal rolled around, she almost believed she was okay.

until she opened her locker and found it empty. Her spare notebook was gone. The one she always kept there.

instead, a slip of paper sat in the middle. Neatly folded. Tucked like a secret. Her fingers hesitated, hovering over it.

Soo-min popped up beside her, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go? I’m starving.”

Y/n nodded quickly, palm closing around the note. “Yeah. Just... forgot something.” Soo-min headed down the hall, humming.

Y/n waited until the hallway thinned out. Unfolded the paper. Just a smiley face, “:)” Y/n didn't think much of it and toss the paper into the trash bin. “Must be some kind of joke.” Y/n said, before turning back to where Soo-Min was headed.

Seong-an High — 4:00 p.m

the school bell rang like it always did—flat, mechanical, unaware.

students spilled out in waves, heads down, earbuds in, backpacks heavy with papers and sleep. The chatter was loud, the kind that masked everything important. The kind that made you forget monsters could wear skin like anyone else.

but he remembered.

Seong Je stood across the street, half-hidden behind the tinted glass of a black sedan that didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong anywhere, really. Parked too clean, too silent. Like it wasn’t a car but a coffin waiting with wheels.

he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just watched.

one hand rested on the wheel. Gloved. The same gloves he hadn’t taken off. His coat was still sharp at the shoulders, black like ink that never dried. His eyes didn’t scan the crowd—they focused on one point. Her.

she stepped out of the side door. Not the main gate—he knew she wouldn’t. Y/n always hated crowds, even before all this. She looked tired. Like she hadn't quite made it back into her own skin. Hu-Min’s hoodie swallowed her frame. His jaw clenched.

she didn’t see him. Of course not. She wouldn’t.

but he saw her. He always did.

for a moment—just a flicker—his expression broke. Something longing. Something hungry. But it was gone before it could settle.

he tapped once on the steering wheel. Not impatient. Just… precise. Then he reached for something in the passenger seat. A paper bag. Simple. Innocent. Inside: her favorite bread from the bakery three blocks from her old apartment. He remembered.

he remembered everything. And then, the softest whisper under his breath. “I’ll take you somewhere safe now. Where they can’t touch you. Where he can’t touch you.”

the light turned green. Cars moved. But his didn’t.

he just sat there, waiting. Because storms don’t rush. They build.

the air outside still carried that late-afternoon warmth, the kind that clung to your sleeves and made the shadows stretch longer than they should.

Y/n tugged Hu-Min’s hoodie tighter around her. It still smelled like him—cedar and laundry softener. Familiar. A small comfort stitched into cotton. Her footsteps were light, almost lazy, like she was trying to pretend this was just any other day. Normal. Boring. Blissfully uneventful.

beside her, Soo-min was talking about something—probably something dumb or dramatic or both. She always talked a little too loud and with her hands, especially when she was trying to cheer Y/n up without making it obvious.

“So I told him, ‘If you’re gonna cheat, at least be smart enough not to get caught on Live!’” she said, rolling her eyes like a champ. “Seriously. If brains were currency, that boy’s walking around in debt.”

Y/n laughed. Genuinely. It cracked through the haze of dread like a sunbeam through smoke.

“Thanks, Soo-min,” she said, voice soft but steady.

“For what?”

“For just… being.”

Soo-min blinked. Then shrugged with a grin. “Pfft. I exist fabulously.”

they turned the corner. And that’s when it happened.

that feeling. The sudden stillness in the pit of her stomach. Like the air had gone stale. Like something was watching. No—not something. Someone.

Y/n paused mid-step. “Yo?” Soo-min turned, concern flashing across her face.

Y/n shook it off. “Nothing. Just thought I saw—”

but she didn’t finish the sentence. Because there was no car there anymore. No black sedan. No tinted windows. Nothing.

just the usual street and the usual breeze. Just the echo of tires long gone.

Soo-min tilted her head. “Girl, you look like you saw a ghost.”

Y/n forced a smile. “Yeah… probably just tired.”

she didn’t say that her heart was racing. Didn’t say that the back of her neck still felt cold. Didn’t say that, for a second, she could’ve sworn she smelled warm bread and winter air.

because that would mean he was still close. And she couldn’t afford to believe that. Not yet.

Y/n’s Apartment — 4:29 p.m

the key turned in the lock with a soft click, but Y/n hesitated before pushing the door open. Her hand hovered on the knob a moment too long. She wasn’t sure why. The hallway behind her was empty. The air was still. But something in her bones felt—off.

inside, her apartment greeted her with a familiar hush. Clean. Tidy. Too tidy.

she stepped in slowly, locking the door behind her and twisting the latch twice. A habit. Maybe a superstition.

the hoodie slipped off her shoulders, landing on the couch as she walked past it. Her fingers lingered on the fabric for just a second—Hu-Min’s warmth, still faintly there. But now, it felt far away. Like a memory cooling in her hands.

she went to the bathroom and turned the faucet on. Splashed her face. Looked up into the mirror.

and blinked. Not because of what she saw. But because of what she didn’t see in her own eyes. Emotion. Presence. Something vital that used to live there.

Meanwhile, outside of Y/n’s Apartment — 4:50 p.m

he should’ve left. He always left. But tonight—he didn’t.

the city breathed behind him, neon lights smeared across wet pavement like bruises. His car sat two buildings away, engine off, windows tinted dark like a coffin’s lid. He had parked it in shadow, like everything else he touched.

in the passenger seat sat a paper bag. Warm, still. Barely.

her favorite bread. Same bakery. Same brand. He even asked if they’d changed the recipe. They hadn’t.

it wasn’t about the bread. It was about her. Always her.

he got out, the coat heavy around his shoulders. Not from weight—from memory. The hallway up to her apartment was dim, worn down by years of footsteps she used to run down, back when life didn’t feel like a trap.

he knew the hallway. He knew the crack in the tile three steps in. He knew the way her apartment door stuck slightly if you pulled instead of pushed.

he knew everything. And now… he stood just outside it.

she was inside. He could feel her—moving, existing, breathing behind the thin, cheap wood that separated them. It made his blood simmer. Not with rage. But with possession.

he’d seen her that morning. Hu-Min’s hoodie. Her damp hair. The tired way her shoulders slouched like she hadn’t been sleeping well.

that should’ve been him. Not Hu-Min. Not anyone else.

he crouched—precisely, reverently—and placed the paper bag in front of her door. Centered it. Fixed the fold. Tucked a small, handwritten note under the edge. One sentence, careful and sharp:

“You're mine to protect. Even if you don't know it yet.”

he stared at the door for a long time. Breathing slow. Steady. Controlled. But inside his chest, it was wildfire.

his hand brushed the knob. Not enough to twist it. Just enough to feel her on the other side. The distance between them—it burned. And that burn? It didn’t hurt. It fueled him.

his jaw flexed. No one else would take her. No one else would understand her fears. No one else would know how to shield her from what’s coming. And if they tried? He’d erase them.

then, as softly as he came, he turned. Walked away. One step at a time. No sound. No goodbye.

just the quiet hum of obsession clinging to the hallway walls. And the warm scent of bread turning cold.

Inside of Y/n’s Apartment — 4:50 p.m

the hum of the hallway light was the only sound.

