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watermelondip · 2 days ago

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transatlanticism | chapter nine

masterlist ao3

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Series Description: The past, present, and plausible future. Knowing Steve in the in-between. Or, as you grow up in Hawkins, parallel to Steve's rich kid bubble, you fall out of favor with expectations, and end up abroad for the rest of highschool. In light of an abrupt return, you try to rekindle a friendship with someone you don't know anymore.

Tags: friends to lovers, friends with benefits, angst, severely poor communication.

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steve harrington / reader Warnings: brief sexual content, injury. Words: 4.9k

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You were born again on Charlotte Street, shut eyes straining at something bright as blood pooled around you, lathered your skin, and a dull ache formed throughout the entirety of your body, urging you to sob just like you did nineteen years ago. You were born again with a bigger nose and faulty wrist, limp and relatively unresponsive as something sharp and small and harsh jabbed at your shoulder.

"Shit, is she dead?" There was another poke at your shoulder, and it jostled you slightly, forcing a silent, dying breath out of your mouth as the world came back in shades of red.

"Yeah, well, if she is dead, I don't think poking her shoulder is gonna help anything."

"We have to--" a pause and a gulp and a gasp as a hand drifted over your hair, "fuck, we have to get her out of the car."

"Steve, is she dead? Can you feel a pulse? Can you tell?"

"I don't know, I don't know," he chanted, rising in intonation. Now, knowing that Steve was the one dusting his fingertips over your bloody head, an overwhelming warmth spread through you, re-heating your bones and starting up your heart, pounding in your ears and making your limbs shiver for a moment. The nagging voice threatened to speak again, but he dismissed it. "Fuck, fuck Carol, I don't know! Give me a second, will you?" He pushed your hair to the side, skimming something sharp on the side of your head, but you were too corpse-like to wince. You felt his fingers reach your pulse point. Oddly, you sensed the anticipation too, wondering if this was death and everything was over and from now on, you'd just get to spy sightlessly from limbo. The idea pierced you.

When he pressed his fingers in your neck, you could feel the way the skin pulsed against them, cold but slowly throbbing. Suddenly, knowing that you were alive, you took in a crackling breath, deconstructed in the way it wavered. Cold air flew down your throat, and you were awoken by the sting of every wound on your body, all screaming all at once. Still, it looked really subtle to them. It looked really unnoticeable, really faint to them, and Steve only tightened, wrapping his hand around the side of your face, leaning down close to feel you breathe.

"Can you hear me? Baby, can you hear me? Can you look at me?" He gulped again. He sounded wet and raw, sounded like you did post-purge. You tried blinking your eyes open, but it was too much, not dark enough adjust, and you failed to see him. "Hey, hey, that's good. You can hear me, yeah? Can you hear me?" His hand moved up your face, pushing more hair from your forehead, and his thumb ran over the sharp bit again. Having been sufficiently resurrected, you made a solid wince, and he took in some uneasy air, his hand jolting away from the spot. Slowly, your lips parted enough to let a low groan, something desperate and witchy, slip through, almost like an affirmation but more like a cry.

"Shit, man, we gotta move her, right? I mean, she's alive, right? So, we gotta move her. Shit, we gotta call 911. What if she bleeds to death? Is she still bleeding, can you still see blood coming out of her?"

"No, no what if moving her makes it worse? Doesn't that happen? Like, I heard if someone breaks their back or something you shouldn't move them because it'll just make it worse."

"Does her back look broken to you, huh? She fell on her fucking face! Look at her fucking nose!"

Steve was breathing like a mammoth. He was a tree. Even from behind your eyelids, he sheltered you from whatever abrasive light was shining on the scene. Feeling the urge to touch him, to ground yourself, you tried wiggling your fingers, attempting to dislodge the wrist trapped under your chest, but you were only met with another radiating sting that traveled down your veins, going small and spiking at your forearm.

"Hey, hey, no, don't try to move," he urged, sweeping some of the broken glass away from your head. "You're okay. You're gonna be okay; I've got you." Unabashedly, you b elieved, and began to breathe at quicker speeds, heart bulging so close to the surface that your ribs re-formed, chest expanding again. He swiped a piece of glass that was stuck to your cheek. His breath was a warm fan on your reddened nose. The wind whipped harshly past.

"She's going to be okay, right?" Carol questioned, shuffling closer. You squinted cautiously. She had her arms wrapped around herself, her hair tucked roughly behind her ears, and it was like she had been stripped of something vital, leaving her raw and bare and shivering, trying not to cry. For a brief moment, you knew that she loved you, and something sticky rushed through you, plunging you into a different sort of ache. Steve sniffled. Your nostalgia was ruining him. "She's going to be fine?" Carol reiterated.

"Yeah." His voice was mucus-y and fresh. He gulped back his slowly seeping terror, the hurricane in his bloodstream quelling. "Yeah, yeah, just go get some help, okay? I'm don't wanna hurt her." In the hazy mania of the event, you could still remember the wet, shaky kiss he pressed into your hair.

Steve didn't visit you in the hospital. It felt like an after-death. You ate jello, pain meds, and guilt for two nights straight. The only people who did visit were the maid, Carol, and, for a few minutes, Dick from Ohio, who said you still looked hot with the giant nose bandage and nasty bruise on your forehead. He said he felt like it was his fault. He said your dumb boyfriend, who'd been in a really off-putting mood when he'd arrived the night prior with a shiny forehead and an ugly Christmas sweater, seething and heaving and asking lots of 'what the fuck's, should be the one by your bedside instead. You remained impartial but felt like a heavy weight in a mud pit, slowly sinking.

"I'm sorry I called him," Carol admitted, crossing her legs and going snooty. It was, derogatorily, the morning after. "I know you're pissed about it, but he's your boyfriend. I had to call him, it's just what you do."

"Well, he's not my boyfriend anymore, is he?"

"God, it's not like he dumped you. He's avoiding the hospital because he's disturbed. You're disturbing. Stop being so dramatic. He'll call you next week, I promise."

"How am I disturbing?" The gown tickled your collarbone unpleasantly. The whole room smelled like sterility and the ache in your nose was starting to reappear, radiating down to your teeth, your jaw, the back of your brain.

"I mean, come on, he didn't invite you to his Christmas party and so you had your own, fucked some random guy Tommy brought along, and then left just to crash your car in what looked like an attempted suicide. It's disturbing. Plus, now you look like shit, so he's probably just waiting for the ugly bandages and stuff to come off." You hoped, for all of your aches and pains, that these words came to you in delirium, and that the truth than rang in them, pounding your skull just a bit more, was hallucination-esque. You hoped your understanding was a figment. You wanted him currently, wanted him all over, wet eyed, kissing you on the face and thanking you for living.

"Yeah, whatever," you murmured, sinking some more. Carol visited twice, and for the second time she brought a card that was signed by a few notable semi-friends, which was sweet but shallow and predictable. You wanted her to bring Steve.

You were discharged on a Friday afternoon. For the first time since high school, your dad picked you up. His car, the navy blue one that always sat on the good side of the garage, was entirely pristine, arguably more so than when you had been in it last. When you were seventeen you called him to give you a ride home after a particularly nasty New Year's Eve get-together, which had been too loud and too large and too much. He'd hated you for weeks. He hated you now too, just as he hated all women, especially all weak, tumultuous, and miniscule women.

And all he had to say was, "That boy will never marry you now."

He showed up at the door a day later, but you were functionally bed-ridden, so the maid let him in, ushering him up to your room with a hushed tone and hurried step. Your father was in his office. Your father didn't want to be disturbed. Your father was leaving again to tomorrow, and he probably wouldn't be back before the New Year. Steve was wearing his lazy jeans (they were old and a little worn away at the knees). He was frowning when he entered your room. For a moment, it felt like he was observing your casket, sweeping his eyes over a corpse.

"Hey." From behind his back, he pulled a cheap looking teddy bear, which he promptly tossed next to you on the bed. It had a purple shirt that said, 'Get Well Soon', and it was this idyllic shade of chestnut. You felt warmer but, "It's from Robin," he explained, and the coldness only grew.

"I thought Robin hated me." You pulled the bear into your lap, fussing with its ears. There was a slowly subsiding urge to cling to his ankles and beg. He shut the door with his foot, uncaring towards the blatant slam, and carrying in with him a nasty slump that spoke volumes about his bubbling distaste for the whole situation. He glared at your nose, the bandage on your forehead, the wrap around your wrist.

"Yeah, well, you almost died, and then she kinda stopped hating you as much."

You laughed: "Don't be dramatic." Just like Carol said to you. It felt right for the time, apt. Steve stood beside the door, stony. He looked at you with something dark, lips tight. "Sit," you urged, patting the spot next to you on the bed, but he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut like his head hurt. "Steve, come on, I'm fine. Doctor Earl said I might even be able to re-shape it a little," you said, gesturing to your nose. He rubbed his hand over his forehead.

"Don't do that." He didn't move from his spot next to the door, and it felt like a statement in itself, forcing a shiver out of you.

"Do what?" This time, you baby-eyed him, tucking your hair behind your ears and diverting from that absurdly intense stare he had on you.

"You know what I mean." You placed the bear to the side, moving away from the covers, trying to stand on shaky legs. Everything had felt sore and heavy since the hospital. You were infantile, wobbly ankles and sunken eyes, bruised around every edge. "No, hey, you don't need to get up." He waved his hand, taking a few tentative steps, and you settled on your knees, trying to flatten the sheets around you a little, gesturing for him to sit again.

"Can you just sit, please?" He tilted, sympathetic in his hesitancy, and you wanted so desperately to feel him, to have him, to know that and stop with all the worrying. "Please, Steve, just--" you cut yourself off, wavering. You tried fixing yourself, re-tucking your hair, running your fingers through it, fussing under your eyes, wiping away unwanted mascara. Manically, you settled back onto your heels, holding back from bouncing with anticipation, with anxiety.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the stupid Christmas party." He produced another tilt, burrowing into himself. "But I just can't tell my parents about us right now. I mean, hell, they don't even like me hanging around you after everything they've heard."

It was unclear exactly what these incorrigible activities were; you supposed they were those things you had been too drunk to remember, and maybe that drunkenness told you everything you needed to know about why they were so shameful. You wanted to remind him that he had totaled their car sophomore year, that he had almost gotten a girl pregnant, that he never had a chance of getting into college, unlike you, who only forfeited your future, still entirely capable of obtaining it. None of it mattered much. Arbitrarily, everything was always horrific, and you were always relenting.

"It's okay." You fucked Richard, so it was okay. Steve nodded solemnly, stuffing his hands in his pockets, approaching the bed with a solidified reluctance. In that bed, you had fucked Richard. His socks had been absentmindedly kicked under your bed. His sweaty neck had rested on your pillow. Steve breached the bubble, sitting down next to you, putting his hand on your knee as you moved off your heels, crossing your legs and falling easily into a state of forgetting. You wanted puke. You always wanted to puke. Someday, you hoped to hollow out your own stomach, forcing the re-birth to stick. "Did I scare you?" you asked, fishing. He dusted his thumb over the bruise at the end of your thigh.

He laughed, sardonic. He just sort of looked at you. He was big and open and bleeding all over your bed.

"What do you fucking think?" His hand drifted below the bruise and his fingers surrounded the skin, squeezing, watching as his grip morphed your shape. "When Carol called me, I couldn't--" his hand left you, drifting back to his side, and he swallowed down his memories, composing himself. "We all thought you were dead. Tommy was so drunk; he kept cracking jokes about it, and I just wanted to kill him, I swear." He scratched at his jeans. "Can you just promise me that this is over now? That you're done with this shit?"

"I'm done with this shit," you whispered, feeling a strange tingle down your spine, a heat spurring in your chest. You could smell him, his distinctly Steve smell, just like you smell your dog or your old house, and it made you warmer despite the winter's steadfast climate. It was the sense of liveliness you had felt when he sat next to you in Spanish class or bumped your shoulder at lunch. This was another life, you thought. You'd gone to Hell and returned less scorned, you thought.

"You can't just say it this time. I'm not doing this again, okay? After Nancy, after everything, I need something that doesn't make me lose it every other week."

"Nancy?" His eyes flashed with a brief, ill-intentioned panic. "What's it got to do with Nancy? I thought you were over that."

He faltered, considered, and murmured, "Like you were over me?" Something vital fissured. It seemed an unfair comparison. It seemed overly cruel, like he was poking fun or making a jest, but his expression stunk of sincerity. You contorted, once more animalistic, eyes red-rimmed and voice cracking.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He sighed, pushing his fingers into his eyes, reverting to a conversation you could've sworn had been done to death years ago.

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything." You sniffled back a good cry and he jerked, hands rushing to your shoulders, your hair. "Hey, hey, it doesn't mean anything, really. I'm over her, I am. She just hurt me a lot, and I don't wanna go through that again. You get that?" A tear fell, so he wiped it away, and he smiled, smothering you. "You get that, don't you?" A pause, and then, like it was miraculously simple, "I love you."

You sobbed fast, mouth half open and hair half mad. You cut yourself short, jaw clenching as you tried sniffling up more of the oncoming and inevitable snot. Aware of your own inherent bitchy-ness, you covered the sides of your head with your hands, pulling the skin taught as you rubbed your under eyes raw. You tried concealing yourself from him, but the hand on your shoulder urged you to face him, tugging you slightly.

"I love you," he repeated, breathy and sure. "I love you. Can you look at me?"

"No, Steve." You shook your head, leaning down, forehead reaching for your knees. "Stop it. No."

"I love you. I mean it. I don't wanna fight anymore." He slid his hand to your neck, grounding you, turning your head with a surprising forcefulness. "You don't have to say it back. If you're not ready, if you don't feel it, it's okay." It seemed absurd to think that you didn't feel it. You laughed, more sardonic and more tragic than he had before.

"God, Steve, you know I love you." You couldn't read him, not with the way he seemed shadowed by the bedside lamp, curtains pulled over the window, keeping out the late-afternoon sun, obscuring him. "Don't you remember?"

"Remember what?" He met everything but your eyes: your wrinkling forehead, your pursed lips, your furrowed brow, your tense shoulders. He tried soothing everything part of you, smoothing the lines of your skin, but it only made you feel tighter, hotter, more wound up. You shook your head again, shifting away from him, but he refused to let his hands leave you, fingertips glued to your skin. "Hey, remember what?"

The night diverged, and you understood that whether you decided to get into it or not, to get into sixteen and the bedroom and the incessant screwing that led to nothing, that you would inevitably dictate the future with a single insinuation in either direction, good or bad, monster or lover. If you were being honest with yourself, it was much more monster than lover for the both of you. Still, you wanted with everything you had to be unconditional about it. You supposed that it was, in some ways, constant, but in some ways it was horrificially situational, too. The only other boy you'd ever said "I love you" to was that British one, and you were never very sure if you had meant it or not, which was enitrely different for Steve. You meant it, just not in the nice way. Anyways, you spent a few seconds to think, and he seemed to almost shake with the anticipation you managed to build up.

"Doesn't matter," you whispered, biting into your fist. You baby-eyed him again, and looked up at him, and you said, "I love you too," just like you'd practiced years ago.

"You really mean it?" he asked, and you had to swallow your chuckle, which would've come out cruel and mocking, but felt mostly genuine. You wondered if he'd made that glassy, breakable expression with Nancy, brown eyes browner and hair too tousled.

"Do you really mean it?" Having it thrown back at him, he blanched.

"Yes," he replied, once more breathy and sure. A gasp of relief left him, infecting the air with a tactile irony. "Yes, always, always loved you. Ever since we were kids. Ever since we--" but, fruitlessly, he stopped himself. You recalled the sting, the push and shove, the faux high school daydream, his arm around your shoulder at the football game, his hand under your skirt when it was over. You felt the remnants the wet, itchy under eyes from the night you laid it flat for him, enacted a long-needed honesty right before the grand crumbling. "Always," he repeated, refusing to touch it. You supposed, at least subconsciously, he did remember.

Still, you found it hard to fathom that he'd pulled your pigtails when you were children because he loved you, or made you a whore when you were fourteen because he loved you, or didn't call when you were England because he loved you. But you'd slept with Dick because of Steve, because you loved Steve, so it was enough to settle you, and enough to make you feel the familiar stir of emotion that had led to all other shortened conversations. Of course, as always and before, your desire to touch him was directly proportional to the oncoming sense that he had wronged you, and that you ought to hate him but never could.

"Me too," you murmured, definitive, lightly patting his thigh, hand overtly close to his crotch. "Always," you mirrored, letting your forehead fall into his shoulder.

He gulped down a heavy thing and pressed a kiss into your scalp: "Good, then."

"Lay down with me?" you'd asked, and he had. For an hour there was a common silence between the two of you, one that bred a fantastic understanding of the fact that without knowing, without discussing and informing, you could find a middle ground. "Take it off," you'd urged, pushing at the bottom of his sweatshirt. When he'd questioned why, teasing you with a grin, you'd answered, "I'm cold", craving his skin, which was reliably hot to the touch.

"You okay?" You pressed your cheek into his chest.

"Not really. Just got in this crazy car accident." You traced soft patterns above his waistline, making him shift. "But then this super hot guy came to my rescue, so I'm actually pretty alright."

He laughed, but it was brief, fading with a swipe over his brow.

"No, I mean, you've just seemed off recently, aside from the whole Christmas thing." You pushed your face into his skin, absorbing him. "It's like, when something is bothering you, you act out, throw parties and stuff to cover it up." His hand went to your head, his fingers combing through your hair. He had done this before, you thought. This was still routine, you thought, commending yourself for being entirely alright with this established state of ignorance. You wondered how many girls he had stroked the hair of, and if they had loved the way he smelled or the sounds me made when he breathed all heavy and moved a bit as much as you did. "Hey, you gotta talk to me now. It's in the contract," he urged, pulling focus.

"I'm tired," you mumbled into his chest, "sleep". You slapped a lazy hand over his face, dragging it down over his nose, onto his jaw.

"No, hey, come on. It's like four in the afternoon. You can at least come up with a better excuse than that." Bottomless, you leaned up to glare at him, a greyish-purplish hue overtaking your skin, whether from exhaustion or depression, completely undeterminable. It felt as if you'd slept with him, but the sex had been wholly metaphorical, linguistic intercourse. He was a bit blush-y, the rose tint of his cheeks nearly making you want to skin him alive, stuff him up, and display him like a trophy of sorts. You supposed that he would only be this perfect for a short while; one day, he would tire of your mania. You were so very sure.

"I'm just really in love with you, which isn't easy because you're kinda elusive and mysterious now."

He scoffed: "I'm not mysterious. Shut up." You fell back onto his chest, defeated by the month. He deliberated, and then, "I tell you everything. I've told you literally everything. How am I mysterious?"

"You mean, the monsters and stuff?" All you could see was his upturned chin, lined with stubble, and a tenseness in his shoulders that made him flex uncomfortably underneath you. "Yeah, sure, but that was just, like, a joke, right?" He sighed and shifted again and tilted his head away; it felt very pivotal, and you questioned yourself. "I guess I just thought maybe you tried psychedelics or something. At boarding school this guy gave me shrooms and I thought my dad was in the corner staring at me all night, but he had the head of one of those satanic man-goats, and he kept doing the goat scream, so, like, every time he'd make that noise I'd freak out and sneeze." You hooked your hand around his side, holding him together, latching yourself to him. "I thought it might've been like that. I don't know. Plus, you'd had a few beers."

"Okay, druggie." He pressed his lips to the top of your head. "It's fine," he murmured, tentative, "doesn't matter right now anyways. I know it sounds crazy."

You grinned hard against his skin, tightening yourself around him. You would've lived in his dreamland for eternity. You would've gladly fought his big, scary monsters. He smelled like pine-scented cologne, like the Midwest and the winter and the empty house. You would've bled pints for him, ripped your own teeth out for him. It got sort of eerie when you thought about it too much.

"I love you," you said, fighting the urge to eat him whole. "I love you." He gripped the back of your neck, fingers digging into your spine.

"Makin' me hard," he coughed out, mouth forming what seemed to be a laugh at first but faded off into something grittier. "So hot when you say it."

"Really?" You peered up at him, hand drifting closer to the waist of his jeans. With a quick glance, you clocked his honesty.

"Really. I mean, seriously. Feels kinda surreal." He swallowed hard. "Didn't think I'd ever get to hear it." There was the push to say you have, you have, you ass, you have, but you figured this was a car-wreck related comment and felt suddenly sympathetic. His fingers made trails along your scalp, tangling themselves into your hair. "Say it again?" he implored, pulling your head up to be level with his, your noses touching.

"I love you." You palmed him through his jeans. He groaned low into your air. Knowing this was your arsenal, you unbuttoned his pants, digging your hand into his boxers, feeling him heavy against your palm. "Love you." You smiled through your words, breathing smoky breath into his already greying lungs, swiping at his Achilles tendon with every stare. He shook his head, croaking out something disastrously raw.

"Not just me," he asserted, trying to push you to sit over him, hands tight at your hips. "Need to be inside you, please."

It was okay sex, as far as sex with Steve went. He was good, always, but better sometimes, especially when it was most non-emotional because then he didn't get too caught up in it, was more attentive and determined than mindless and savage. He took your mouth like a greedy royal, swapping spit, touching tongues, biting your lip for a moment, separating just to listen to you moan. I love you, you'd whisper, and he'd add another finger or move a little faster. I love you, you'd gasp, and he'd kiss you harder or grip you tighter. Objective goodness, like rate-me goodness, was nothing compared to the bliss of a feeling that spread throughout the both of you, infecting the room with a sickly-sweet dopiness.

You felt oddly virginal, his cock providing a vague sting, one that sparked a distant memory. Still, full of him, you were as perfectly incoherent as usual, reverting to the role of adoring cave woman as he touched you just right. The push and drag and wave of fuck, baby, please was enlightening. It was the domestic sex you'd had with him in your dreams, no bells and whistles and fakes.

"I love you so much, baby," he'd said to you, this time on top, this time thrusting, porn-ish (in the good way). "I love you, I love you, I love you," he'd said, and then he'd came, no condom, and a big grin. "Baby, baby." He'd collapsed on top of you, heaving. So even though it was just okay sex, per Steve standards, it was one of the top-rated times you'd ever fucked him. "One more," he'd breathed out, kissing all messy down your legs. "One more, come on."

"Steve." You giggled, trying to pull him back up by the shoulders, but he was solid stone, migrating fast.

"Wanna make you feel good, please?" He pleaded with you from between your thighs, rubbing small patterns on parts of you that were eternally tender. You writhed a little, exciting him. Then, in a moment of intense opacity, he admitted, "I thought I lost you." It was dually true. Even if you hadn't crashed the car and nearly died, you very well could've ended things, knowing you. It was all very tragic in that way.

"I'm sorry," you replied, but he kissed your clit and dipped a finger inside of you, so it didn't really matter.

In the coming months, you knew that you'd replace the always and before with a litany of newer, shinier memories, ones that never ached. But you also knew that it was be unadvised to totally forget it all, of course, since that was your lifeblood, and that was your history. In some ways he'd built you, so it was like his past with you would always be a part of your DNA. That was tricky though because he hated you for the parts of you that he'd made. He loved for you the you apart from the him: the baby in your blood and the virgin in your sex.

"I'm gonna protect you," he promised, and you wondered why he'd ever need to.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve x reader #steve harrington imagine #x reader

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watermelondip · 2 days ago

Text

transatlanticism | chapter eight

masterlist ao3

⭑⭑⭑

Tags: friends to lovers, friends with benefits, angst, severely poor communication.

⭑⭑⭑

steve harrington / reader Warnings: nothinggg. Words: 1.6k

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The August before Junior year, Steve asked you to homecoming after a particularly crummy date and a soft reminder of your dual attendance freshman year, which had been a pleasant coincidence in itself, and only promised a fulfilling repeat. For apt context: Nancy was a late-October occurrence, and the dance was at the end of September, so your bliss was still intact, the inklings of a relationship teasing your peripheries. It was the last good beach day of the summer. He'd taken you, Tommy, Carol, Sue Jenkins, and Sue Jenkins' dumb, ugly boyfriend on a road trip up to Lake Michigan.

You rode shotgun, and he drove like any teenager drives, taking turns too fast and failing to glance at his mirrors often enough, but the whole thing was a thrill. You hardly would've minded if you died in his car. You hardly would've minded if that was your last day; it was one of the best for a while, even if Sue Jenkins and her dumb, ugly, boyfriend kept macking in the back.

"You're too pretty for Reed," Steve said, spreading out a towel in the sand. "Plus, he'd probably be going with Cindy if she hadn't dumped him for Darryl. You don't wanna be his 'fuck you' date."

"Reed's not ugly." You dug your toes into the sand, watching as it dissipated into little hills around you, feeling the sun on the back of your neck as you rested your chin on your knees. Tommy chased Carol down to the water and Sue meandered in her boyfriend's arms along the shoreline. You wanted to be a farm girl. You wanted to reek of tangy innocence.

"Still too ugly for you." You snorted, but he scrunched up his nose at the noise, pushing your shoulder and forcing you back onto your elbows. "Flip," he stated, absentmindedly ruffling through the beach bag for something unnamed.

"In public!" you exclaimed, faking a gasp as you put your hand over your mouth in performative surprise.

"Har har." He pulled out the sunscreen, and you felt a million years older, reveling in the anticipation of contact. No matter how old, though, you always felt that same excitement, and it rattled you heavy. "Flip or burn," he threatened, uncapping the tube. His grin was too polished for the earth, contrasting the imperfection of the sand and the water and the bits of grass that poked around the edges of your towel. You sighed in a playful objection, shuffling yourself onto your stomach. You kicked up your feet, tangling your ankles and inflating with the moment, fluctuating with the midday sun.

"Do you think Tommy and Carol will still be together when we graduate?" you asked, pulling your hair away from your neck and laying your head down onto your towel. You couldn't face him, felt too utterly vulnerable to look him in the eye too. "I mean, do you think they'll be this weird and gross forever, or do you think they'll give it up someday?" Steve sat with this idea, squirting a fat glob of sunscreen into his hand, which felt cold and jarring as he rubbed it into the small of your back.

"I don't think they'll break up, if that's what you're asking." His hands moved indulgently, tracing your back with thick palms. With every pass over a certain area, he managed to tease your sensitivity, fingers wrapping around your sides or palm heel digging into your flesh. When he got to your upper-back, he dipped his fingers under your bikini top, spreading out his reach from under the fabric. You shivered. It was more intimate this way, even if he'd touched you naked and made you so, mostly because it felt more falsely innocent, soft and serene under the guise of platonic ignorance. "Still, I think they'll get bored of each other eventually, and then they'll just be those people, you know? Bored, unhappy, married-since-eighteen people." He slipped his hands out from under your top, migrating to your shoulders, the junction of your neck. You fell into it, releasing all previous tension and flopping against the towel.

"Hm," you mumbled, teetering. He finished with the sunscreen, moving away from you as he went to coat himself, overtly unaffected. "At least they'll be together." You flipped back over, re-positioning yourself onto your elbows.

Steve scoffed: "If you could call it that. You know that he got to first base with Amy at the bonfire last month?"

"God, she wouldn't shut up about it. Her voice is so disgustingly high-pitched; I swore I was gonna puke with every drawn-out description of his hands and his mouth and his cute, freckled nose. Like, give me a break. He's a mediocre pig, just like every other high school douche." You grimaced.

"You talkin' about me?" He'd moved onto his arms, grating his skin with a casual aggression that evaded you.

"Yeah, perv. I'm talking about you." His wide smile proved him a winner. His hair fell over his forehead, lighter in the warmer months and bigger with the beachy wind.

"Speaking of high school douches, trust me on Reed. All he's gonna do is ditch you to drink with his friends and then try to bang you in his car when it's over." You bit at your cheek, leaning back onto your towel and digging your heels into the sand. You held your tongue at the urge to complain, nag him about his tendencies and poke him for suggesting that he was any different. Still, in the solitary state that you often observed him, sitting in his room, or maybe with a pencil between his teeth at the library, whispering in your ear, wedged in the corner at a party he wanted to skip, there was something so isolated about him, so fresh, that separated him from the masses.

"Jealous?" You reached to your side, pulling on a pair of recently abandoned sunglasses, fixing the hair around your chin, the straps of your bikini, and configuring yourself for the watchful sun, feeling more perfect than the days prior.

"Maybe, yeah." He put away the sunscreen, doing an old man grunt as he situated himself on his back, raising up his arms and tucking them under his head. "Go with me instead." You turned your head, glaring as your sunglasses slid down your nose.

"You're serious?"

He laughed: "Course I'm serious. Not like we didn't go together before." He wiggled his hips in a poorly concealed attempt to seduce, playing it off as an act of comfort, which felt juvenile and sleezy. Of course, absurdly shirtless men were like fruit flies or leg hairs: abundant and persistent. Still, he was hot because you loved him, not because he was actually hot, like Jake Ryan or the guy that took over when your eight-grade math teacher got pregnant. The nuances of this were difficult to articulate, but you found it prevalent in nearly every relationship you pursued.

"Yeah," you paused, sucking on your cheek, "but that was before, well, you know." Your first kiss with Steve was at the end of freshman year, a few days before you let out for the summer. He'd told you it was because he was curious what it would be like. He said that he'd been thinking about it ever since his voice dropped and his chin started growing hair. He did it few times, and then he got you into bed, and then nothing was normal ever again.

"I know?" You glared harder, bursting at the seams just a little.

"Yes, Steve, you know."