Y/n had just finished drying her hair from the shower, towel now abandoned on the back of a chair, hoodie falling loosely off one shoulder. The warmth of the apartment did little to ease the cold that had settled in her bones since the moment she stepped back into normalcy—school, class, laughter that wasn’t quite real.

she sat on the edge of the bed. Let her shoulders sag. Let herself breathe, finally, in the fragile stillness of her space.

then—thud. A soft sound. Barely there. Like something had been placed carefully on the ground.

she froze. Her eyes lifted to the front door. No creaks, no footsteps, no shadow underneath. Just stillness. But something primal in her chest tightened. A thread pulled taut.

she stood slowly. Quietly. Crossed the room on bare feet, the carpet muffling each step. Her hand hesitated over the doorknob. No peephole. No warning. Just… instinct.

she turned the lock. Opened the door a crack. Peeked—And stopped breathing.

a paper bag sat right in front of her door. Centered. Perfectly placed. Intentional.

she opened the door wider. Looked down the hallway—empty. Like no one had ever been there.

but she knew someone had. Her stomach twisted.

she crouched slowly, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the bag. It was warm. Not freshly made warm—just recently placed warm. That was worse.

inside was bread. Her favorite. From a bakery she hadn’t visited in what felt like lifetimes. No one should remember this. No one should know. But someone did.

then she saw the note. Folded, slipped beneath the paper liner like it belonged there. She unfolded it with hesitant fingers. One sentence.

"You're mine to protect. Even if you don't know it yet."

everything inside her dropped. The voice behind those words was too familiar. It echoed like an old song she never wanted to hear again. Written in pen she recognized—sharp and calculated. It’s him.

her throat tightened. A cocktail of emotions surged at once—rage, fear, guilt, grief. Not because she missed him. Because she never escaped him.

he hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t tried to see her. He’d simply left his presence behind like a ghost marking territory. Possessive. Cold. Controlled.

she stood. Slowly. Eyes darting around the hallway again, suddenly paranoid. Her breath hitched at every shadow. But there was nothing. And that was the most terrifying part.

he’d been here. Close enough to breathe the same air. To know she’d be home. To know when to leave the bag. Like he’d studied her pattern. Like this wasn’t a message—it was a claim.

she stepped back inside. Locked the door. Double. Then triple.

she set the bag down like it might explode.

and stood in the middle of her apartment, arms crossed over her chest, hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands. Her heartbeat was in her ears. Her skin itched like she was being watched. Like the walls weren’t hers anymore.

and when she looked down at the note again… Her hands were shaking. But not just from fear. From the terrifying, undeniable truth buried in the pit of her stomach.

part of her had expected this. Part of her knew he’d never really left. And part of her, the part she hated the most…wasn’t sure if she wanted him to.

the bread sat on the counter. Still warm, somehow. Like it had just been placed there. Like someone had timed it perfectly. Like someone knew exactly when she’d come home.

she stared at it for a long time. The bag was simple—no logo, no receipt, nothing. Just that note. “You always liked this one.”

she should’ve thrown it away. Should’ve locked every window. Should’ve called someone. Anyone. But instead… Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since noon. And it smelled… right.

a familiar kind of comfort. Sweet. But not too sweet. The kind of bread that used to make her feel safe. So she broke off a piece. Small. Careful.

Then she took it into her mouth, chewing it slowly then swallowed. It was good. Too good.

and then—like a switch flipped—her vision stuttered. The lights blurred. Her knees wobbled.

she tried to reach for the counter but missed—almost hitting her head on the barstool.

her body felt wrong. Like her bones were made of smoke. Like she was floating—but not in a nice way. Vertigo. Dizzy. Slow-motion dread. Everything feels like riding on a roller coaster.

“What the hell…” she whispered, voice slurred—holding her head as if it could stop the dizziness.

then—click. Her eyes snapped toward the door. The doorknob was turning. Someone is trying to get in. Her eyes widened. It was locked. She’d locked it—she was sure.

then—clickclickclickclick. It was twisting faster now. Jamming. Wrenching. A beat of silence and then—BANG.

the door slammed open with a violent crack, kicked clean off its bottom hinge. Wood splintered. Air sucked out of the room.

a tall, black figure stepped inside. Sharp coat. Gloved hands. Shadows clinging to his outline like they worshipped him.

Y/n backed away—but her legs weren’t working right. She tried to crawl away from the figure as much as she could but her body felt numb.

the figure didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. His steps were slow. Certain. Like he’d done this a thousand times before.

she tried to reached for something—anything. But her limbs betrayed her.

the room tipped sideways. Her vision flickered—her floor twisted into liquid. She could barely make out his silhouette as it knelt beside her.

gloved fingers brushed the hair from her forehead.

a whisper, like silk over knives, “Shh. I told you. I’d take you somewhere safe.”

her breath hitched. But she couldn’t scream.

the last thing she saw was his eyes. It’s not sharp with malice or dripping with disdain. Just steady. Quiet. A kind of peace that doesn’t bloom with joy, but doesn’t bite either.

as if this had always been the ending. Until she finally lost her consciousness.

the apartment door hung on its broken hinges, swaying gently in the ghost-breath of a night gone wrong. Wood splintered where his boot had landed—a quiet declaration of intent. No alarm. Just silence, and the low, ominous hum of the ceiling light that buzzed like a trapped fly.

inside, the air was thick. Not with fear—yet—but with the aftermath of it.

she lay there. Y/n. Still. Folded like a question that had never been answered. Her limbs slack, her breath shallow, barely stirring the air. But she was alive. Just enough to matter.

he stood in the doorway, more shadow than man. A figure dressed in black—coat, boots, gloves, resolve. The overhead light didn’t touch him so much as hesitate near him, its flicker swallowed whole by the dark of his presence.

his fingers twitched. Not out of nerves, but the need—raw and compulsive—to touch her. To prove she was here. That this was happening. That she hadn’t disappeared like all the others.

he crouched. The black coat folded around his knees like wings.

his eyes memorized her in pieces: the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes trembled against pale skin, the slight curl of her fingers as if caught mid-reach—reaching not for something, but someone.

this time, he took off the glove. Just one. His bare hand brushed her cheek—slowly, reverently. The contact sent a shiver through his spine, like plugging into something sacred. Her cheek was warm. Human. Real. And it hit him like a drug. Like absolution.

he leaned close—not to kiss. To listen. To make sure. To feel the rhythm of her breath against his skin. Still there. Still his.

from his coat, he pulled her phone. Unlocked it with ease. Her world laid bare.

he scrolled like a surgeon. Each name—Hu-Min. Soo-Min. The ex. The friend. Deleted. Deleted. Deleted. No hesitation. No remorse. And then, at the top was a single contact.

Unknown Number:

"Let me take care of you now."

he didn't delete it, instead he placed the phone beside her, the screen still glowing like an open wound.

then the glove slid back onto his hand, sealing away the warmth he’d stolen.

before he stood, he bent low, lips nearly grazing her ear. "When you wake up, don’t fight it. You’ve always belonged with me."

he stood over her for a moment longer, like he was memorizing the silence one last time. Then he slid his arms beneath her—one behind her knees, the other under her shoulders—and lifted.

he carried her in a bridal style. As if she were something precious. As if she hadn’t been drugged. As if this was a ceremony and not a crime.

she fit against him perfectly. Head tilted toward his chest. Breath warm against the hollow of his collarbone. Her weight was real, grounding. And he held her like gravity itself had chosen sides.

the black coat swirled around them both, catching rain as he stepped into the night.

the city didn’t look. The city never looked.

down the stairwell, boots echoing soft thunder. Out the front entrance, where streetlights flickered like they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.

his car waited at the curb. Black. Sleek. Tinted windows. No plates.

he opened the door with a press of his elbow and set her gently in the back seat, like laying down a secret.

the leather seats whispered beneath her, adjusting to her form.

he lingered, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. Tucking her in—not with a blanket, but with his gaze.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “No one else gets to lose you again.”

and then—click, it was a seatbelt. Fastened with reverence.

he closed the door. The sound was too soft for what it meant. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in hours. Hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road.

rain tapped the windshield, and somewhere a distant siren wailed.

but in his car? Silence. Perfect. She was his now. Not in theory. Not in hope. In practice.

and as the engine purred to life, headlights carving through the dark like blades, he whispered once more to the sleeping girl in the backseat, “You don’t need to pretend anymore. I’ll do the hurting for both of us.”

then the car pulled away, swallowed by rain and red lights. A ghost story in motion. A love letter written in crimes.