"Really? Do I know? I don't feel like I know. Maybe if you explained this mysterious, relationship-changing event to me in great detail with specifics on why it was such an impactful development, maybe mentioning enjoyment level--"

"I think I'm going to swim," you announced, pulling of your sunglasses and jolting upwards, but as you started to stand up, he grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you down into him. He tsked you, rolling you onto your stomach so that your arms braced yourself on his chest. He beamed up at you like there was everything in your expression, but his hands were still dumb, tracing the strap of your top. He placed a steadfast hand on your neck, inching up towards your chin.

"It'll be fun." His smile faded a little, and he meant it non-severely, glancing to your lips, breathing a bit too fast. "Say yes," he murmured, running his fingers around the back of your head, tangling them in your hair.

"Fine, yes." You leaned down to kiss his nose, and he shriveled it up, smile returning. "Can I be free now?"

"Sure." He poked at your side, pushing you off him with a congenial ease. "Swim," he directed, waving a lazy hand over at the water. You launched yourself to the shore, but the air smelled a little bit like smoke, and it was too early to drink, so as you stumbled through the sand you found yourself wavering, wondering, and feeling unstable in the thick of the implications.

Because you were seventeen and because he had seemed to mean it, you were playful with Carol, moderate with Tommy, and tolerative of Sue and her dumb, ugly boyfriend. You splashed and such, but still felt strange about the way Steve stayed on the sand, sometimes sleeping and sometimes watching. Even then, though, when you came back for a sip of water and he said, "back for more?" and you went to kiss him, he eventually relented and joined you in the water, pushing you under and pulling you onto his shoulders and circling you a few times, shark-like. It was, in a small way, a happier day than you'd care to remember.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve x reader #steve harrington imagine #x reader

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watermelondip · 9 days ago

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#teen wolf #<3 #she's so pretty omggggg

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watermelondip · 10 days ago

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i’m not a hero. (x)

allison (x) scott (x)

#teen wolf #<3

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watermelondip · 10 days ago

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stiles stilinski x files au....hmmm

#thinking

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watermelondip · 10 days ago

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The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter twenty

⭐︎ If you can't survive, just try

Warnings: hurt/comfort?, mentions of death, mentions of grief and depression, but mostly just fluff

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: When Nancy whisks you away for the day, Steve is left facing his fears.

Word count: 8.7k+

Author's note: my apologies for taking so long with this chapter, I was struggling sm! but I hope you're gonna enjoy this sweet little part! and as always thank you my love @hellfire--cult ♡ (also pretty sure I've used these header pics before but we will pretend that I didnt, thanks)

series masterlist ⭐︎ previous chapter

☀︎

The map is propped up on Eddie’s lap, his eyes are squinted and focused as he goes over the nearby area with you. You put little crosses on the spots that need to be checked out, using your pink marker.

“I doubt that we’ll find anything at the gun store,” Eddie mumbles as he grabs your marker and puts a little cross over the downtown area. “The sign on the highway was way too big for others not to have looted that place.”

“Still worth a try.” You shrug.

“Yeah, we could use some ammo.” Nancy nods as she slings the strap of her rifle over her shoulder. She is leaning against the wall beside the door, ready to leave. “Maybe a few new guns just to be safe.”

Eddie agrees with her with a curt nod.

The past hundreds of miles you have passed were clear – no dark clouds, no red lightning, no blood staining the streets. Nothing. Now you stopped on the outskirts of a small town that seems to be just as safe, from a distance at least. The sky is blue, and the birds are chirping. This place doesn’t reek of death. It seems to bloom with life.

“Yeah, maybe some food too.” Steve murmurs from your side. “We could look in the houses as well.”

“Yeah! That’s where you can usually find the gold mines!” You say, smiling at your boyfriend before you look back at the map, missing the way Nancy and Eddie share a look.

Steve is sitting right next to you, his hand resting on the seat behind you. He is close. He always is. When he doesn’t have his arm wrapped around you, he is holding your hand. When he isn’t holding your hand, he has his hands on you in some different way. He is always with you, always around you, always following you. Eddie observed that Nancy did too. It would have been sweet if he weren’t so obsessed about it, if his eyes didn’t flicker with panic every time you leave his side for just a second.

Eddie knows why that is, and he can’t help but worry.

And while Eddie is worried, Nancy can’t help but feel annoyed and a little pissed. She is happy for you and for him, for the both of you, but she misses her alone time with you. Ever since Steve got his shit together, she couldn’t find a single moment to be with just you. Whenever she tries to talk about something that she just wants only you to know, he interrupts by coming up from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, and clinging to you like a kitten in need of affection. It’s cute, really, and after all that you've both been through, it’s nice to see that. But she also just wants a moment alone with you, just one.

And while she wants some much needed girls’ time. Eddie wants a serious talk with Steve.

“Great,” Steve nods. “Sunshine can stay here and you and Nancy–”

You are already shaking your head, but before you can say anything, Eddie opens his mouth first.

“Nope.” Eddie shakes his head before Steve can even finish his sentence. “You and I are staying in the RV, big boy. The girls are going.”

Your eyes light up, and a smile breaks out on your face when your eyes lock with blue ones. Nancy winks at you, smiling proudly while a frown appears on Steve’s face and he tenses up beside you.

“I’m not letting the two of them go by themselves!” Steve says in anger. His eyes flicker from you to Eddie to Nancy and back to you.

Nancy rolls her eyes at him and pushes herself off the wall with a sigh.

“Is it because we are women, Steve?”

You almost giggle when Steve’s eyes grow wide in panic and he quickly shakes his head at her.

“What? No! That’s not what I mean at all, I just–”

“Great!” Nancy smiles and walks towards you. She reaches for the map in Eddie’s lap and then grabs your hand, pulling you up from the couch and away from your boyfriend, who is watching helplessly. “Then we can go!”

Steve’s shoulders slump in defeat, especially when he sees the way your eyes flash with excitement. You want to go. You want to go with Nancy. You want to do something. Steve knows that you are accustomed to this — fending for yourself, fighting on your own, and surviving on your own. It didn’t occur to him that you might have missed it since joining their group. Going out there.

It makes him feel uneasy to let you go out there, especially without him.

What if something happens and he isn’t there to protect you?

What if–

“Alright!” Eddie claps his hands together, smiling triumphantly as he gets up. “Take a flare, your gun, machete, and if you find any gas or car batteries, come back and let me know.”

Steve blinks. His heart jumps in his chest when you get up and waste no time getting ready. You fasten your holster around your thigh, throw on the backpack that Nancy had already prepared.

Steve rises to his feet and runs his hand through his hair in distress. He presses his lips into a thin line as his fear filled eyes follow your every movement. His heart races a little faster when you bend down to make sure your laces are properly tied.

Eddie glances at the brunette, and he can’t help but feel bad when he finds him watching you like that, looking like a puppy who got kicked into a corner.

He glances at Nancy, who rolls her eyes at him. Steve will survive a couple of hours without you, she is sure of that.

“Okay!” You turn around to face your boyfriend, smiling happily at him. You step towards him and throw your arms around him. He instantly snakes his arms around your waist, pulling you close and tight against him. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and he breathes in your scent with his eyes closed. It calms him down, a little.

Every time he holds you, he never wants to let go.

You pull back too soon for his liking. You rise to your tippy toes and lean in, pecking his lips happily, “I’ll be back soon!” You promise.

The short kiss is enough to make his heart melt, to make his stomach flutter, to make him crave more.

You turn around, but before you can even take a step away from him, he grabs your hand and pulls you back. He cups your cheeks and leans down to give you a proper kiss. He ignores the groans of Nancy and Eddie, who have gotten sick from all the pda you both perform, by now.

You sigh happily into the kiss, and it does everything to light that fire inside of him.

“Come back to me in one piece, baby.” Steve murmurs against your lips, caressing your cheek with his thumb as he leans his forehead against yours. He has already promised himself that he will only let you do this once. The moment you are back, he is not letting you go again.

“Of course, Stevie.” You whisper, gazing up into his hazel eyes as you wrap your hands around his wrists. “I’ll always come back to you.” You say with every intent to stay true to your words, for now and for always.

“Promise?”

You nod and tilt your head a little to kiss his palm, “promise.”

Steve nods. The worry never fades in his eyes, though. And he knows he won’t be able to rest once you set foot outside.

“Okay.” He whispers, breathing in shakily. “Be careful out there.”

“Always.” You nod and squeeze his wrists before you lean in again, meeting him in the middle for a last kiss before you slip away from him. “See you later, Stevie.”

His smile doesn’t match the one on your face; it’s weak and nervous, and the coil in his throat grows when your hand leaves his touch. “Later, Sunshine.”

Steve can’t help but follow you out. He knows you are safe. He knows you can fight, that you know how to survive. And you’re with Nancy, who, like you, knows how to fight.

But he can’t help the worry that grows inside of him when you walk away after saying goodbye to Eddie.

And he can’t help but start pacing the moment you get farther and farther away from him.

Eddie watches him for a while, giving him a moment, hoping that his pacing will stop. It doesn’t. Steve is stressed; if it wasn’t the pacing around giving it away, then it would have been his heavy breathing.

And Eddie can’t help but huff and sigh at his friend. The farther you get away and out of Steve’s eyesight, the more he stresses.

With his arms crossed, the metalhead stops before him, “we need to talk.” Eddie says.

The seriousness in Eddie’s voice alerts him, and he instantly looks at his friend, meeting his eyes. Steve knits his eyebrows together when he notices the frustration and the… sadness?

“What–”

“We should sit down.” Eddie nudges his chin towards the RV.

Steve hesitates. His eyes flicker back and forth between Eddie and the road you are walking down. He takes a deep breath.

“Steve.” Eddie’s voice is stern, no amusement left in it. It’s what makes Steve turn back and nod.

“Alright.” The brunette sighs as he takes another look your way before he heads inside the RV. He takes a seat on the couch again, furrowing his eyebrows at his friend, whose face seems tense. “Is everything okay?”

Eddie looks at him for a moment, silently. With a sigh, he nods his head.

“Yeah, just…” Eddie stops, running his hand through his hair, and he looks around like he is trying to find the right words. “I worry.”

Steve tilts his head aside, a habit he picked up from you without even noticing.

“What?”

Eddie sighs again, knowing that Steve doesn’t even notice. There is so much Eddie wants to say, and yet he struggles with his words. He prepared himself for that moment, talked to Nancy about it too, and yet now he is at a loss for words – but it might also be the slightest fear that he has of Steve’s reaction.

Eddie pushes himself off the wall and takes a seat across from him. He takes in the look on Steve’s face, seeing the wide, confused eyes, the slumped shoulders, and the curiosity – like a goddamn puppy, you need to gain the trust of.

“You can smell my hand when I say this but–” Eddie pauses when confusion strikes Steve’s face. The scrunch of his nose indicates his misunderstanding of Eddie’s words.

“I don’t want to smell your fucking hand, Munson.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, groaning, “metaphorically, dumbass!”

Steve’s lips part, and he mumbles a quiet ‘oh!’ with a nod of his head before his face grows irritated and he gets impatient. “What is it, Eddie? I’m not in the mood!”

Eddie sighs for what seems like the hundredth time today, “well that’s kinda what I wanted to talk about, I’m just worried, man.”

“What about?” Steve frowns as he leans forward, pressing his hands together as he rests his elbows on his knees.

“You! I worry about you, okay?” Eddie finally lets the words spill from his lips.

“Me!?” Steve mumbles in confusion. “W-What, why!?”

“You’re obsessed! Obsessed with protecting Sunshine–”

“Huh!” Steve frowns, shaking his head as the irritation grows even deeper.

“Listen,” Eddie murmurs, giving him a pointed look. “At first I thought it was cute, how attached you are to her, how you always want her close– and I don’t blame you for that, I don’t mind the pda, but you follow her around wherever she goes. You get anxious when she isn’t by your side for two damn minutes! You tense up whenever she leaves to take a freaking shower–”

“Did she say something?” Steve interrupts with wide eyes, feeling the drop of his stomach already at the thought of you being annoyed by how clingy he might be.

“No!” Eddie exclaims, feeling a mixture of frustration and guilt creeping up inside of him. “She didn’t, Steve. She loves it, trust me, but that’s not what this is about. This is about me worrying for your sanity! You think you have to be by her side every second of the day because you think that something bad will happen the moment you step away from her. She is not some fragile little thing that needs protection, Steve. That girl is tougher than all of us combined. She was out there by herself for so long; if anyone knows how to get by in this world, then it’s her! She knows how to survive, how to fight, how to live – which brings me to the next topic.” Eddie finally explodes, the words now rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I kept thinking about what you said to me that night in Wyoming.”

Steve swallows when he sees the hurt lingering in Eddie’s eyes. An uneasy feeling settles into the pit of his stomach.

“She made you live again, she brought you back to us, and I will forever appreciate her for that, but you said something that hurt me a little, Steve.” Eddie admits, his voice now softer than before.

Steve shakes his head in confusion, waiting for him to continue.

“You said that if something were to happen to her, you wouldn’t know how to keep going – like she is the only reason you are here with us, like she is what and who you live for. Not for me, or Nancy, or Dustin, or anyone else out there still waiting for you. You made it sound like we are not worth staying for.” Eddie speaks with sadness and guilt in his voice when he sees the way Steve’s eyes soften. “I know it sounds selfish but… it feels like we don’t matter, like we– like I’m not important to you.”

Steve’s stomach drops at his words, and the guilt spreads so suddenly inside of him, lighting up like a fire.

Eddie knits his eyebrows together as he looks at his friend.

“I love her, man. She is like a sister to me, and I want you to know that I’m here too. I would protect that girl with my life, and so would Nancy; hell, Wheeler would kill for her.”

A weak smile tugs at Steve’s lips, but the guilt in him grows stronger and stronger. He didn’t mean to make Eddie feel that way, like he doesn’t matter to him, like he wouldn’t do anything for him.

“I know what happened to Robin is part of this… obsession with protecting your girl, but Steve… I understand it, I really do, but you need to get rid of that fear… It’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna rob you of any good moment because you’ll keep letting it consume you.”

Steve swallows the lump in his throat as he looks down at his wrist; the lilac hair tie that used to be around your wrist is now around his own. He knows that Eddie is right, but he can’t help it, especially when it comes to you.

Robin was the first real friend that he had. The first to ever care for him that way, to first to have an honest friendship with him. And his first friend ended up a great loss. How can he not let the fear consume him? How can he not worry about you? How can he not fear losing you?

He doesn’t say anything, just nods.

And Eddie gives him a moment to let those words sink in.

A mix of emotions rushes through Steve, but it’s mainly guilt and the impression he gave off to a friend who means so much to him. A friend who didn’t hesitate to jump into the water to save him, who didn’t hesitate to sacrifice himself for a town that hated him, who did everything to protect him and his friend – even if it meant dying.

“I worried about you so much, Eddie.”

Eddie frowns at him, “what?”

“That night in the upside down.” Steve states.

A shiver runs down Eddie’s spine, and a lump grows in his throat as his face pales a little. He can still feel their claws in his skin from when they tried to tear him apart. He can still feel the cold ground on his skin while he was bleeding out.

Steve was the one who dragged him out of there, and to this day, he doesn’t know how he got him back to the other side, but he did.

“I know we weren’t friends back then, but those few days we spent together before that night showed me what Dustin saw in you. And I knew I was an idiot for having the impression of you that I had–”

Eddie shakes his head, bringing his hand up with a chuckle, “don’t feel bad, I thought you were a jerk.”

Steve chuckles softly, nodding as he closes his eyes for a moment.

“I know. I was a jerk.” He points out, not blaming Eddie for thinking that of him.

“But go on,” Eddie urges him with a satisfied grin. “I wanna know what the Steve back then thought of me.”

Steve can’t help but roll his eyes at the metalhead, though still smiling.

“I thought that you were a pretty cool guy… and that I wanted to be your friend.” Steve leaves out the part in which he visited him at the hospital while he was still in a coma. A slight frown crosses his face, “and I’m sorry, Eddie… I’m sorry for making you feel like you aren’t important to me; you are. The reason why I pushed you away after losing Robin was because I was scared… I was scared of letting you in just to lose you too.” Steve admits with a heavy heart, but with so much generosity in his voice.

Eddie’s brown eyes soften. Those words ease his mind a little. The tension falls off his shoulders when he notices how guilty Steve looks, how bad he feels.

Steve breathes in deeply, looking down at his hands again as he swallows harshly, “and… I didn’t mean to make you feel that way again. I’m very sorry. You mean so much to me, even if I’m bad at showing it.”

Eddie can tell that it’s not something easy to him, being vulnerable, being this open, being honest, and showing feelings. It’s why he pushed you away for so long.

“I love you, man.” Steve mumbles as his eyes glisten with tears. He rarely said it to Robin, and he regrets it so much.

If Eddie’s eyes weren’t showing nothing but softness before, they would’ve by now. Warmth spreads in his chest, and a soft smile appears on his face. He knows and he can see that this wasn't easy for Steve — but he can also see the way Steve let’s out a deep breath, like he’s finally gotten words out that he kept in for so long. It was right to confront him.

Eddie leans forward and reaches his hand out to him. Steve looks at it for a moment. He blinks and sniffles, wiping away a stray tear before he grabs Eddie’s hand.

“I love you too, dude.” Eddie says softly, making the man look at him. “I’m proud of you, you know?”

Steve raises his eyebrows at him.

“You got over your fears, you went and got your girl. You allowed yourself to be vulnerable, to show feelings, with me now too. That requires strength, lots of it, especially after what you’ve been through last year.”

Steve sniffles again, still looking at him. Eddie’s words mean more to him than he will ever know. He nods, still wiping tears he refuses to let fall.

“Don’t fall back, don’t let this fear consume you and ruin every good moment…” Eddie murmurs softly, squeezing his hand.

“I’ll try…” Steve whispers, knowing he is right.

“And don’t get me wrong!” Eddie’s eyes widen, as he raises his free hand up in surrender. “I don’t blame you for being so goddamn touchy and attached to her hip, I think that’s fucking cute!”

Steve can’t help but roll his eyes now, though his lips curl into a soft smile as his cheeks flush.

“You both match each other’s clinginess — and I’m saying that in a good way. It’s sweet. Clingy is cute.” Eddie grins. “Just be less anxious chihuahua, alright?”

Steve scrunches his nose up, scoffing, “chihuahua… but yeah, I’ll do my best.”

Eddie chuckles at his disapproving voice.

“You always do, Steve.” He nods, squeezing his hand once more before he lets go.

“Yeah…” Steve whispers, and looks at the ground for a moment. Taking a few deep breaths before he meets Eddie’s eyes again. “Thank you.”

“What for?” The metalhead asks.

“For being honest with me,” Steve tells him. “And for being my friend.”

A soft smile appears on Eddie’s face, and he shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me—“

“But I do, I never knew what real friendships were… until Robin and Dustin, then you came along, and Nancy— even though she wants to kick my ass like on a daily basis, and probably wants to steal my girlfriend—“

“Oh, she absolutely does.” Eddie nods, making Steve snort.

“I’m glad I have you on my side.” Steve admits with softness in his voice. His eyes drift to the ground.

Eddie smiles at his friend, feeling relieved to have had this conversation.

“Me too, Steve. And I’m glad we could talk.”

A smile tugs at Steve’s lips, and he slowly looks up again, noting the way the hurt and anger have disappeared in Eddie’s eyes again.

“Yeah, me too.”

The energy shifts between them when everything has been said. They fall quiet for a moment, before Eddie looks at him, eyeing him slowly.

The frown on Steve’s face and the line between his brows disappeared. Luckily. He notices the mark on Steve’s neck when he tilts his head to the side. A smirk appears on Eddie’s face.

He knows something happened between you and a few days ago, something more. It was obvious by the way he forbade Nancy and him to enter the RV. And when the music turned up, he knew something was about to go down. And that he did.

It was cute how flustered and shy you were the next entire day, how you looked at Steve with those big doe eyes, blushing every time he smiled at you and kissed you.

And Steve, he looked like he won the lottery. Eddie doesn’t remember the last time he saw him smile as much as he did after that. It was nice to see.

He clears his throat, “so…”

Steve raises his eyebrow at him.

“Was it good?” Eddie asks, holding back a smirk.

“What?”

“Was it good?” Eddie repeats, wiggling his eyebrows.

Steve frowns, pursing his lips as he tilts his head to the side.

“What was good?” Steve mumbles with genuine confusion in his features.

Eddie rolls his eyes when he realizes that Steve won’t catch on.

“...How was the pussy, Harrington?”

Steve’s brown eyes grow wide, and his cheeks instantly flush. He was never one for sex talk with friends. Maybe as a teenager, but even then it was just his ‘friends’ being stupid.

A part of him wants to talk about it though, tell him how crazy he feels about you, how amazing, special it felt to be so intimate with you despite these circumstances. But the bigger part of him wants to keep it hidden, wants to keep it for just himself.

With red cheeks, Steve shakes his head and gets up, making his way back out.

“Hey!” Eddie yells as his shoulders slump, eyes flickering around the RV before they settle on the tiny box on the table filled with some of your stuff. “If they have girls talk, we have boys talk!”

He pushes himself up from the couch, making his way towards the table, he looks inside and a grin appears on his face as his eyes light up. He reaches for the tiny bottles.

“Wanna paint our nails too!?” Eddie asks, grabbing them with zero hesitation before he follows Steve out. “Not taking no for an answer.”

Steve looks at Eddie as though he had gone crazy when he comes out, holding those bottles in front of his face.

“Munson–”

“Nope!” Eddie shakes his head, grinning mischievously. “We are so doing that.”

Steve can only sigh in response, knowing it’s a lost cause to fight against him.

“Sunshine’s gonna love this.” Eddie chuckles, knowing that this will be enough to convince.

He knows he’s right when he sees the softness in Steve’s eyes.

At least he knows now how to convince him to do things.

The town is peaceful and quiet; it would have been eerie if it weren’t for the sun shining brightly and the birds chirping loudly. It’s as abandoned as any town is nowadays, and despite life and people missing here, it’s still beautiful. Untouched by this world. The streets are clean, except for the dry leaves still laying around from last fall. The windows are dusty, a little dirty, but still intact. Abandoned cars are still parked on the streets. There is no blood, no bodies, no death around here, just a town in which the people stopped existing.

Nancy is walking beside you quietly, her backpack already filled with ammo you found at the first stop you made, the gun store. Like you had already expected, you didn’t get so lucky there. It was mostly cleared out, but you still found a set of new knives laying around under the shelves. You looked for a new switchblade for Steve and got lucky there at least.

You walk past an abandoned clothing store. The mannequin is wearing a dress, one that you would have definitely gone inside to try it on. It’s a beautiful pastel yellow, with thin straps and the finest flowers on it. A sundress perfect for a picnic, or a date.

You slow down a little, eyes stuck on it now.

You would have loved to wear something like this for a first proper date with Steve. You know he would have loved it too. Going to Central Park, laying on the grass as the sun hits the both of you, children playing around you, and dogs barking as they play fetch. A small band playing far away on the bridge, and the two of you sharing food with one another, laughing.

Something that was so normal then, feels like an impossible dream now.

Nancy furrows your eyebrows when she looks away from the map in her hands when she notices that you aren’t beside her anymore. She stops and turns around, finding you staring at the dress in the window longingly.

“Do you want it?” Nancy asks, a smile tugging at her lips.

You shake your head with a sigh, “what for? Can’t wear it anyways.” You mumble and tear your eyes away from it. You catch up to her again and look around, “we should focus on more important things like food and medicine.”

Nancy’s eyes linger on the dress for a moment, even as you continue your way down the street and towards the pharmacy. She looks up at the sign above the store, reading the name of it before she goes after you.

“We could still get it!” Nancy smiles at you as she catches up. “You could wear it in California!”

You shake your head with a smile, “it’s fine, Nance.”

You notice the way she hesitates, looking back at the store.

“Nancy,” you smile and reach for her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Imagine how ridiculous I would look fighting in a dress!”

Nancy furrows her eyebrows, shaking her head at you. “No, you would look hot, but the only one fighting would be your boyfriend by tearing that dress off.”

Your stomach flips at her words. Boyfriend. You feel like a little girl when it comes to Steve. Excitement and giddiness rushing through you in a way they never did before.

“Stop…” You try to hold back a giggle when you push her shoulder, especially when she starts wiggling her eyebrows.

Nancy’s eyes light up when she sees how flustered you get, how you always do. A giggle falling from her own lips. She thinks it’s adorable. She knows what happened between you and Steve after she accidentally revealed your night with Aaron. She felt terrible, at least until she saw you the next day, covered in hickeys, face glowing in a different way, a smile on your face brighter than she’d ever seen, and Steve, he wore the same smile.

You shake your head and look down with a smile on your face.

Nancy bites back her own smile. It’s nice to see you like this, happy and smitten. Despite Steve clinging to you like a vice. You don’t seem to mind it at all; if anything, it looks like you are enjoying his clinginess.

Silence falls between you both; it’s comfortable and peaceful.

The pharmacy is shut down, the door locked. On your solo travel, you have learned that that has always been a good sign. And a look inside the dusty window shows you that the shelves are still stocked.

You knock on the glass, waiting to see if anything is hiding there. But the noise doesn’t seem to alert anything, no monsters, no turned people.

“Looks good.” Nancy murmurs before she reaches for the crowbar tucked into your backpack.

“Have you ever done this before?” You ask as you step aside, giving her the room she needs to open the door.

The look she gives you over her shoulder is enough of an answer, and it makes you chuckle.

“Stupid question, ma’am. My apologies.” You place your hand on your chest. “Hot independent woman.”

Nancy rolls her eyes, though with a smile on her face. The way you talk to her reminds her of Robin sometimes.

The door creaks when it opens, and she hands you back the crowbar, instantly reaching for her gun in case something does come out from behind the shelves. You wrap your hands around the metal tightly, ready to fight with it if needed.

Nancy whistles and takes a step inside, cringing at the loud floorboards beneath her boots.

You look around, closing the door behind you on your way inside. You glance at the empty street, making sure that nothing follows you both.

You both step in different directions, checking every corner of the pharmacy just to be sure. The town might be fully abandoned, but you can never be too safe in a world like this.

“Alright, it’s clear.” Nancy calls out to you after checking the storage.

You both meet back in the front and instantly start looking through the medicine, opening your backpacks and stocking up on antibiotics, tylenol, and bandages.

Nancy grabs some vitamin pills off the shelf, throwing them into her backpack as well.

“This is almost too good.” You mumble when you stop in front of the fully stocked up toiletry shelf. You throw some shampoo and body wash into your backpack, followed by deodorant and toothpaste.

“Is that pessimism I hear in your voice, Sunshine?” Nancy teases a few aisles away from you.

“Can’t blame me on this one, most stores are wiped clean,” you mumble as you eye the moisturizers. You stop hurrying to fill your already heavy backpack when your eyes fall on the razors and the shaving cream. For a moment, you contemplate. Steve didn’t seem to mind it the first time, when you weren’t shaved and you didn’t have any time to even think about it or feel insecure over it, and he was like a feral animal, all you saw in his eyes was lust and the need for you.

You stare at the razor and the berry scented moisturizer for a while.

You almost feel silly, worrying about smooth and nice smelling skin in a world like this. But you want to smell good, you want to feel good when you have your first time with him. So, without thinking any more about it, you grab it and throw it inside your backpack before you move on, reaching for anything relevant you can find.

“We got so lucky here.” Nancy smiles to herself as she zips up her full backpack after stuffing it full. She throws the strap over her shoulder, and starts making her way to you. “There’s a neighbourhood I wanted to check out–” She halts in her tracks when you turn around abruptly after throwing something in your bag. You look like a deer caught in headlights – your eyes are wide and you start blushing.

Nancy presses her lips together, raising her eyebrows at you. Amusement rushes through her when she glances at the items behind you.

“Do you need a moment?” She asks, trying not to laugh.

“No.” You squeak out, shaking your head. “No, I’m done here!”

Nancy’s eyes follow you when you brush past her and practically rush towards the snack shelf. She struggles to hold back her chuckles when she looks back at the small boxes. She doesn’t follow you; instead, she stays back and looks down in amusement.

Her conversation with Steve is still in the back of her mind, and how he asked for her help to make your first time special. She owes him something, and it’s not just that; she wants to help because it’s you. Steve is right, you deserve more than a night in the RV; you deserve something special.

Nancy bites down on her lip, and she looks out the window and across the street. She looks back at you. Your face is still flustered, but you are now distracted by the variety of chocolates.

“Hey, uh, I’ll get some fresh air and wait outside!”

You don’t question her and only nod, grateful to have a moment to yourself after getting caught packing the box of condoms. You look between all the candies, wondering how this place was left this untouched. Given all the places you have gone through before, all the empty stores, this is almost becoming scary.

When you walk out a few minutes later, you find Nancy crossing the street, smiling cheekily at you. You don’t question it, thinking she is still teasing because of the condoms.

“Ready to go?” Nancy asks cheerfully, pointing her finger towards the end of the street.

You hum and nod your head, holding onto the straps of your backpack, you make your way towards her and give her a small smile.

Nancy’s blue eyes flicker across your face, and her lips are still stretched into a smile. She reaches behind you and pulls your braid out from behind the backpack.

“Oh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she grins at you and pats your back, “come on.”

Amusement sparks inside your chest when she keeps on smiling, satisfied and happy. You haven’t seen her that way in a while, and it makes your heart swell to know that it’s only because of you, because she gets to spend time alone with you. You always craved to have a friend like that, one who gets excited to spend time with you, one who looks forward to being with you, one who does thoughtful little gestures, one who feels the same.

The walk into the neighbourhood is spent in comfortable silence for a few minutes before you fall into a conversation about your favorite books and movies, about the things you loved to bake and cook before the world ended.