Somewhere, away from the city — ?:??

the first thing she felt was softness. Not the floor. Not the threadbare carpet of her apartment. This was something else—plush. Heavy. Like sinking into a memory you don’t remember making.

then came the scent. Cedarwood. Clean linen. A hint of smoke, like someone had burned sage—or something darker—hours ago.

her fingers twitched against the fabric. Not hers. Not familiar. Expensive. High-thread-count expensive.

the sheets whispered when she moved, and the whisper said, this is not home.

her eyes blinked open slowly, and everything was too quiet. No buzzing light. No city hum. Just the subtle groan of wood settling around her.

a ceiling of exposed beams. A lamp on a nightstand. A fireplace flickering low across the room.

not her room. Not her apartment. Not safe.

she sat up too fast. The world lurched sideways. Dizzy. Dull pain behind her eyes. Something in her veins still sluggish—traces of whatever he’d used.

the first thing she did was to find her phone, she looked at the nightstand—there it was—her phone was there, next to the lamp. She quickly grabbed it and turned it on, she went to the messages.

Unknown Number

"Let me take care of you now."

her stomach dropped. Her breath caught halfway to her throat. She threw the blanket off. Her shoes were gone. Clothes changed. A long shirt—hers? Maybe. Maybe not.

the hardwood was cold beneath her bare feet as she moved, adrenaline doing battle with vertigo.

the door creaked when she opened it, revealing a long hallway. Dim. Minimal. Windows framed by black curtains.

no sounds, except—music. Somewhere down the hall. Soft. Vinyl static. A slow jazz track that felt too calm for what was happening.

she followed it. Each step a question. Each breath a countdown. She turned the corner. And there he was.

by the fireplace. Sitting in an old armchair like he’d been carved into it. A mug in his hand. Black sweater, sleeves pushed up, glove-free now.

he didn’t look surprised. He looked like he’d been waiting. For her.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice warm like melted wax. “That’s good. I didn’t want you to miss the sunrise.”

there were windows behind him, but they were dark, covered. She couldn’t see where they were.

“Where am I?” she asked, the words rasping from her dry throat.

he tilted his head, just slightly. The same way people do when they hear a question, but already know the answer they’ll give. “Safe,” he said simply.

she took a step back. He didn’t move. “You drugged me. You broke into my apartment. You—”

“—brought you home,” he interrupted, not cruelly. Not kindly either. Just... sure.

“This isn’t my home.”

“It will be.”

he rose, fluid, controlled. A predator with manners. “I know you’re scared. I expected that. But I need you to understand something, Y/n.”

he walked toward her slowly. Not closing the space aggressively. Almost gently.

“No one out there gets to own you the way I do. They never saw you. Not like I did. Not like I do.”

she backed up until her shoulders hit the wall. He stopped a few feet away. Respecting her space. For now. “You don’t remember it yet, but you’ve always been mine. Even when you ran. Even when you forgot.” His voice dropped lower. Dangerous and soft. “That ends now.”

she looked past him—to the door. The hallway. The fireplace poker maybe. He noticed. He smiled. Not wide. Just enough. “You can try to run, Y/n. But I promise, you’ll just end up back here. With me. Where you’ve always belonged.”

she didn’t run that first night. She thought about it. Every second. Every breath. Every time her lashes fluttered open to the still unfamiliar ceiling above her, her mind raced through doors and windows, counted steps and exits, measured shadows.

but her body? Her traitorous body stayed curled under the heavy blanket, limbs weighed down by exhaustion—or something gentler, slinkier—something that told her to wait.

the house had a pulse. It creaked and whispered in the corners, floorboards sighing like old lungs. The fire in the hearth crackled low, golden and comforting, like a lullaby with fangs.

and him? He didn’t lock the door. Not once. He left it open just enough to let possibility in. Let her wonder if she could reach the threshold without him noticing.

but he always noticed. He moved like gravity—quiet, constant, inevitable.

he wanted her to try. He craved it, that delicious moment where choice flickered behind her eyes. Not because he feared escape—because he relished it. The push and pull. The proof that she was beginning to bend.

but she didn’t run. Not yet.

because the way he looked at her? Not like a possession. Like a pilgrimage. Like she was holy ground he’d broken into just to kneel. Like violence could be sacred, if you bled for love.

that confusion—the ache, the echo of maybe—he saw it. And he fed it.

he cooked breakfast the next morning. Like it was a Sunday morning and not a crime scene with curtains.

she woke to the smell of cinnamon sugar melting over heat, dark roast coffee steeping into the walls.

she padded into the kitchen, the floor cold beneath her bare feet, and found him there: sleeves rolled, calm as a priest at the altar. Two mugs waited on the counter like a peace treaty.

he handed her one, smooth as silk. Unflinching. “You still like two sugars, right?”

the porcelain was warm against her fingers. The question burned hotter.

she didn’t remember telling him that. She didn’t remember a lot of things.

not when the world began to blur. Not when her knees had buckled. Not when he caught her, like a man rescuing—not stealing. Not when he said, “You’ve always belonged with me.”

and the worst part? A part of her didn’t scream.

there were no clocks in the house. No mirrors. No phone reception. Time didn’t pass—it sank.

she asked, once, what town they were in. Where they were. Who might find her.

he didn’t look up from his book—wuthering heights, like a joke only he was allowed to tell. “Does it matter?” he said.

and she hated—hated—that the silence that followed felt like an answer.

the manipulation didn’t come like a storm. It crept. Like fog on bare skin. Soft. Seductive. Patient.

he didn’t shout. He listened. He remembered little things she didn’t know she’d said. He made her tea the way she liked. Folded the blanket at the foot of the bed. Set her worn notebook on the coffee table like an offering.

he made her laugh. Once. Just once. But it echoed. And in that moment—just a breath—he smiled like he’d won.

then came the reassurances. Gentle. Poisoned honey.

“No one ever listened like I did.”

“They only wanted pieces of you.”

“But I want all of you.”

he painted the house as a sanctuary. The world as the prison. Himself as the key. “You don’t have to act anymore,” he whispered, when her eyes shimmered with the pressure of too many unspoken things. “I see the ache in you. I always have.”

and the scariest part? He wasn’t wrong.

she started wondering. In the quiet moments—when her heartbeat slowed, when the fire hummed and the air tasted like stillness—she started asking herself the kind of questions that had answers shaped like knives.

has anyone ever truly seen her?

had she ever actually left him? Or had she been circling back this whole time, like a moth too tired to fear the flame anymore?

one night, she found her old notebook. On the nightstand. Pages curled at the edges. Ink smeared where old tears had fallen.

she knew it. Recognized the cracks in the spine. Her own handwriting. But inside, something new.

a letter. Folded. Tucked neatly between two confessions she’d forgotten she'd written.