She asks you about New York, even though she asked so many times before. There is still so much she wants to know; there is still so much you haven’t told her yet. You tell her about all the book stores, all the coffee shops you used to love going to after a long day in school. You tell her about the record store you used to work at on the weekends, and the parties that your ex-boyfriend used to drag you to.

She listens with a smile on her face, except for when you mention the guy who screwed you over. Nancy loves to hear about you, about your life before all this.

And you love to hear about her, about her summer jobs and what she loved doing, about her family and Robin.

When you sit down on the porch steps of one of the houses you have scavenged, you share a pack of trail mix and enjoy the feeling of the afternoon sun on your skin. You pick out a chocolate-covered almond and pop it in your mouth, closing your eyes in enjoyment. “Mmh.” You smile as you let the chocolate melt on your tongue. “I love trail mix.”

Nancy chuckles softly, “no, you love chocolate.”

You chew the almond and open your eyes again, glancing at her, “... true.”

She shakes her head at you, “you have a sweet tooth, Sunshine.”

“I do, there’s no denying that.”

A solemn look crosses Nancy’s features, and she stays quiet for a moment. The look in her eyes is suddenly distant, like her mind is stuck somewhere far away, recalling memories.

“Robin loved to bake.”

Her voice is filled with sadness, and her eyes are now too. She doesn’t hide it, not bothering to in front of you.

“After the upside down… when we thought that we won and things were okay for a while, she would visit me at my summer job and bring me lunch, food from the diner at first, and then she started bringing sweet treats. Muffins, Brownies, Cookies– god, she made the best Cookies!” Nancy exclamins, smiling at those memories. “She was always so nervous, thinking I wouldn’t like it, but it was the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

A sad smile tugs at your lips, and you lean your elbow on your knee, resting your head in your hand as you listen to her.

“Then she started adding cute notes– not pick-up lines,” Nancy shakes her head, feeling the need to clarify. “It was sweet, romantic. It’s when I started falling for her.”

She pauses, looking up at the sky.

“I was scared… and a part of me wanted to run away from all those new feelings I was experiencing, but when she looked at me with those eyes, I knew there was no use in running… I didn’t want to run away, not from her.”

You reach for her hand when you see the tears in her eyes. It hurts to see her suffering. It hurts to know that she lost someone she felt that way for.

“I never felt such love for anyone before, not even Jonathan… and I thought that what I had with him was true love.” She says, smiling sadly as she looks down at your hand. “But… she was it. She was everything to me.”

You swallow the growing lump in your throat. You can feel her hand shaking, you can see her trying to hold back tears as the sadness deepens.

“Everything felt right with her.” She whispers softly.

You know that feeling now too. You have that with Steve. Something that was always missing in your whole life, you have found with him.

“I wish you had more time together.” You whisper, looking at her in sadness. “I wish I could’ve gotten to know her. She sounds amazing.”

Nancy nods, lifting her head to look at you. “She was.”

You hold her hand and scoot closer to her, letting her lay her head on your shoulder. There aren’t any words needed. This is enough. No one was there for her when she lost Robin, not because she didn’t have anyone to comfort her, to help her through the grief, but because her feelings were a secret and nobody knew about her and Robin at that time.

She was all alone with her suffering.

“Tell me more about her,” you say after a moment of comfortable silence, knowing that this is a part of healing. Talking about the people, the things you have lost.

And she does, happily so, she starts talking about her, and what starts off with sadness and tears ends with giggles and smiles because Robin happened to have a lot of funny moments, a lot of silly accidents that led to their secret relationship.

And when Nancy talks about their first night together, when they fell asleep beneath the stars after they kissed and kissed, you can’t help your question.

“Did you two ever…?”

Nancy giggles a little, wiping a stray tear off her blushing cheek as she nods.

“Oh, yeah.” She bites her lip. “We did.”

You cup your cheeks, giggling now with her as you both lean towards each other like two little school girls finding out about a first kiss. And you continue on giggling when she tells you all about that night. Saying how it felt the way she always imagined it to. Speaking of those fireworks you read in books about and it only makes you more intrigued, more excited.

“I can’t wait for it… I can’t wait to have sex.” You blurt out without thinking, causing Nancy to chuckle loudly.

“Girl, I can tell.” She laughs, glancing at your backpack.

You push her shoulder and groan in embarrassment.

“No, no, Sweetie. I’m glad you’re thinking about being safe. I love how you grabbed the biggest size, you got a lot of faith in your man.”

“Nancy!” You groan again, burying your face in your hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Nancy giggles, patting your back as she looks down at you in amusement.

“I just–” You pause, trying to gather your thoughts. Your cheeks are suddenly burning very hotly as you think of your boyfriend that way. “I-I don’t even know what to expect! Is it… Is it gonna hurt? Am I gonna be… do… good? Is he gonna feel good with me–”

“Sunshine.” Nancy grabs your hand firmly, giving it a strong squeeze. “You don’t need to worry about these things, you know why?”

You wait for her to continue, looking at her with big eyes.

“You are with someone you feel safe with. You are with someone you feel comfortable with.” She smiles, speaking of her own experience with Robin. “And Steve will guide you. He will take care of you, trust me, he is dying to take care of you.” She says, giggling when your eyes light up.

Your heart flutters at the mere thought of it, of being this intimate with him.

Nancy smiles as she watches you. She knows exactly what you are feeling – the anticipation, the excitement, the adoration for someone you waited to be with for so long. That special something that you will only get to feel with that one person, who is Steve in your case.

Which used to be Robin in hers.

She looks around, taking in the beautiful street with the willow trees. There is a house at the end of the road, one that looks just as untouched as the rest of this town does. It has a huge garage, one that seems to provide enough space for the RV.

And this town is safe – safe to stay in for a night.

She did make a promise to Steve.

She takes another look at you before her eyes flicker back to the beautiful house.

“Hey Sunshine, wanna check out one more house?”

The grass is dull and flat from Steve’s pacing. He is huffing and taking deep breaths as he keeps on tugging at his hair, looking out into the distance with anxious eyes.

Eddie is leaning against the RV with a cigarette between his fingers. His eyes flicker with amusement, though he does feel a little bad for the brunette, knowing how freaked out he is that you haven’t returned yet.

Eddie knows that separating him from you is and will be a one-time thing. It was necessary, but Steve won’t ever let it happen again, no matter what he or Nancy says.

“Where are they…” Steve stresses as he paces around the fire Eddie started about an hour ago.

“They’ll be here soon, don’t worry, loverboy, your Sunshine will be back in your arms in no time.” Eddie blows out the smoke before he throws the cigarette on the ground, killing the flame with his boot.

Steve only huffs in response, not really looking his way. Suddenly, he halts in his tracks, placing his hands on his hips the way he usually does. He furrows his eyebrows, shaking his head.

“They should have been back by now…” He mumbles to himself and runs his hand down his face as all the what if’s start going through his head, ones that will only lead him to insanity if he lets them happen. “That’s it, I’m going–”

“Look.” Eddie cuts him off, smiling.

Steve glances at him to find him staring into the distance. His eyes follow, and when they spot the little light in the distance, and you are walking down the hill with the moonlight shining down on you, the biggest weight gets lifted off his shoulders. Relief floods through him as his heart calms in his chest.

Without even thinking about it, Steve takes off and starts running towards you, unable to wait until you make your way to him. He meets you in the middle.

“Stevie– oh!” You squeal as you almost lose balance when your boyfriend wraps his arms around you, nearly knocking you off your feet with the sudden impact. He holds you so tightly, as though you had been gone for years and just came back from the war.

Steve buries his face in the crook of your neck. He breathes in your scent and hugs you against his body so strongly. His heart is pounding from the running, but mostly from the worrying. Now it feels whole again. He can breathe again. He can relax again. His heart swells when you wrap your arms around his torso, laying your head on his chest as he cups the back of it, sinking his fingers into your hair.

“I’m never letting you go again, Sunshine.” Steve whispers against your skin.

Nancy watches the two of you with a smile on her face. With a shake of her head, she continues making her way towards the RV.

“I’m okay, Steve!” You giggle at your boyfriend, pulling back to look at him.

“I’m not.” He whispers, revealing his soft brown eyes that are filled with fear. “I hate to be away from you.” He leans his forehead against your own as he brings his hands up to cup your cheeks.

Who would have thought that he would ever be this vulnerable with you?

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he pleads.

Your heart flutters at his touch, at his words, at the way he looks at you. Words can’t describe what you see in his eyes, but it does everything to make your insides light up.

And Steve, after all day of feeling like he was going crazy, he finally has you back in his arms and he can’t help his next move.

“I won’t–”

Steve tilts your head up and leans down, kissing all over your face – your lips, your cheeks, your nose, your chin, your forehead. And it makes you giggle so loudly that finally a smile breaks onto his face.

“Stevie!” Your giggle makes his heart feel so alive.

He reaches for your backpack and throws the strap over his shoulder before he bends down, catching you off guard yet again when he scoops you up into his arms, lifting you up bridal style.

“Oh!” You blush strongly as you wrap your arms around your boyfriend's neck.

“Oh my god.” Eddie snorts, watching it all unfold from a distance. His amused eyes meet Nancy’s, who looks over her shoulder when you squeal again. She shakes her head with a chuckle.

“Lovebirds.” Nancy shrugs at Eddie before she lets him pull her into his arms.

“Did everything go well out there?” Eddie asks, ruffling her hair.

Nancy slaps his hand away, frowning in annoyance.

“Yeah, it was great. We found a lot of stuff.” She lets out a groan of relief when Eddie takes the backpack off her shoulders. “Thanks.” She mumbles as she stretches her back.

“I hope you had a great day with your girl, don’t think it will happen again though.” Eddie chuckles, watching Steve carrying you back to the RV.

Nancy huffs, though not in annoyance, “yeah, I guess not. But right now, I’m just ready to eat and go to sleep.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Eddie nods, taking in the tired look on her face.

Steve puts you down in front of the fire, squeezing your waist and stepping away from you for a second.

Nancy raises her eyebrows at him, but Eddie isn’t looking at her anymore, he is looking over her shoulder, “did you–”

“Nancy.”

She furrows her eyebrows at the sound of Steve’s voice. She turns around to find Steve standing in front of her. He takes a look at Eddie before he steps towards her in hesitation. In that short moment, she gets to look into his eyes, she notices the guilt in them, reading the sadness that he hid for months and months before you came along.

He wraps his arms around her and hugs her. It’s a little awkward, but it’s still a hug, one filled with apology for neglecting a friendship they have built and also for the loss she experienced as well last year.

The hug only lasts for a few seconds, but it tells her that her and Eddie’s plan worked. They talked.

The moment Steve pulls away from the hug, he gives her a tight lipped smile before he makes his way back to you. He wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his chest, leaning down to kiss your temple.

Eddie smiles at Nancy, knowing that his conversation with Steve worked out the way they hoped it would. Despite him clinging to you still, it worked.

“So…” Nancy claps her hands together, smiling. “I spotted a great house we can stay in, lock the RV inside, and we can all get some rest and sleep again!”

You tilt your head aside, looking at her curiously as you haven’t heard of those plans before. Steve sports a similar look, and it takes him a second to understand what Nancy is getting at.

She widens her eyes at him, as she looks between you both.

The expression on her face says it all to Steve; ‘Don’t be stupid.’

Steve’s eyes widen in understanding, and his heart flutters wildly in his chest when he looks down at you, knowing that he now gets the opportunity with you. Just the thought of it drives him crazy in a way nothing else ever could. He can’t help but tug you closer, his hands itching to feel more of you.

“Is that–” You murmur as you look down at his hand, a smile spreading on your face as you reach for it. His nail is painted yellow.

Steve’s cheeks start to burn when he looks down at you, but his knees weaken and his heart squeezes in his chest when he sees the way your eyes light up. You love it.

“Couldn’t convince him to paint all his nails, he insisted on just one.” Eddie groans as he proudly shows off his black nails, making Nancy chuckle.

Just one.

He let Eddie paint just one.

His ring finger.

☀︎

I'm wiggling my eyebrows at you guys right now, y'all know what is about to go down

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @pretentious-blonde @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry @sherrylyn0628 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @micheledawn1975 @keepingitlokiii @littleromanoff2005 @sunshine-mrk @xxladymjxx @bananasplits-world @myharrington @btskzfav@hawkeyeharrington

#love #lalalallove

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watermelondip · 20 days ago

Photo

#teen wolf #so prettyyyy #<3

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watermelondip · 20 days ago

Note

Promised id be back w a few other ideas yesterday!! Anyway, too shy to not be anon on this but

Make up sex w stiles only bc u have some silly argument and the only way hell stfu abt ur stupid convo thats prob abt u not being careful enough or whatever is to just kiss him!! And then yeah. Feel like itd prob be really passionate and caring bc they dont even remember what they were arguing abt. Kinda notebook allie n noah inspired ig?? Anyways hope ur having a lovely dayy <3

(i stand in the rain, covered in mud and blood, panting on your front porch. all i hold in my hands is this stupid ass fic and the dead bouquet i bought for you in january before my quest began. i wipe my face on my sleeve.)

i fucking hated the notebook.

☆

it's been two days.

two whole days of not speaking.

you're going insane.

well, you're cleaning your room, really. but also going insane! how the fuck has stiles gone this long with no contact? can't he put his pride aside and admit he was wrong and just fucking talk to you again?!

you fold your clothes angrily, brooding alone in your room. it was one of those yelling fights where it ends with you slamming roscoe's door and stiles rubbing a hand over his mouth like a frustrated protagonist in a soap opera. you hate that stupid habit and how good his hand looks when he does it.

all because you want to fucking help!

god, he is such an asshole. all he cares about is keeping you safe and making sure you don't get hurt. a total asshole.

you're mad all over again, and grateful that you're home alone for once. you can be mad all over the house and play angry music and definitely not cry because you do not miss your stupid idiot boyfriend.

god, not even a fucking phone call?

you gather some of your freshly folded laundry into your arms and turn around to put it all away, only to catch a glimpse of a figure in your doorway. you scream, dropping your laundry and whirling around fully to asses the stranger.

and, of course, stiles leans on your doorframe with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed.

"jesus, stiles!" you push some of your hair back, heart still thrumming from the scare. "you made me drop my laundry!"

"you're ignoring me." he deadpans. his voice is angry, low. "and you turned your location tracking off."

okay, maybe that was overboard. but you wanted him to worry. a little.

"i'm talking to you right now, aren't i?" you huff, gesturing to him before crouching down to re-gather your laundry and set it on your desk chair. "why do you need to have my location anyway? i'm not allowed to do anything or go anywhere by your standards."

stiles pushes off the doorframe, breaching into your room now. there's still a good distance between you as he kicks the door shut almost absentmindedly. "yeah, but that doesn't mean something couldn't take you. didn't i tell you about the kanima-"

"the kanima that took scott's mom hostage, yes. about a thousand times. and the time you got kidnapped with everyone around. and the murder-sacrifices when your dad got kidnapped." you whirl around to face him now, and he looks downright pissed. jaw clenched, eyes zeroed in on your frame, arms crossed over his chest and making his t-shirt pull tight. you take a step closer. "just because it's happened to others doesn't mean it'll happen to me."