“You came back. Even if you didn’t mean to. And I’ll keep you safe this time. From them. From the noise. From yourself.”

her heart twisted. Her fingers trembled. She should’ve burned it. Shredded it. Screamed.

but instead? She folded it smaller and tucked it under her pillow.

that night, she dreamed of him holding her hand. Not pulling. Not gripping. Just… there. Solid. Warm. The way things feel before they become dangerous.

she dreamed of a world outside that didn’t exist. Of silence with no threat beneath it. Of his voice saying her name like scripture.

he touched her less now. Spoke quieter. Looked at her like the war had ended—and she was the flag he refused to lower.

and she began to think—maybe... Maybe she had been pretending. Smiling when she wanted to break. Running when she only wanted to be caught.

maybe this was peace. Not prison. Maybe he knew her—not just the version she posted or performed, but the underneath of her.

he never said I love you. He didn’t have to. Because every time she looked into his eyes, she saw a mirror she didn’t remember building.

and in the darkest corners of herself—the ones she used to be afraid to look at.

she started to believe she’d always belonged. Even if it meant forgetting who she was before. Even if it meant she had to stay.

note: y’all it finally ended ✊🏻 AHHHHH HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY THIS WHOLE SERIES BOOMSHAKAHQKQKAJSH!!!

#geum seong je #geum seongje #keum seongje #wolf keum #geum seong je x reader #geum seongje x reader #keum seongje x reader #wolf keum x reader #weak hero x reader #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class 2 #weak hero class one #weak hero class two

56 notes · View notes

felinisnoctis · 3 days ago

Text

Beads and Bonds

Bringing a canon character who really needs a hug and a nap into husbandry.

Tags: @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @egrets-not-regrets @nightshade-victorian @legionsofthehungry @kit-williams @sleepyfan-blog

Warnings: Shouldn't be any?

Dante slowly blinked as he opened his eyes again, once again somewhat to his disappointment. No rest still, it seemed, somehow, despite injuries that should have felled him. Then he blinked again as he tried to register where he was. There were green plants all around him and he could hear some sort of avian creatures. More importantly there weren't any signs of the creatures he'd been fighting - a devolved but still deadly form of the tyranids.

Curious, he held still and listened to the sounds around him. The small animal noises indicated a likely lack of nearby combat or large predators. And faintly, he could hear what sounded like a recorded human voice in a language he didn’t recognize. Could still be a trap - but he suspected whatever was using that as a trap would be expecting something else.

Levi was out in his back garden twisting wire into shapes. Right now he was making another set of trees, with “blossoms” of rose quartz or citrine beads, and contemplating what to do with the large garnet heart he’d managed to score at the last craft fair. The little trees always did well. Lots of people regarded them as a sort of minor good luck charm, especially if you didn’t have light for real plants. A little speaker was playing a podcast on historical textile production. Maybe he should learn to spin one day.

Dante slipped through the woods following the words. Eventually he came up close enough to see the house and garden and the baseline working in it. Curious - he’d seen many mortals come and go, but rarely got the chance to watch them create. He watched until the light started to fade and the mortal began to pack up his stuff several hours later.

I still don’t know where I am finally occurred to him as he started to emerge from the edge. The human finally turned and started back as he noticed the large figure emerging from the woods. Dropping the tray of beads he was carrying with a clatter and a word Dante somehow knew was impolite despite the language barrier.

Levi took a minute to process the figure coming out of the woods. Astartes, obviously, in full gold armor and a helmet with a face carved into it. And his entire case of beads was now in the lawn. Well that was a problem for later him.

“Hello? Can I help you?” Levi asked the astartes. He’d seen them before but not usually close enough to get an appreciation for just how big they were.

Ah, mortal, where are we? Dante asked the baseline in front of him. He hadn’t meant to startle him, though he wasn’t sure why he felt so concerned to make up for it. But the baseline shook his head in noncomprehension.

“I’m going to get my phone, ok? It’s…it’s not anything that will hurt you,” Levi said.

Dante didn’t understand what the mortal in front of him had said, but sensed the fear and backed up a little. His weapons were already sheathed. It seemed the man didn’t understand Gothic either. Unfortunate.

Levi looked for a moment to ensure the strange marine wasn’t going to attack and then retrieved his phone from the ground and looked up the number for the nearest Astartes helpline.

“Hello? I have a strange Astartes here, gold armor and a mask - I don’t think he speaks any local language - he just came out of the woods.”

Likely new then. Can you put your phone on speaker? The voice on the other end said.

“Ok,” he pressed the button “You are on speaker now.”

Hello. Can you please provide your name and legion, chapter, or warband affiliation? the voice asked in gothic. Obviously an Astartes, even through the communication device.

Commander Dante of the Blood Angels he responded. Can you tell me where this is?

The voice on the other end paused for a moment. That is a long explanation. We will be sending a team to your location shortly.

Acceptable Dante replied, given the strange circumstances. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some beads out of the grass.

#space marine husbandry #space marine husbandry sentience #commander dante #warhammer 40k #blood angels

62 notes · View notes

dimpleweek · 16 hours ago

Text

🔴🟢🔴Welcome to Dimple Appreciation Week!🔴🟢🔴

Let's all celebrate our favorite "evil" spirit together 👻🥦

❤️ Event date: June 22nd to June 28th

❤️ Prompts: Broccoli/Growth, Fight!, Mundane/Supernatural, Possession, Rage/Trust, Friendship, Free Day.

Basic guidelines:

💚 Please tag @/dimpleweek in your post so I'm sure to see it. Also late entries are 100% WELCOME, so don't rush yourself ✨

💚 All types of fanworks are welcome! Art, fic, meta, gifsets, edits, playlists, and anything else I forgot to mention ✍️

💚 All ships are allowed and all ships must be tagged. This includes works containing pre-ship and implied/referenced ship 💌

💚 This event is 100% SFW. No adult content will be reblogged ❌

💚 Remember that there's no right or wrong way to interpret prompts. Let your imagination run wild 🌈

💚 And the most important rule: have fun!

If you have any questions send an ask or drop a reply. NOTE: this is a sideblog so sometimes notifications are a little funky. If I don't respond within a day try sending your question/comment to my main @gallus-rising. Apologies in advance for any inconvenience 🙇‍♀️

I look forward to seeing everyone's wonderful creations ❤️💚❤️

#mp100 #dimple #ekubo #mob psycho 100

25 notes · View notes

adoreasellie · 1 day ago

Note

ur the best ellie writer i know and I've been DREAMING about some stripper!au where ellie goes out for one night to a strip club with no high hopes on anything, but ending up mesmerized by reader who works there as a stripper. maybe even have ellie spend some of her money to get a priv dance w her, reader gettin too touchy since she's one of the few female customers she gets and just ellie letting her use her thigh for the night. i love ur work ♡

Hi my sweet angel. First of all, thank you for your kind words. I’m far from being the best Ellie writer when Val exists !!! There is a ton of good writers here. And hella good ones. But your words goes directly to my heart. I hope you like what I wrote. Enjoy ;)

—————————————————————————

Title: Use me

Pairing: stripper!Reader x Customer!Ellie

Summary: Ellie didn’t plan to stay long. But something — or someone — made her linger.

Tags: - Sub!Ellie · Dom!Reader - Private dance - Teasing - Whispered praise - Sexual tension - Stripper AU - Explicit content

Warnings : Explicit sexual content (18+)- Thigh riding / grinding - Use of clothing for stimulation - Semi-public setting

Men and minors DNI

Ellie didn’t plan to stay.

She came with a couple friends, just for the distraction. The club reeked of cigarettes and vanilla body spray, music pulsing under her boots, sticky vinyl booths all crowded with men and their open mouths. She slid into the farthest corner, hoodie up, beer in hand, already thinking about leaving.

And then you walked on stage.

Heels like a threat. Gaze slow and deliberate. A body that moved like honey under lights, like the beat was yours and not the other way around.

You didn’t look at the men.

You didn’t look at the cash.

You looked straight at her.

Ellie froze.

She held your gaze like it was a secret. Like no one else in the room even existed. You didn’t smile at her — not yet. You dipped low on the pole, spun back up in a slow, controlled burn, and when the bass dropped, that’s when you smiled. Right at her.

She didn’t even realize she was moving until her boots hit the floor.

The private room was glowing in red light, quieter, warmer. The walls thumped softly with the music outside.

You shut the door behind her, and Ellie stood there awkwardly in the middle, hands jammed into the front pocket of her hoodie, like she wasn’t sure if she should sit or apologize for being alive.

You stepped toward her, slowly.

— First time? you asked, voice smooth.

She nodded. Eyes fixed on you like you might disappear.

You tilted your head, walking around her with measured steps.

— Don’t worry, you purred. You’re not my first girl.

Then, softer:

— But you might be my favorite.

Ellie let out a shaky breath. That did something to her.

You turned the music down just a bit — slow R&B, something you could ride to — and guided her to the velvet couch with the lightest touch on her hoodie sleeve.

She sat, stiff, like she didn’t know what to do with her limbs.

You straddled her.

Her breath caught.

— You got a name, sweet thing? you asked, letting your thighs press around her hips.

Her voice was quiet, almost sheepish.

— Ellie.

You smiled.

— Hi, Ellie.

She swallowed. Her hands stayed awkwardly in her lap.

You leaned closer, brushing your nose along her jaw.

— You gonna let me use you tonight, Ellie?

She exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

— Yeah. Please.

You took her wrists gently, placed them on your waist. She kept them there, gripping you like you might float away. Her thigh, warm and strong beneath you, pressed up just right between your legs.

You started moving.

Slow, deliberate rolls of your hips. Not for show — for you. For her. You could feel her under you, feel how tense she was, how still. You loved that. Loved being the one in control.

Ellie’s head fell back just a little, her lips parting. She didn’t say a word. Just watched you.

You leaned in, mouth at her ear.

— You’re letting me make such a mess on you, you whispered. You like it?

— Yeah, she breathed. Fuck, yeah.

You moaned softly as you dragged your pussy over her thigh again — the rough denim catching just right. You kept moving, rhythm building, grinding down with purpose now. Her hands were firm on your hips, but she didn’t guide — just held.

— You're doing so good, you murmured. So fucking good for me.

Ellie groaned. Her knuckles went white where they gripped your sides.

You didn’t stop.

— You ever made a girl come like this?

She shook her head, helpless.

— First time, she whispered. But I want it. Want you to come on me.

You gasped against her jaw. Your hips stuttered, pace growing erratic. The burn in your thighs matched the flutter in your stomach.

— Fuck, Ellie—

— Let go, she whispered. Use me. Take what you need.

And you did.

You came on her thigh with a trembling moan, body tight against hers, cunt pulsing through the waves, grinding through the end of it with your forehead pressed to her neck. Her arms wrapped around you as you shook, soft kisses at your temple.

You breathed together in silence.

Her hoodie was damp at the chest now. Your lipstick had left a mark near her collar.

You pulled back slowly, still on her lap.

— You okay?

Ellie nodded, eyes glassy.

— Yeah. Really fucking okay.

You smiled, brushing her bangs from her face.

There was a quiet moment where neither of you spoke. You just looked at her. She looked back.

There was something soft in her face now. Open. Curious. Maybe a little hopeful.

— You want to see me again? you asked, quietly this time.

Ellie hesitated. Then nodded.

— If that’s allowed.

You kissed the corner of her mouth — just once. Gentle. Then slid off her lap, legs still unsteady.

You picked up her hand and curled her fingers around a slip of paper.

— Leave this at the front, you said. Put your number and tell it’s for me.

Ellie blinked, visibly surprised.

— Will you give me your name ?

You smiled, a little less teasing this time.

— When you’ll ask me on a date.

A pause. Then you added.

— I liked you. Not just for your thigh.

She looked wrecked by that. Like the air left her lungs.

— Yeah, Ellie said. Yeah, I’d like that.

And when you walked out, you left the door just a little open behind you.

Ellie sat there for a moment, heart still pounding, thighs still warm from where your body had pressed against hers. Her fingers curled tightly around the little slip of paper you’d left in her hand, like it might float away if she let go.

She watched the door close behind you. One second. Two.

And then she smiled — slow, certain.

Not the kind of smile you give after a lap dance.

The kind you give when you already know what you’re going to do next.

She was going to call you.

Because no matter how good you were at putting on a show…

Ellie had seen something else tonight.

#the last of us #ellie williams #ellie x reader #tlou #ellie tlou #ellie x you #ellie williams x reader #wlw #striper #strip club

44 notes · View notes

mono-red-goblin-party · 1 day ago

Text

What You Can't Have: Part One

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: In an attempt to save your floundering music career, you accept the lead role in Mr. Right, a reality TV show with a massive following. All you have to do is fall in love with one of twenty perfect guys, and you'll have everything you've ever wanted. There's only one problem, and his name is Joel Miller. Your cameraman is infuriating, unfriendly, and entirely off-limits. So why can't you stop fantasizing about him?

Tags: AU, smut, medium angst, slow ish burn, no use of y/n, jealous!joel, dad!joel, extremely inaccurate production details because I want them to fuck

Part one preview: Joel may be life-ruining levels of hot with his mouth closed, but you could never be attracted to the patronizing jerk he becomes upon opening it. You tell the part of you that’s memorizing the slope of his chest to fuck off.

Word count: ~5.5K, This is prologue + chapter one

A/N: This is my first published fanfic, so please let me know what you think! I am back on tumblr after a literal decade because I am such a slut for Joel. Part two is in the works and it is thirsty. Comments would mean the world :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Prologue~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Top ten warning signs that your music career is over:

1. When Barnett Records releases your second album, you realize they’ve decided to name it Summerbash. 2. The label cuts all your original songs from the record. 3. When you complain about this to Grant Barnett, your producer and boyfriend of three years, he dumps you. A week before your thirtieth birthday. 4. You celebrate your thirtieth birthday. 5. Pitchfork rates the album a 1.5/10. You learn this from an article entitled “Summer-bash my head in”. 6. The “Summerbash Summer Splash” Tour is postponed. Indefinitely. 7. When Marlene – your manager – calls Barnett Records about a contract for your next album, the label doesn’t call back. 8. In fact, none of the record labels call back. 9. The only call Marlene does get is from the producers of a reality dating show called Mr. Right. They want to see if you’ll be their so-called Dream Girl next season. Because you’re now notoriously single and unemployed.

And the ultimate, irrefutable sign that your music career is over:

10. Marlene actually wants you to take the job.

“No,” you say. The music in the gym is always blasting, so you have to shout for Marlene to hear you. She originally convinced you to work out with her to build stamina for the Summerbash tour, and lately has been dragging you here with arguments about endorphins and you “not exactly being up to anything else”.

You raise your voice over the chorus of “Abracadabra” and continue your protest. “Absolutely not. Shows like that are completely humiliating.”

Marlene finishes her bench press and re-racks the barbell. Sometimes you think she deliberately breaks bad news to you here so that her insanely jacked arms add emphasis to her managerial authority. She sits up and levels you with a long stare.

“More humiliating than actually going on the Summer Splash Tour?” she asks, “because you were willing to do that, last I checked.”

You do not appreciate this comparison.

“This is not the same thing,” you say. “The tour would have involved actual singing. Mr. Right is a glorified beauty pageant.”

“I told them as much on the phone, actually.” Marlene gets up to pull plates off the bar and replace them with your much lighter ones. You give her a skeptical look, and she continues. “Well, not in so many words. I told them you’re a musician, not a reality star, and it would be a tough sell.” She nods to the bench. “You’re up.”