"are you serious right now?" stiles starts up, heat flaring in his narrowed gaze. "i'm trying to keep you from getting killed, and that's your logic?"

"i should get to help just like you! you're human, no one's killed you!" your voice rises and you watch as stiles sucks in a deep breath. his arms unfold slowly and he starts to come closer to you, but you keep on. "so, what, just cause i'm weaker or something? you think i can't fend for myself? am i just some stupid damsel to you, stiles?"

he approaches you quicker, and you almost think for a moment he's going to embrace you or something. but he stops short and squints, like even assuming that is stupid. "that's not what i'm saying, but you're right. you wouldn't stand a chance against any supernatural strength. believe me, i've tried. they'd have you pinned down in a second."

"oh, really?" your tone takes on a challenge, and stiles' features seem to release a bit of tension at the sound, almost looking surprised. "i bet i could put up a fair fight against you. come on, stiles. don't you wanna prove i can't defend myself?"

his eyebrows shoot up now, and he literally scoffs. "what? seriously? i'm not gonna fight you. this is just proof to me that you can't throw yourself into this. you're careless."

oh, that'll do it. careless? careless?! you just cleaned your own room and folded your laundry and stiles has the audacity! to call you- you! careless!

"fuck you, stiles!" you shove his chest, but he must have a grounded stance because he doesn't move an inch. it only makes you more mad, and you want to make him move and yell and get as mad as you are so you don't start crying at how stupid this is and how much you just wanna kiss him, jesus- "fuck you, i am not careless!"

stiles seems to bite back words and swallow them, before catching your hands and twisting you around. he kicks your feet out from under you at the same time and takes you crashing into your bed as he pins you down, wrists above your head.

your breathing stutters before you struggle and resist, to no avail. his hold on you is terrifyingly strong, and you always forget how much he holds back when play-fighting you. with a huff, you go pliant under him and glare up at his stupid, stoic face.

"i told you," his voice is softer now; more patient, like he's satiated the beast. "they'd have you in a second."

"i want to help." you hate how your voice immediately matches his softness and how his lips part when yours do. how his legs are clamped around one of your thighs, holding you in place. how his hold on your wrist is still iron-clad, but not painful. you hate it.

"and i'll let you." he gathers your wrists in one hand, using the other to push some hair back. "in time, yeah?"

"that's unfair."

"right. and so is this body," stiles swallows, glances down. "up against a superpowered monster."

"but you-"

"seriously, i'm not gonna argue about this anymore. you know i'm right, baby."

well, that is just offensive.

and true.

you realize you're pouting too late, and stiles' brows draw together. "you gonna listen to me, or do i have to make you?"

"stiles," you go to roll your eyes and turn your face away because seriously, that's ridiculous. you're arguing, not engaging in foreplay.

before you can mumble some halfhearted agreement, stiles uses his free hand and guides your chin to face him again. "i don't understand why you're being so difficult. i'm trying to protect you."

"i know," you push him off of you and he lets it happen, rolling onto his back as you sit up to run a frustrated hand through your hair. "but you don't let me do anything. you didn't let me do anything."

your correction is a clear pointer to the start of the whole argument. stiles practically dragging you out of a fight you were certain you could win. you had a crowbar and three energy drinks on your side, and you were against a beta. the bitch of the pack!

which is exactly what you felt like when he locked you in roscoe like a kid.

"i don't want you to feel like you can't do anything," stiles' hand lands on your knee and he squeezes gently. "you help me out all the time when it comes to the mental stuff. but i refuse to..."

stiles falters, sits up. for a long minute, neither of you say anything or face each other. stiles sniffles and it catches your attention, so you turn your face to find him teary-eyed, lips pressed together. his eyes are glued to your bedroom floor. when he speaks again, his voice trembles. "i can't let anything happen to you. too many people have died because of my carelessness."

you open your mouth to protest, but stiles cuts in.

"you will not be one of those people."

the silence after that statement is like a weighted blanket over the two of you. your eyes dip to the floor, acutely aware of how uncharacteristically still stiles is beside you. during your arguments in the past, he would ramble and raise his voice and gesture with his hands. if he would sit, like you two are now, his knee would shake your bedframe with its constant bobbing.

but.

since everything...

he's completely still.

stiles' hand finds yours on the edge of the bed. just his pinkie, overlapping yours.

"i'm sorry."

you turn to face him.

"i shouldn't have yelled. i should've let you... decide. if you wanted to help. i just..."

"i know." you hush him, avoiding his eyes as you search for the right words. "i know, stiles. but you have to understand that watching people get hurt and not doing anything is infinitely worse for me than getting hurt."

"but watching you get hurt when i could've done something- it- it- it tears me up inside, baby. it makes my throat hurt and my stomach drop and it makes me violent towards anyone who would get in my way to get to you. it makes me crazy." he claws at his own chest, like he's trying to grab his heart. his head dips down so he can meet your eyes, and he's crying. stiles is crying at just the thought of you getting hurt.

you gently grasp his hand, the one gripping his t-shirt at the chest. it relaxes slightly.

"stiles," you breathe.

he exhales, his chest falling under both your hands. his watery eyes flit between yours. his lips part to breathe in.

"i'm not going anywhere."

the room stills, and for a long moment, the two of you just look at one another.

but then stiles caves, hands sliding from your own to grasp your wrists softly, pulling you into him. he catches your lips with his own and wraps your arms around his neck, giving you leeway to run your fingers through his wild hair. as you tilt your head and kiss him gently, his hands run up your back and press you into him, both of you inhaling the other like a drug.

stiles rumbles out a groan when you slide your tongue against his, and you flutter your eyes open just slightly to see what its like to be wanted by him.

his brow is scrunched, clearly still troubled by everything. but his eyes are squeezed shut and he kisses with a fervor as he runs his hands all over you. stiles claws at your shirt until you realize he's pulling you into his lap, and you comply quickly.

he pulls back from the heated kiss just to marvel at you. there are tear streaks down his pretty face, and you cup his cheeks with both hands to swipe them away gingerly.

"i'm scared." he confesses, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch.

you tilt your head and lean down to kiss his cheeks, his eyebrow, his nose. he sighs, and you feel him relax under you. "what are you scared of?"

stiles cups one of your hands over his face. "i'm scared you're going to get hurt. it's all my fault you're involved in this, anyway."

"they're my friends too. i'm glad i'm involved. and i'm tough, a little scratch and bruise won't hurt me."

"it'll hurt me."

"oh," you click your tongue and kiss his lips quickly. "you'll live."

stiles' eyes snap open suddenly, and he smiles with a vengeance. his hands land on your waist and he flips the two of you suddenly, landing with your knees on either side of him and his hands propping him up above you.

"don't patronize me. i'm still right." he kisses your neck, nudging your hair out of the way with his nose. you tilt your chin back and let him explore, and his lips move against your skin when he speaks again. "and i really am worried. i can't have another close call like that."

you find the back of his head and grip a handful of hair, tugging him back to look at you. "stiles, there are werewolves with teeth and claws running around fighting each other. close calls is basically our whole job description. now shut up about who's right and kiss me."

stiles rolls his eyes like it's a hassle to fulfill your request but his lips suggest otherwise. he kisses you like it's the last time he'll ever do it, and now you know why he does that.

because he's afraid it might be.

as the two of you shed your clothes, he spends a lot of time just looking at you. touching you. not touching you touching you, but caressing your stomach, gripping your thighs. he stares at you with glassy eyes and an open mouth when you run your hands over his chest, and kisses you harder when your hand slides into his boxers. he can't keep his eyes off you. when you sit up and unclip your bra rather unceremoniously, stiles begins speaking.

"you're beautiful." he breathes, pulling the fabric down your arms and tossing it away. "so pretty."

his eyes can't pick whether he wants to marvel at the newly exposed skin or your shy face, but his lips make the decision for him as he kisses your breasts lightly.

"i love you." he hums in the quiet of the room. your head tilts back and you sigh, feeling his tongue on your nipple. he blows on it teasingly and you whine in protest to the sudden coolness.

"i love you too, stiles." you catch his chin in your hand and he looks up at where you're kneeling. he's on his knees as well, bent over to focus on your tits and belly (which he has begun kissing his way down). you thumb his bottom lip and watch a sweet smile grow. his hands grip your waist tighter.

"let me apologize." stiles pulls you by the waist to lay back down, working your shorts and panties off easily. your thighs press together momentarily before falling open to make room for him.

"yes," you sigh. stiles' fingers run through your heated skin, slipping one inside you without resistance. he kisses your inner thigh and presses his cheek against it as he looks at you, eyes warm and affectionate.

as he begins working you open for him, he speaks, tilting his head so that you feel the words against the skin of your thigh. "you're dangerous for me."

"how... how so?" your breath is quicker as he builds your arousal almost casually, making your skin buzz with an electric warmth.

"i would do anything for you. anything to keep you safe. i almost killed that beta, the one from the other night. i don't know how, i just remember scott pulling me off his unconscious body."

your head falls against the pillows and you moan as his fingers pay attention to your needy clit. "stiles, please."

"yeah? like that?" he taunts, before his sinful tongue makes its way to where it should be anyway. he crooks his fingers at just the right spot just as he takes your bundle of nerves in his mouth, flicking it harshly with his tongue. your back arches slightly and you whimper pathetically.

he always gets you like this, one way or another. needing him. needing his hands, his mouth, his decisions. you know he likes it this way, having you in a puddle before he even gets himself inside. but he always finds a new way to do it, so it always catches you off guard.

your eyes squeeze shut as he works you closer to the edge. the noises you make are only as loud as the noises he's making, since you're kind of embarrassed how quickly things went from arguing to this. wait, you guys were arguing?

he has you coming on his tongue mere seconds later. his eyes are on you when it happens, you can feel the heat of his gaze. but he works you over until you're pushing him off, tugging on his boxers. asking for more, just a little more, please.

he complies. he always does.

stiles rocks into you gently at first, but quickly finds a cadence that leaves both of you stupid for each other. his hands are tangled in your hair, mouth kissing on your neck in between love-drunk praise.

"god, you feel perfect. i swear you were made for me."

"just like that. yeah, you're so good. fuck."

"y-you're, jesus christ, you're gonna make me come, baby. you wanna come?"

you whine and arch under your boyfriend, scratching lightly on his naked back. he groans, rolling his hips into you slower than before. your eyes squeeze shut right as his pop open, examining you beyond his own pleasure. "it doesn't hurt, does it? you okay? hey, look at me."

stiles almost comes to a full stop before you open your eyes, blinking up at him through blurry vision.

"you're... you're crying. why are you crying?" his thumb swipes at your cheek. you didn't even notice. his eyes fill with panic as you stare at him, dumbfounded by your own tears. he sucks in a breath and his eyes glance down at where you're connected. he seems like he's about to cut it off right as you were on the edge, so you grab his wrist.

"i'm- i'm alright, stiles. i just... i really love you. i don't want you to be scared."

and he looks at you.

oh, he looks at you.

for the longest moment, stiles just stares down at you with a mouth hung open and his dick still in you like an idiot.

"i..." he mumbles, blinking. a tear falls from his eye onto your cheek, mixing with your own half-dried tears. you watch his eyes fill with more waterworks, and he does nothing to compose himself.

you don't either.

you and stiles lay there, connected in every sense, tears silently slipping down your faces. he leans down after a long moment and kisses away the wet that he dripped onto your cheeks. you thread a hand through his hair soothingly.

"i love you so much." he whispers, rocking his hips again. as he resumes what he started, stiles is endlessly showering you in kisses and overwhelming affection. "i'm yours."

"i'm yours." you repeat, feeling yourself reach that peak quicker than before. the look on stiles' face tells you he's at the same point.

"i love you, stiles." you whisper against his lips, pulling him down just enough to kiss you. that's when the chord snaps between you, both of you gasping and moaning softly. stiles keeps going until after you yourself have come down, his own orgasm not even being his own focus.

he buries his face in your neck and collapses on top of you, soft but still inside of you. your arms wrap around his shoulders.

"you did your laundry." he murmurs into your neck.

"yeah. i was kinda mad you didn't notice."

he lifts himself barely just to look at your teasing smile. scoffing but donning a smile of his own, he falls back into the crook of your neck. "i noticed. i've always, y'know, noticed."

your stomach swoops in a girly kind of way at the implication. he lifts himself up and slides out of you gingerly, mumbling a half-hearted apology when your face scrunches. "i was hoping you'd stay for a bit."

"i know you hate being all sweaty and leaking onto your sheets, though."

"ugh, don't say leaking. and this isn't gross to me. come here."

you pull stiles back on top of you and he takes you into his arms, pressing sloppy kisses all over your face as you grin. you laugh and push his hair back, looking up at him just to admire. he does the same down at you.

"i love you." you whisper.

"i love you." he returns the words with equal meaning, leaning down to kiss your smiling slips.

☆

hashtag not proofread i am rawdogging it like you and stiles just did in this really crappy fic also hi did ya miss me

#love #emotional smut save me :)

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watermelondip · 20 days ago

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EVERYONE. GUESS WHAT. @obriengf AND I ARE HAVING A SPRING WEDDING AND YOU'RE ALL INVITED BECAUSE THEY FOUND THIS FIC. ALL TOGETHER MY ANONS SAY "THANK YOU JEMMA" AND GO READ HER FIC ABOUT STILES BEING DAD MATERIAL. IT'S ONE OF THE STILES FIC GOATS. OMG. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH JEMMA.

☆

you're practically vibrating with nerves when you approach stiles' front door, wearing your favorite date night dress and holding a small container of home baked cookies.

sure, you've met noah stilinski in passing. but you hadn't really met him met him and part of you was grateful. it would be so awkward if you were familiar with the sheriff (for the wrong reasons) and he turned out to be your boyfriend's dad.

you only have to knock twice for stiles to swing the door open. he's smiling, a bit disheveled, and he's got... flour on his face?

"hey, come on in, we were just finishing up dinner. what's in the box?" he ushers you inside and leads you through his home, stopping just before the kitchen to smile down at you.

"oh, just a little something to ensure parental approval." you joke, shaking the tupperware gently. stiles laughs and wastes no more time taking the container out of your hands to set on a nearby hallway table, pulling you into a hug. you inhale his scent deeply and feel him do the same to you, squeezing you tightly against him.

"you smell nice." he mumbles into your hair. "missed you."

"you saw me yesterday."

"yeah, and i missed you afterwards. okay, come on." he kisses the top of your head and pulls back, hands sliding down your arms to hold your hand. "burnt pasta awaits."

you don't dare ask how he burnt the pasta when stiles turns a corner and leads you into the very room his dad is standing, mixing a pot of penne pasta. he looks up and smiles politely when he sees you, and you do your best to return the smile with confidence (and not fear of rejection).