You lie back and brace yourself, then slowly lower the weight as Marlene spots you. It takes all your concentration to hold the right form, so you conveniently can’t interrupt her pitch.

“Apparently your career is a big draw for them,” she says. “If you take the role, they want to use one of your songs as intro music for the season. They even offered to pay for studio time if you want to record an original single for the show.”

You consider this as you finish your set. One single – even if you manage to write a good one – is not going to erase the legacy of Summerbash. But it’s the closest thing to a record deal you’ve seen in months. You struggle through your last rep and sit up.

“I get why you want me to do this,” you tell Marlene, “But it’s Mr. Right. I really don’t think it’s for me.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, rolling her eyes, “dating twenty eligible men is going to be so miserable for you.”

“Not dating,” you say, “marrying. One of them, at least.”

“Come on,” Marlene says. “Mr. Right has been on TV for twenty-four seasons. You know how many couples are still together? Three. Nobody on that show is really there to marry you.”

“I’ll still have to get engaged,” you protest.

“Maybe,” she says, “if you find someone you like. Or maybe you have a dramatic on-camera heartbreak. Either one gets you diehard fans.”

You don’t respond, and she drops to the bench beside you.

“I know you know this, but Summerbash only got fifty thousand streams,” she says. “No label is going to risk signing you after that, not unless you can guarantee better numbers. Do you know how many people watched the last Mr. Right season?Twenty million. You take this Dream Girl offer, you win over America, and I can get you your pick of labels.”

You let out a soft moan of despair and bury your head in your hands. Marlene tells the truth. It’s what you’ve always liked about her, but right now you want to hate her for it. Because when the facts are all in front of you, there’s really only one good choice.

You take the fucking part.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter One~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m a girl with an Iceberg Heart, Little heart but big feelings Hard to stop once you make me start, All these layers you’re peeling.”

--“Iceberg Heart”, Summerbash Track No. 6. Lyrics by Grant Barnett. Vocals by You.

Tonight, you meet your Suitors. Your call sheet for the day has a six-hour window for “getting dressed”, with a handwritten annotation in perfect cursive reminding you to show up on time. Not that you could really be late, seeing as the dressing room is in your hotel suite. It’s a beautiful room, with plush white carpeting and large French doors that open to a balcony overlooking the LA skyline, but you can’t take it in at the moment. You’re perched on a stool in front of a vanity mirror, trying hard to stay still while Courtney – the official Dream Girl Stylist – glues the final few lashes onto your eyes.

In the mirror, the reflection of Eliza, the head Dream Girl producer, buzzes across the room looking for problems to solve. Eliza is beautiful in a sleek, professional way, with a blonde high pony and eternally flawless French manicure. She’s also the one who submitted your name to the show-runners as a potential Dream Girl, and you probably should resent her for this, but she reminds you of Marlene and you can’t dislike her. She told you once that she loves your album – not the new one, but your EP, Glass Slipper. She might have been lying to soften you up, you think. If so, it worked.

Eliza’s running a steamer over the already wrinkle-free folds of your dress when somebody knocks on the door. She puts the steamer down and checks her Apple watch. “It’s six fifty-seven, so that has to be your camera guy. I told him seven sharp.”

She opens the door and there’s a confusing instant before you spot the actual camera when you think one of the Suitors has found his way into your suite, because fuck, your cameraman is gorgeous.

He’s tall, with broad shoulders that stretch against the fabric of his snug green t-shirt. It’s probably not a good idea to stare at him, but you’ve been on a strict no-dating regimen since you signed the Mr. Right contract, and a part of you can’t help but take in the strong outline of his chest, the way his worn-out jeans hang low on his hips. His hair is dark, curls slightly overgrown. You notice a hint of gray at his temple and figure he’s a few years older than you, mid-thirties maybe.

You catch his steady gaze in the mirror. A tiny thrill runs through you. Did he notice you checking him out? Your cheeks warm and you might be imagining it but his expression shifts, a slight raise of an eyebrow. Oh, he noticed. Suddenly you’re remembering that all you have on is a satin robe and a no-show thong.

Eliza closes the door. Right. There are other people in the room.

“I want to introduce you to Joel Miller,” Eliza says, “He’s our best videographer, and he’s going to act as your personal cameraman this season.”

You tell him your name, and his tiny smirk widens.

“Reckon I already knew that” he says, and you’re almost too annoyed by his smartass comment to notice that even his voice is sexy, smooth and deep with a hint of drawl.

God, you need to get it together. Twenty of the hottest men in America are about to be vying for your affection. Marlene would kill you if she knew were drooling over someone else.

It turns out Joel is here to shoot a handful of “getting ready” shots for the first episode. Eliza brings in a few PAs and Joel asks them to reposition the vanity three times before he’s satisfied with the lighting. Then Eliza hands you a mascara wand and tells you to look in the mirror and pretend to apply it to your lashes.

“Think about your future husband,” she says, “the man of your dreams is probably driving up in a limo this very moment. Look in the mirror and imagine how it will feel when you find him.”

Really, you’re stuck trying to imagine how anyone could believe these are your natural lashes, and it must be obvious because Joel is frowning into his camera behind you.

“Light still ain’t right,” he mutters. His hand settles on your shoulder as he guides you backward, turning you toward the window, the soft light of the sun just starting to set.

He takes a step back and trains the camera on you again. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Beautiful.”

You know he’s talking about the shot, but your skin heats up at the soft praise.

Eliza leans over Joel’s shoulder and confirms that the shot is “dreamy”, and then she’s whisking everyone out of the suite so Courtney can get you into your opening night dress. It’s a soft pink evening gown, slightly low-cut and fitted down to the waist with an A-line skirt that flows to your ankles. Eliza had final say over tonight’s gown. She wants this one to“reintroduce you to America.” No longer a pop star, but a princess.

This isn’t the first outfit you’ve been told to wear in your career, and hardly the worst of them. It’s nothing compared to the cover of Summerbash, which, as per the Barnett exec’s directive, depicts you clad only in sky-blue soap suds. You never want to be labeled difficult by complaining about little things like styling. You certainly don’t plan on rocking the boat tonight, especially since you don’t exactly have a closet of your own “Dream Girl meets her Suitors” looks. But it feels strange to play dress-up on the biggest stage of your career.

The door cracks open. Eliza calls in to see if you’re decent, and then she’s back with Joel and the PAs. Now that the sun is setting, they want a few shots of you outside in your dress.

Joel positions you in the center of the balcony, arms spread out, facing away from him. It's just the two of you outside. Silence stretches between you, and you’re not sure why but it makes you uncomfortable to stand there under his quiet scrutiny.

“So, are you from the south?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Where from?”

“Texas.”

No elaboration. Cool. Clearly Joel Miller is not much of a conversationalist, and this shouldn’t annoy you, but it does. You’re the goddamn Dream Girl, aren’t you supposed to be good at talking to men?

You try again. “Are you looking forward to filming this season?”

He gives a noncommittal grunt.

“So, hard yes?”

Joel doesn’t reply, and you figure he’s decided to ignore you completely when he breaks the silence.

“Y’know, the shot’s gonna be just as good if we don’t talk to each other while I take it.”

Fuck, he’s exasperating. You roll your eyes, grateful that the camera can’t see you, and you hear a small huff of laughter from behind you.

“I’m gonna need you to relax,” Joel says, “You look real tense on camera.”

“The back of my head looks tense?”

“Well, that too, but you’ve got a fierce grip on that railing.”

You let go instantly. A hot spike of indignation runs through you. Somehow Joel has had the upper hand since he walked into your suite.

Behind you, Joel lets out a low chuckle. You feel him move close, then he places your arms one by one back on the railing. You’re becoming increasingly convinced this guy is a nightmare, but some horny, treacherous part of your brain notes that his touch is surprisingly gentle on your skin.

“You know,” you say, “some consider it common decency to try and get to know a person you’re about to be glued to for the next six weeks.”

“That so?” He’s teasing you now, a playful current in his voice. “Because I’d say the decent thing is to let a man do his job in peace.”

Asshole. You say as much out loud.

He is tone is entirely unaffected when he responds.

“I ain’t paid to be nice to you, Dream Girl.”

Obviously not.

It’s a bit of a relief, to be honest. Joel may be life-ruining levels of hot with his mouth closed, but you could never be attracted to the patronizing jerk he becomes upon opening it. You tell the part of you that’s been memorizing the slope of his chest to fuck off. It’s time to meet your Suitors.

----

You’re standing on your mark in front of the Mr. Right Villa, fresh out of a final hair-and-makeup check with Courtney. Eliza budgeted four hours for you to meet twenty men, which seems excessive. Then again, you’re already running five minutes behind. Joel wasn’t satisfied with the camera crew’s setup, so the PAs are putting up an additional reflector in the driveway. Eliza is taking advantage of the delay to run through tonight’s events one more time with you.

“You’ll only have a few moments with the Suitors now. They have to say their names for the camera, but don’t worry about remembering. Just focus on the connection you feel.”

You nod. “Got it.”

“After they greet you, they’ll go ahead inside the Villa. Feel free to – ”

“Watch them walk away,” you cut in, “And comment out loud if they’re especially hot. I remember.”

Eliza’s brow furrows. “Are you nervous? You seem nervous.”

“Tense.” Joel offers, raising an eyebrow at you. Asshole.

“I’m fine,” you reassure Eliza.

You’re not fine. You’re nervous as shit. You’ve been on camera before, to film music videos, but always dancing or lip-syncing. You’ve never just had to be you, and it’s hitting you now that this whole season rests on your shoulders. You need to be electric. If you’re stiff, or rude, or boring, the fans will hate you.

The panic must show on your face because Eliza sighs. “You’re totally spiraling, aren’t you?”

You close your eyes. “Okay, yes, a little.”

“Talk to me,” she says.

You keep your eyes closed for a moment. You want to tell Eliza that you don’t even know how to connect with people if you can’t impress them with your career, that the only man you’ve ever maybe loved dropped you the second you screwed up, that you’re afraid all the Suitors will just see right through you. But there are already B-roll cameras recording you.

You open your eyes and sigh. “I think it’s just hitting me how surreal it is that I’m America’s Dream Girl.”

Behind Eliza, you notice Joel is done fiddling with his new reflector. He’s trained the camera on you and is staring into its screen, undoubtedly clocking every moment of your freakout. Great. His eyes flit up to meet yours, and his expression shifts slightly as he holds your gaze. You break the eye contact and focus on the producer in front of you.

Eliza smiles softly and squeezes your arm. “Believe it or not, the lead feels like this every season. But you deserve to be here. You’re going to be an incredible Dream Girl.” She takes her phone out of her pocket and pulls something up on it.

“Technically phones are contraband,” she says, winking at you, “but I came prepared for night one jitters.” She passes you the phone and you realize she’s showing you footage Joel filmed earlier tonight. “I want you to see yourself the way America will see you,” she says.

The footage is incredible. Linen curtains part in the wind, letting through a shaft of amber light. The camera follows the light until it falls on an ethereal woman – you – touching up her makeup in a mirror. The mascara application felt stilted in the moment, but under Joel’s lens it comes across artistic. He’s positioned the camera so that it catches the fringes of evening light on your eyelashes. In the glass, your reflection is exquisite, her satin robe shimmering as she moves, shadow pooling beneath her exposed clavicles. Yes, the makeup she’s fixing is already perfect, yes, she’s a touch uncertain, but somehow this makes her seem human, desirable. You watch as her breath hitches, a flush spreading over her skin, and oh. You are the picture of romance.

Next is the balcony shot. The camera walks through the curtains to find you gazing out at the city, your silhouette haloed in gold. There’s a zoom-in of your hands lifting restlessly from the railing, then another full body shot as a sigh settles through your shoulders. The woman on the screen has a perfect view before her, but Joel makes it clear her mind is elsewhere. She’s aching for something more. She’s the perfect Dream Girl, and she’s yearning for love.

The footage ends. Your skin is burning. You can’t bring yourself to glance at Joel, but you look up at Eliza.

“Do you see?” she says, taking back the phone. “You belong here.”

You nod wordlessly. The girl on the screen isn’t here by accident. She already is the fantasy. You take a deep breath. You can do this.

Eliza is still looking at you with concern.

“Thank you,” you say, “for being the best producer a girl could ask for. I think I’m ready to flirt with some very hot men now.”

Eliza grins. “Attagirl. Let’s tell this love story.”

She strides off camera, shooing the remaining crew members out of frame, then radios into her walkie-talkie that you’re ready for the first limo. You shoot a glance at Joel as it pulls in, belatedly wanting to thank him somehow, but he’s fixated on his camera screen, ignoring you. Right then. You turn to face the car.

The limo comes to a stop and a PA opens the door. Your heart races. A tall Asian man steps out onto the driveway. He’s dressed in a deep blue suit, and you notice his hands jitter as he closes the button on his jacket. He meets your eye and gives you a shy smile. You smile back automatically as he walks toward you.

Up close, he’s even taller than you thought, easily a head above you despite your stilettos. He’s also incredibly handsome, with high cheekbones and long, thick eyelashes. He hovers in front of you for a moment. His eyes jump to the cameras behind you, then back to your face.

“This is crazy,” he blurts out. His eyes widen in horror. “I mean, good evening.”

“Good evening,” you say back.

“Thank you,” he says, and you watch him cringe. There’s a pause. In your periphery, you watch Joel pacing a few steps closer to get a shot of you over the contestant’s shoulder. You probably look like an ice queen on camera. How can you salvage this?

You reach out and take the contestant’s hand.

“It’s okay,” you say, “I’m nervous too.”

He sighs shakily and runs a hand through his hair.

“Fuck,” he says, “Two seconds into meeting my celebrity crush, and I’ve called you crazy, forgotten how to speak, and now I’m cursing on camera.”

“Technically you didn’t call me crazy,” you reply, “and if I swear too will it make you feel less like a fuck-up?”

He laughs, a bit of the tension washing out of him. “You know, I read once that swearing actually helps us relieve stress. There was a psychological study where they measured people’s heart rates before and after they cursed, and their vitals improved every time.”

“Really?” You tilt your head at him. “Do all bad words work? Would ‘shit’ get me just as calm as ‘fuck’?”

“I don’t know.” He crinkles his brow. “And I can’t look it up, so the only way we can find out is via experiment. I think we’re going to have to test this out on our dates.”

“Oh, so we’re going on dates?”

“I hope so,” he replies. He takes your other hand and looks you in the eye. “If you can’t tell already, I’m really excited to be here. I even planned a whole introduction for us that didn’t involve profanity.”

Over his shoulder, Eliza is giving you the wrap it up signal. You squeeze the Suitor’s hands.

“Well, I can’t fucking wait to hear more about this would-be introduction later.”

“Sounds good,” he says, and he pulls you into a quick embrace before walking past you into the Villa.

You’re beyond grateful to have producers who know you well enough to send such a sweet guy out first. You try to play up an optimistic, love-struck expression. You’re about to comment on how cute he is when you see Eliza’s frustrated expression. All at once, you realize what you forgot.

You turn toward the Villa to call out to the Suitor, but he’s already running back. Joel backs out of the way as the man skids to a stop in front of you.