"dad," stiles hums excitedly, "this is my girlfriend. girlfriend, dad."

"nice to meet you, sir." you hum. you step forward and shake his hand, meeting his eyes.

"ah, the pleasure's all mine." his handshake is firm and he's grinning kind of like stiles does when he's about to make fun of you. "my son won't shut up about you, it was about time."

you blush and laugh, glancing back at stiles, who snakes his arms around your waist and presses his cheek to the side of your head. "that's very true, she's already gotten that comment from scott."

eyes widening, you feel even hotter with embarrassment. stiles is acting like a theme park couple, one of his hands squeezing your waist where he knows it tickles. you squeak and jump back, wiggling out of his arms. he smiles all dopily at you.

"alright," noah claps his hands together, seemingly not even noticing the interaction. "who's ready for burnt pasta?"

you clear your throat, throwing stiles a bit of a warning look before turning your attention to noah. "i've heard about this, i'm curious to see what burnt pasta could taste like. i'd love a bowl."

noah laughs and dishes you up some, leaving you to bask silently in the victorious (accidental) joke. meanwhile, stiles tucks some of your hair behind your ear and smirks.

"me, too. we never really cook, so it's got to have something wrong with it." he turns to his dad. "dish me up some, chef!"

"you can dish some up yourself. i'm only getting it for our lovely guest." noah looks unimpressed with stiles, waving the wooden pasta spoon at him. "don't think you get off just because you have her to hide behind."

stiles makes a "wha-hey!" noise and scoffs, reluctantly grabbing himself a bowl and scooping out some pasta, bringing both of your dishes to the table. once you're all sat, you thank them both for dinner and ask noah about his work.

and you swear, on your life, you're trying to focus.

but with stiles' big, veiny hand on your thigh like a lifeline, it's a bit fucking difficult.

you know stiles likes touch. but when his fingertips are pushing the hem of your dress up a bit to caress your upper thigh? you swallow thickly. in front of his father, of all people!

you tune back in when stiles starts relaying a funny story. his unoccupied hand reaches across himself and lays on top of your hand as he gets animated, explaining scott's hilarious mistake to his dad with enthusiasm. once he finishes, his hand slides away from yours and the one on your thigh squeezes lightly. "do you guys wanna watch a movie?"

"i rented close encounters of the third kind." noah smirks, pointing at stiles. you watch as stiles gives you a bashful look.

"my dad has an affinity for alien media. you'll learn this sooner than you think."

"they're real!" noah seems only half-joking as he gathers your dishes and makes for the kitchen. "just you wait, you'll be wishing you listened to me."

"yeah, okay dad." hums your boyfriend, waiting for his dad to be out of earshot. once you're safe, he pulls his chair impossibly closer to you. "so, how's it going?"

you blink, still blushing from the whole thigh-hand thing. "oh, uhm, good. right? i think it's going alright."

he nods, standing. you follow and let him cup your face. "i think it's going great. he likes you."

"do you say that to all the girls?" you joke, letting him glance down at your mouth obviously. if stiles wants to make a move on you now that you're dating, he usually does. he hums and laughs a little, pushing your hair out of the way.

"only the pretty ones." he leans down and kisses you, briefly. by the time he's pulling back you've forgotten your manners, pulling him by the t-shirt weakly to keep going. he laughs at you, nibbling his lower lip. "when do you need to be home?"

you glance to the side. "soon, probably. how long is the movie?"

"...two and a half hours."

"yeah," you smile apologetically. "i won't make that. sorry, sti'."

"it's okay babe. my dad and i will probably talk through the whole thing. or worse, we'll kill whoever does talk. it's best if you leave on a good note. c'mon."

you follow blindly as he leads you through the house to the living room, pulling you into his side and wrapping his arms around you loosely. his dad is sat on the couch pulling up the movie, and he turns to look at you guys. he seems only mildly phased by stiles' touchiness. you blush, completely mortified at the inappropriateness of it.

"dad," stiles muses. "she's gotta go."

"ah, alright." noah slaps his thighs and stands, and stiles only moves from your side to behind you, holding your hips lightly as his father approaches. "it was so great to finally meet you. thank you for coming."

you smile and shake his hand, doing your best to ignore stiles' too-comfortable hands. "thank you for dinner, sorry i can't stay."

he shakes his head and waves like 'no problem', but he doesn't get to speak it as stiles perks up. "oh shit, the cookies! we have to try them in front of you!"

"stiles, i'm sure that's not-"

"i'll go grab them, be right back." and he's gone.

you make eye contact with sheriff stilinski, watch as he sizes you up and smiles softly. "i'm sure you're a bit put off by the touching?"

"it's... not unusual. just not so..."

"confident?"

"yes," you laugh, flustered and warm, and glance to where stiles ran off. you can both hear him rummaging around. "i'm sorry about it. i don't want you to think we're immature."

noah shakes his head. "believe it or not, it means good things. i don't know how much he talks about it, but..."

noah stilinski looks off, clenches his jaw. "stiles used to hang off of his mother like that. constantly touching, holding. he used to do it with me, too. a lot. and then, after claudia passed... he just stopped. didn't touch, even hug. the first year was the worst. he's much better, but we don't do much loving anymore. not as much as i should be."

he looks back at you, dead in your eyes. "you're the first person i've seen him so comfortable with. physically, i mean. he holds you almost exactly how he used to hang off of his mother. save for a bit of..." noah clears his throat. "romantic tendencies."

you feel your heart swell; you remember when stiles first got all touchy, that night after you had really dug in, actually had a conversation about the nitty gritty of each other. it had been the first month into dating. he had wandering hands ever since, fully subconsciously.

before you can respond (what are you supposed to say? your boyfriend's dad basically just told you that his son loves you in a way he hasn't loved anyone before), stiles comes barreling back in.

"found 'em! they were on the hallway table, imagine that!" he slings an arm over your shoulder and it makes you all fuzzy in the chest. "okay, lets try them. open the lid, babe. my hands are full."

his hand that isn't offering you the container full of cookies is too busy running through your hair. you smile and gently take the container from him, only giving him another hand to put on you.

☆

later, when he walks you to your car and kisses you goodnight, he can't stop talking about how good the night went. you smile into the kiss (he tastes like chocolate chips) and lean back against the drivers side door (his hands are on your hips your cheeks your neck your sides) as he kisses all over your jaw and cheeks and finally, your lips.

"i love you." he whispers against you as he pulls away. you can feel his hands tighten against your body. he's nervous.

"i love you too, stiles." you smile up at him, feeling your heart flutter as he leans in for more.

☆

another bad boy from the vault!! don't forget to like, subscribe, and drop into my inbox with that daydream you've been having about stiles for weeks on end. you know the one.

#love

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watermelondip · 30 days ago

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The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter nineteen

⭐︎ When you’re lying between my legs, it doesn’t matter

Warnings: 18+, mdni! jealousy, possessive!Steve, mentions of Aaron, smut, a very very starved Steve, for you filthy fuckers

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Jealousy and possessiveness overcomes Steve when he realizes that there is more to your night with Aaron, and he can't help but want to prove himself to you and show you who you belong to.

Word count: 12k+

Author's note: My apologies for the unusual long wait for this chapter! I promise it is worth it though! I honestly only wrote the angsty parts in this chapter, all the smut and what came after is written by @hellfire--cult LETS ALL SAY THANK YOU TO ROE CASUE SHE CAME THROUGH

series masterlist ⭐︎ previous chapter

☀︎

Chocolate brown eyes follow your every movement, softness lingering in them. A sweet but guilty smile rested on his face. The small scar on his upper lip spreads every time his mouth curls upwards. Leaning against the doorway of the RV, he twists the rings on his fingers as he watches your concentrated face and the way you are so focused on rearranging the supply shelf in the tiny kitchen.

The happiness glimmers in your eyes and lingers on your entire face. You are humming again, probably your favorite song, it sounds like ‘Take My Breath Away’. Your energy is intoxicating, lifting him up again as well.

But something stirs in his chest, something unpleasant—the guilt of how he treated you, of how he made you feel eating at him now. You aren’t angry at him; he knows you aren’t. But he is furious at himself for hurting you, for making you feel like he didn’t want you around anymore, like you aren’t one of his closest, best friends, like you aren’t the closest thing that will come to a sister.

Eddie clears his throat, announcing his presence behind you – you haven’t noticed him until now, but when you turn and look over your shoulder, a smile appears on your face, “hey!”

Eddie uncrosses his arms and steps further inside the RV, smiling at you.

“Hi, what are you doing?”

You hold up a can of corn, “checking the expiration dates. So far it all looks good, we gotta eat some of this corn though, it expires before the tuna and the beans.”

Eddie nods and takes a look outside. Steve is cleaning your weapons while Nancy is scrubbing away at her dirty boots, sitting across from him.

He turns back around and walks closer to you, eying all the cans you have collected. He kneels down beside you, reaching for the corn. His eyes scan the writing on the can, but his mind doesn’t really follow what he is reading. He clears his throat, almost feeling a bit awkward when he looks at you.

“What do you think about it?”

“About what?” You ask without missing a beat, raising your brow at him.

“About corn, do you like it?”

An amused look crosses your face, and you smile at him, shrugging. “It’s good, I guess, don’t have much of a choice.” You laugh.

Eddie nods and looks back down with furrowed eyebrows. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath.

Your smile fades a little when you notice his expression. His lips quirk up, but he doesn’t look amused in the slightest.

Worry rushes through you as you eye him. You place the can you are holding down and move closer to him, “hey…” you whisper, placing your hand on his shoulder, “are you okay, Eddie?”

When Eddie looks back at you, the guilt inside of him grows even bigger, becoming more intense than before. Here you are, worrying about him even after he treated you so badly. Your eyes are soft yet saddened as you take in his expression, scanning him like you fear that he might be in pain – and if he were, then you would, without a doubt, jump up and try to find a solution to try and make him feel better. And that makes him feel worse.

Eddie takes in a sharp breath before he shakes his head. He puts the can down and runs his hand down his face as he turns around and sits down, leaning his back against the counter. He takes a moment, and you give him the time to find the right words.

You settle down beside him, waiting for him to be ready.

When he finally looks at you again, you notice the look in his eyes – the guilt and the regret. Genuine remorse.

“I am so sorry, Sunshine.”

When you furrow your eyebrows and you purse your lips, staring at him like you are confused. The guilt only spreads. He wonders how many times people – ‘friends’ have failed you in your life for you to feel confused now when it should be so clear what he apologized for.

“I said some things I didn’t mean, and I treated you so badly you believed I didn’t want you around anymore. Nancy had every reason to be there for you, to defend you. I failed you. You are… You are the closest thing I have to a sister, and I made you feel like I changed my mind about you.”

His voice is filled with sadness, and his eyes are too. You know his words are genuine. Your eyes soften, and your heart swells in your chest. This means a lot to you, more than he could know. A sliver of happiness flashes in your eyes at the word ‘sister’.

But there is also guilt inside of you as well – the one you almost forgot, caused by the happiness Steve had given you these past few days.

“Thank you, Eddie.” You whisper, sighing as you look down. “But I know I shouldn’t have gone with Aaron.” You admit, showing him your own guilt.

Eddie shakes his head and reaches out to squeeze your knee.

“It wasn’t fair that I encouraged it and then took it back when I saw how hurt Steve was. I was trying to look out for both of you and ended up playing with your emotions too, which was wrong, and I got mean. I’m sorry.”

You look down at his hand, and you place yours on top of his. You look back up at him, giving him a kind smile that shows him that you aren’t angry at him.

“It’s okay, Eddie. I’m just glad that Steve had you.”

Eddie can tell that it isn’t all you want to say, but just like you gave him the time that he needed, he gives it to you as well, waiting for you. He can see that it isn’t easy for you, especially when your eyes dart back and forth, and the regret basically takes over your whole face.

“I really shouldn’t have gone with Aaron… I feel bad, and I felt awful when Steve confessed to me…” You admit in deep regret.

“You shouldn’t. I think we all feel guilty about how we acted the past few weeks, but it seems like it all worked out for the best now.” Eddie nods his head towards Steve, who finally doesn’t look angry or like a kicked puppy. And Nancy doesn’t look like she wants to kill him anymore.

A smile spreads on your face when your eyes stay on your boyfriend a little longer. Heat creeps up to your cheeks, and you can’t help but blush the longer you look at him.

“Yeah.” You whisper, happily.

Eddie’s eyes light up when he sees your smile. He nudges your shoulder and laughs when you start blushing.

“You’re cute, Sunshine.” He grins and wraps his arm around you. “You know I’m still keeping you right?” He says with a serious tone in his voice.

His words take you back to your very first interaction with him, when Steve wanted nothing more than for you to leave Hawkins while Eddie was set on making you stay, and ‘keeping’ you.

You wonder if he remembers Steve’s reaction.

“She’s not a fucking puppy!” You mimic Steve’s angry voice from back then.

Eddie’s laughter shows you that he still remembers, and it makes you smile.

“No.” Eddie shakes his head with a grin as he looks down at you, tapping your shoulder. “Not a puppy. A goddamn wolf.”

You giggle in amusement and lean your head on his shoulder. Your eyes are still glued to him. Your heart flutters every time you think of your first kiss, his confession, his touch, his desperation, and how he needs and wants you just as much as you do with him. He matches your neediness, your feelings, and the deep want inside of you.

“Hey Eddie?”

Eddie hums, raising his eyebrows at you, but your eyes never stray from Steve.

“Tell me more about your Sweetheart.”

Eddie’s eyes light up, a smile spreads on his lips, and he clears his throat.

“Oh, gladly!”

“Hey Nance?”

The girl lifts her head, looking at the brunette with raised eyebrows. Steve is not even looking at her, his eyes are glued on you, looking through the open door of the RV where you are sitting on the ground with Eddie, giggling at something the metalhead had said to you.

“Yeah?”

A soft smile lingers on his face when your laughter echoes. He looks away after a long moment and turns to face Nancy. He clears his throat as he locks eyes with her.

“Thank you.”

A line appears between her eyebrows, and she shakes her head a little, “what for?”

“For being there for her.” Steve tilts his head in your direction. “For being a good friend to her. For having her back when I– you know…” He trails off, not wanting to say it out loud.

Nancy’s blue eyes soften when she glances at you.

“Correction; she is my best friend.” Nancy murmurs with a small smile on her face. The word ‘best friend’ feels so foreign rolling off her tongue after not having used it since Barb.

Steve swallows the growing lump in his throat. He knows how much she struggled after losing her only best friend before you, how closed off she was. He remembers how she was around Robin, kind but… distant – if only he knew the real reason for that back then.

He can see how you not only sneaked your way into his heart but also into hers and Eddie’s. And he knows that if Robin was around, you’d be so loved by her as well.

“I’ll always have her back.” Nancy promises as she looks back at Steve, now with a hint of guilt in her eyes. “But… I need to tell you something too.”