“Holy shit,” he says, “I completely forgot to tell you my name.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Henry.”

You shake his hand, amused at the formality of the gesture. “It’s very nice to meet you, Henry.”

He beams, then impulsively pulls you in for a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you inside,” he says, then jogs back toward the Villa as you laugh for the cameras.

Eliza is practically shaking with excitement by the time the door closes behind Henry. She shoots you a thumbs up over Joel’s shoulder. “That was perfect! I told you, you’re a natural!” She looks around at the crew. “We all good for the next guy?”

“Just a minute.” Joel’s gruff voice ends the moment of celebration as he strides over to you. He places a hand on the small of your back and guides you two steps forward. “We need you to stay on your mark,” he says, “Okay? And it’ll help me keep your face in frame if you cheat out at an angle from the men.”

Now that you’ve seen how good Joel is, you shove aside your frustration at his overbearing comments and try to follow his lead. You pivot your body slightly. “Like this?”

“Hang on.” He steers you into position. He’s barely a foot away, so close that you can see stubble dusting his jaw. He smells of woodsmoke and leather.

“There you go,” he mutters. He removes his hand and steps back, snapping into focus as he gives you instructions. “If you’re ever not sure about a shot, look at me, right? If you can see the camera without having to lean around anybody, all good.”

“Got it.”

He pauses for a moment. “You’re not doing terrible,” he says.

Gee thanks.

The limo exits continue. Plenty of the men are nervous, but no one else forgets to say their own name. A few of the contestants have customized their introductions for you. A dark-haired Suitor with a one-word named brings you fan mail from his niece. Solomon, a tattoo-covered guy who can’t be older than twenty-five, unbuttons his shirt to show a glass slipper inked on his ribcage. The most memorable of these Suitors is Lucas, a burly guy a little older than you, who steps from the limo in a recreation of your sky-blue soap suds from the Summerbash cover.

The remaining Suitors use their limo entrances to tell you about themselves. Mike, a soft-spoken paramedic, hands you a stethoscope so you can hear his heart racing. A Suitor named Jasper wants to teach you how to ballroom dance, and usually you’d be thrilled at the chance, but at this point you’ve been standing in the Villa driveway for two hours, and you’re suspicious that the stilettos Courtney chose for you tonight are actually medieval torture devices.

Your feet are killing you. These heels look great with your evening gown, and they felt okay when you tested them out in your suite. But now the straps are digging into you, and you’re pretty sure there are blisters forming on your toes. When Jasper leads you through a figure eight, it takes everything you have not to wince. Dream Girls do not grimace at their Suitors.

You do your best to keep the pain from showing, but you practically sob with relief by the time the last of the Suitors – an ex-hockey player whose name you’ve already forgotten – gives you a hug and heads into the Villa. You’ve made it.

Eliza runs out to congratulate you. “You did great! And you worked fast. We’re fifteen minutes ahead. We’re never ahead night one!”

The contestants still have filming to do without you, so you get to take a break. Hopefully a sitting-down break.

The crew disperses. Joel strides off without a word as soon as Eliza says you’re done. A few PAs start disassembling the outdoor lighting. Everyone else heads inside the Villa. There’s a big bedroom on the second floor that producers have set up as a green room, complete with a coffee maker, mini fridge and old leather couch. You make a beeline for the couch and sink down, barely suppressing a moan of relief. You want nothing more than to take off your heels, but you don’t think you have it in you to put them back on when the time comes.

Eliza perches on the other side of the couch. You feel as though you’ve been to war, but she’s still exuberant as ever. It’s probably because she gets to wear sneakers. She leans off the couch to open the mini fridge, extracting a water bottle and an energy drink, then hands both to you.

“Drink,” she orders, “We’re going to film until dawn at least.”

You drink, and the two of you sit in silence for a few minutes while you recover. Then Eliza checks her watch and sends the remaining crew members in the room to go find Courtney. She gets up herself to run and get "girl talk supplies", pausing on her way out.

“Just think,” she says, “one of these guys is your husband!”

You lay back on the couch once she’s gone. It’s the first real moment alone you’ve had since waking up this morning, and being America’s Dream Girl has tired you out. You close your eyes and try to practice dissociating from your feet so you can get through the upcoming cocktail party.

You hear the doorknob turn and open your eyes, expecting to go through cast photos with Eliza. But Eliza isn’t back yet. Instead, you see Joel slip into the room, something tucked behind his back. His gaze slides over you.

“Hey, Dream Girl.”

His voice is heavy, and you realize he’s nearly as exhausted as you are.

“Hey, Miller,” you reply, closing your eyes again. “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“I ain’t,” he grumbles. You hear him settle on the other end of the couch. “At least no more than I got to.”

You’re about to point out that he initiated this conversation and very much does not have to be talking right now when he speaks again.

“Open your eyes.”

You obey, and suddenly you realize what he was hiding behind his back. You sit up all at once.

“Joel.”

Shoes.

He brought you shoes. Flip-flops. Yours. He must have gone right to your hotel room after Eliza called for a break. You stare at him in wordless gratitude.

He meets your eyes and for an instant he’s smiling at you, really smiling. A warm band tightens in your chest. His expression stiffens and he drops his gaze. He hands you the shoes and stands up, walking over to the coffee pot.

“Don’t think this is me being nice to you or anything,” he says.

“Definitely not,” you agree, bending down to free your feet. “There is absolutely nothing kind or friendly about this heroic deed of yours.”

Joel scowls. The coffee in the pot is long-cold by now, but he pours himself a cup of dregs anyway and regards you steadily as he puts it in the microwave. “You were fucking up all my footage out there, hobbling around. No one’s gonna believe you’re in love, looking like that.”

“I’m not in love,” you say, glancing up at him, “I’ve known these guys for two minutes.”

You don’t know why you feel the need to press this point to Joel. Maybe because Eliza expects you to be so smitten already.

Joel doesn’t respond to this. He pulls his coffee from the microwave before the timer goes off and drinks it in silence, then turns to rinse the mug. You undo the last few straps of your heels, then ease your feet free with a soft sigh of relief. Warily, you eye your stilettos. Courtney or Eliza will almost certainly make you put them back on before filming.

As if he’s read your mind, Joel returns and bends to pick up the cast-off heels.

“Gotta get rid of the evidence,” he explains, his brown eyes dancing. “If Eliza complains about the change-up, tell her I said we’re done with full-body shots for the evening. Then mention that we’ll get behind schedule if you change your shoes.”

You nod, and he turns to leave the room. This is the second time Joel has helped you tonight. It makes you uneasy, owing him something. You try to think of the right way to thank him.

“It’s beautiful, by the way.”

Your words catch him as he’s reaching the door. He pauses, looks at you questioning.

“Your footage, that is,” you explain. You feel hot under his scrutiny. You think of the clips Eliza showed you, all the cracks in your composure that Joel somehow made beautiful. He can see right through you. The thought sets you on edge, and you speak to fill the quiet.

“I feel like you could take footage of a rock and make it tell a story.”

Joel’s expression is unreadable.

“If the rock’s still an option, I reckon it would be easier to work with,” he finally says, but there’s a tension in his voice. Is this what “pleased” looks like on Joel Miller? He tilts his head in your direction as he opens the door to leave.

“See you outside, Cinderella.”

Not your name, not “Dream Girl”. He probably just intends to poke fun at your missing shoes, but you wonder if he’s referencing Glass Slipper. Does Joel Miller, unapologetic asshole, sexy perfectionist and, apparently, part-time knight in shining armor, listen to your music?

#joel miller x reader #tlou fic #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x y/n #what you can't have fic #monored writes #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #the last of us au

22 notes · View notes