Now it’s his turn to raise his eyebrows and tilt his head to the side – a little habit he picked up from you.

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment with a huff. If there is one thing that Nancy Wheeler doesn’t like, then it’s too apologize and admit that she was wrong, but that is needed.

“I’m sorry.” She mutters under her breath and opens her eyes again. “I’m sorry for how I treated you, it wasn’t fair of me to be so… rude.”

Steve’s face relaxes again, and he nods in understanding. He isn’t angry at her, he also wasn’t hurt, not the way you were by Eddie’s cold shoulder at least. He waves his hand at her, shaking his head.

“It’s fine, Nance.” He mumbles, unable to hold back his chuckle when he sees the way the guilt slowly vanishes in her eyes. “Honestly, it’s fine. I kinda deserved that–”

“You didn’t. I thought you led her on, but you didn’t. You were scared of your feelings, and that’s why you pushed her away. I didn’t know that. If I did… I would have been less… of an asshole.” She rolls her eyes.

“Less? But you would have still been an asshole, right?” Steve asks, smiling at her in amusement.

“I can’t help that when it comes to men… especially men who hurt my best friend.” She shrugs, giving him an unapologetic smile.

He cringes a little at her words, not the asshole part, the part in which she reminded him of the hurt he put you through.

“Yeah…” Steve whispers and looks back at you. “I-I was an asshole.”

Nancy sees the remorse; she can practically feel it radiating off of him.

“You’re not one anymore, that’s what matters.” She reminds him as she leans back in her chair, dropping her sponge and boots on the ground. “And still… I’m sorry for how I treated you.”

Steve turns back to her, a small smile appearing on his face.

“Seriously, it’s fine, Nance.” He promises. He leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. He clears his throat and looks around.

Nancy can tell that he wants to say more, but he needs a moment to find the right words. When she sees the way his cheeks heat up and he grows a little flustered, she grows a little curious. She leans forward again and brings both her hands together.

“You can make it up to me, though…” He whispers and glances at the RV to make sure you aren’t coming out.

“How?” Nancy asks, getting a little amused by the embarrassment suddenly taking over his face.

“I– Sunshine.” Steve whispers softly. “We haven’t… you know?”

Nancy needs a second to grasp what he is trying to say, but when he waves around with his hand and his eyes narrow and widen a little, her face dawns in realization, and she can’t help but giggle.

“Oh!”

Steve rolls his eyes at her teasing expression, but it doesn’t stop him from continuing this conversation.

“We were close to it, but… I didn’t want it to be here.” He mutters and gestures to the RV. “She deserves something better than this.”

Nancy is pretty sure that anything could be special when you are with the right person, but she knows that Steve is set on making it extraordinary for someone like you.

“But you could make it special too, you know?” She speaks softly so you won’t hear, as she also gestures to the RV. “You could find some candles and new bedsheets, maybe a few string lights to make it… look cute.”

Steve shakes his head with a sigh.

“No, I want it to be a real date.” He mumbles as he runs his fingers through his hair. “I want it to be just us, nobody around.”

“Oh, you’re scared that we’re gonna hear something you don’t want us to hear.” Nancy giggles and wiggles her eyebrows at him. “Are you scared we’re gonna like her moans?”

Steve looks at her a little bewildered. He frowns at her, huffing, “you– you and Munson, I swear to god. He is rubbing off on you, Nance.”

“Okay, okay.” She clears her throat. “I’ll stop, I’m sorry!”

Steve rolls his eyes and shakes his head again. He falls quiet for a second.

“I just– I need her first time to be perfect, she… she hasn’t experienced anything. I can’t just do it out of nowhere in a night we are horny.” He exclaims with a blush on his cheeks. He continued his ramble, not realizing that Nancy had completely zoned out and frozen.

“It’s never gotten further than a makeout for her– like she… is basically at zero when it comes to sex… And I don't–”

Only when her teasing smile fades and awkwardness takes over her face does he realize. She is frowning and sitting with a straight back all a sudden.

“Are you listening–”

She nods as she snaps out of her thoughts, “um yeah…! I just think that you are making a big deal out of it.” She stands up and scratches the back of her neck, looking at anything but him.

He frowns at her words and her behaviour. A weird feeling settles in his chest, knowing at what point of his ramble she froze. There is a knowing look on her face, but a guilty one in her eyes, and it makes him frown.

She looks like she knows something that he doesn’t, and it suddenly makes him feel… irritated. He straightens his back and squints his eyes at her.

“Nancy…”

The tone in his voice makes her anxious, and she feels the sudden urge to run off and not look at him anymore, which she chooses to do. She picks up her gun and her dirty boots.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna go wash my boots… by the lake.” She stutters, which only gives away that he is in the shadows about something that she isn’t. She never stutters, she never gets nervous, and she never bolts in the middle of a conversation, least of all during one where he asked for advice.

Before he can ask another question, she rushes away and makes her way down the little hill, leaving him confused. There is a small part in him that has an idea of what made her react that way, and it makes him feel an anger he only felt back in the community in Wyoming.

Steve takes a deep breath, eyes still following Nancy. The only time he remembers her acting that way was when she came back from patrolling with Robin – he only recently found out that Robin kissed her that night and Nancy didn’t know how to process that, considering her breakup with Jonathan was very fresh and her feelings for Robin were intense.

He slowly looks towards the RV where you’re in, and the pit in his stomach grows when he thinks of all the possibilities for Nancy’s weird behaviour and silence about whatever had caused her to feel that way once your sexual experience was mentioned.

Unlike before, he wastes no time getting up in search of confrontation. He makes his way to the RV with a heavy feeling in his chest, and every playfulness and light feeling vanish in only a few seconds.

Eddie is just stepping out when he is about to walk inside. The metalhead grins at him, eyes searching for his best friend, who fled to the lake.

“Where’s Nance–”

“Lake.” Is all that Steve says before he brushes past Eddie and slams the door once he is out.

Eddie blinks a few times, staring at the door in confusion, “okay…?”

Despite the sudden slam of the door, you don’t flinch, you don’t even notice the angry look on Steve’s face. You just turn around and get up after putting the last can of corn away.

“Hey! I’m gonna make some tuna ‘salad’ tonight, with mostly corn cause it’s about to expire and–”

“Can I ask you something?” Steve cuts you off, not even listening to what you were saying. His mind is focused on one thing, and one thing only.

You press your lips together and furrow your eyebrows. Realizing your boyfriend’s irritated expression, you frown in worry.

“Um… yeah?”

Steve takes a step closer to you. His hazel eyes were missing their usual softness. His eyebrows are pulled together, and his lips are curled downwards. Something is on his mind, something that’s not leaving him any rest. You know it won’t take long to find out what it is, not when he looks at you like this.

“When you said you and Aaron haven’t… what did you mean by that?”

Your lips part in surprise at the question, not having expected this topic at all. It’s something you have wanted to approach yourself, but couldn’t find the right time to yet, not when everything was so good and… happy.

Nervousness seeps inside of you, and embarrassment flashes over your face. Your heartbeat picks up, and you bring your hands together.

“Well… that I’m… still you know…” You stutter as your ears start burning.

Steve licks the insides of his cheeks, and he clenches his jaw. Your reactions give you away, and he can’t help but feel jealousy sink back in. He starts walking closer to you.

You quickly notice that Steve isn’t in a playful, lovely mood at all, and it strikes fear inside of you.

“Mhm.” He hums, nodding. “But does that mean you haven’t done… anything?”

You look up at him wide-eyed, and his heart melts at that sight – yet the irritation is still strong.

Your heart sinks to your stomach when you see just how angry he looks. The fear was growing bigger and bigger with each passing second. You are not gonna hide the truth from him, but you are afraid to say those words out loud.

“I– I didn’t think you would… that you would give us a chance and so…. I-I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, but I couldn’t fully commit–”

“Sunshine.” Steve says sternly as he stops right in front of you, pushing you up against the counter behind you. “What did you two do?”

The tone in his voice is serious and angry, almost hateful – and in this moment, you aren’t sure if that is directed towards you or Aaron. Your eyes start burning, and your vision blurs.

His hands grip the counter on each side, caging you in and not giving you the chance to run away. Your heart starts pounding stronger. You aren’t scared of him. You are scared of his reaction.

Is it over just before it really started?

You look up at him with teary eyes. He can tell that you are afraid, and he wants to take that fear away so badly, but he needs you to tell him what you’ve done first.

“I– It doesn’t matter now, does it? I– We weren’t–”

“What did you two do?” Steve asks again, not wanting you to talk around that topic anymore.

Your bottom lip quivers and your shoulders slump as you give up, accepting that he might not want you anymore after this. Suddenly, it feels like your feelings mean nothing to him anymore, and he is only set on that one thing.

You hang your head low and look down at the ground, trying to blink away the tears. You take a deep breath as you think back to that night.

“He… He touched me…” You admit with a shaky voice. “And went down…” You bite your bottom lip roughly, waiting for the blow of Steve’s words.

Steve takes in sharp breath. The jealousy inside of him now burned stronger than ever, knowing what Aaron did that night. He is livid. He clenches his jaw as he stares down at you. He tries to think rational, he tries to stay calm, he tries, he really does, but his feelings win in the end, and before he can dwell on it, he turns on his heel and rushes out the RV, slamming the door just the way he did when he walked in.

And you stand there, frozen in place as your heart sinks deeper and deeper, and the tears threaten to fall. You grip the edges of the counter and stare at the ground, not knowing what to do.

This is it? This… is it?

You blink a few times, not knowing what to think, not knowing what to feel. Should you go after him and explain the situation? But then again, what is there to explain? Should you go after him to fix it? Is there any way to fix it? Is what you did wrong?? Is it wrong of him to–

Your head snaps up when the door opens again, and your eyes lock with his hazel ones that are burning with jealousy and an intensity that almost makes your knees buckle. He slams the door loudly, and he moves quickly to the front, quickly turning the knob of the dial, rising the music up. Not that loud, but certainly louder than the dim sounds coming from before.

The look on his face, the rising up and down of his chest, the angry look in his eyes – he intimidates you in this moment, and your body seems to like it. Heat pools in your belly, and goosebumps rise on your skin.

“Steve–”

He takes two steps towards you, taking you by surprise when he cradles your face and smashes his lips against yours, kissing you roughly.

Your eyes widen as you feel his lips moving urgently against yours. You were confused. You were completely certain that he looked angry, that he didn’t like what you told him. Now, he was kissing you like a man starved, like his life depended on it. You could feel his fingertips digging into the sides of your head, deep into your scalp.

Your hands were gripping his sides, the warm sweater clinging to him, and you were feeling the RV become warmer and warmer. You were slowly melting into the kiss, his tongue slipping out of his mouth to lick your bottom one, requesting access, or more like demanding it.

You let him in without question, without doubts, without hesitation, even if you were confused at the whiplash of emotions. The music dimmed and dimmed in your ears as they started to ring, also hearing the rushing of blood going to your brain. Your brain that was becoming mush with each second that his tongue danced with yours. Your knees were almost giving up on you, and your core was warming up more and more. The anticipation built inside of you, your heart quickening at an alarming rate, as your stomach turned with butterflies.

You felt the counter dig into the small of your back as he slammed you into it. His hips rubbed against yours, and his kiss never softened. He was still rough, demanding, and you loved it. You never had someone be this possessive over you. You wondered if it had anything to do with what you just told him. If it did, was it wrong for you to feel happy? Someone was jealous over you. Someone got jealous of what you did with someone else.

You never experienced that. You never experienced this. He was licking your mouth as if he were tasting his favorite dessert. You moaned into his mouth, feeling his bulge harden against your belly, and you heard him groan, almost aggressively. You felt him sucking your breath from your lungs almost, consuming you.

He pulled away, and a string of saliva connected your lips for a short moment, your tongue almost lolling out in search of him again. He huffed, his glare permanent on his eyes as his chest rose up and down from his heavy breathing. You closed your mouth, gulping, trying to get your head together.

“What– What happened?” You asked, and his jaw clenched, his tongue licking the inside of his cheek for a second before his hands let go of your face. You felt his hands grab at your waist, pulling you away from the counter, his eyes never leaving yours. He was not answering you. The only thing you were hearing was his harsh breaths as you felt him moving you, making you walk backwards.

“Steve– What’s going on–” You were ignored once again, your heart beating into your ears as you frowned up at him. Then, you felt the back of your knees hit the bed and then, in a quick movement, his hands got underneath your armpits, lifting you up just a bit from the floor, but enough to throw you onto the bed. You bounced with a gasp, stunned at the sudden manhandling.

He stood at the end of the bed, his hand moving behind him, his eyes still glued to you as he slid the blinds that separate the bedroom from the rest of the RV. This reminded you of the other night when you two got a little too carried away with one another. But didn’t he say he didn’t want it to happen in the RV? You didn’t mind if he backed off from that. You already knew it would be special just because it was going to be him.

But his eyes were still burning with anger. Jealousy.

And he was. Seeing you on the bed like this, now knowing what Aaron had done to you, he couldn’t help but feel a fire inside of him, burning him inside out. The fact that… that man had you like this. On his bed. Probably naked. Touching you for the first time, tasting you for the first time. He got to see you before he did. He got to hear you before he did. He got to have you before he did.

Not entirely, but that little bit was enough to make him want to break something. He couldn’t erase what had happened with Aaron. It was his own fault, and you were in your whole right to live your life. He had rejected you after all… He cannot erase it.

But he can overwrite it.

He wants to be the one you remember when you think about it. He wants to be the one who causes the butterflies in your stomach when you imagine it. He wants to be the one who makes you flush and burn each time you remember it. He wants to make your experience with him better than the experience you had with Aaron. It would not be forgotten, but he wants that memory to be dismissed. Not remembered, lacking importance.

His eyes never left you as he ripped the sweater off him, revealing the tight navy blue long-sleeved shirt underneath. Your eyes were wide as you saw him like that, feeling your mouth water. A thin chain hung around his neck, one you hadn’t noticed before, but now it glistened, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

His knee pressed onto the bed, making his way to get on top of you. His knee nudged in between your legs, making you spread them so he could settle between them. You felt your entire face burn, and his hips lay on yours, making you grunt, jerk at the sensation. You could hear your blood rushing to your ears, making them burn. His eyes clashed with yours, and that sweet demeanor he always had with you, was gone. It was the first time you’ve seen this look on his face.

No, it wasn’t.

It’s the same face he had when he confronted you before confessing. Though this time looked different. Last time, he looked angry, but he confessed he was hurt. Now, he looks angry, but there’s a darker tone to it. Something possessive, animalistic, feral, and it made you tremble underneath him. It was the first time someone gave you this kind of look, this kind of attention, where they are clearly showing they will devour you whole.

“S–Stevie… what’s wrong?” You asked, your voice a little small because of your nerves. His hips pressed harder against you, both of his hands caging your head against the mattress. He was staring down at you, locks of his hair falling down on his face. He saw your hair splayed, looking embarrassed, shy, and that made his blood boil even more, because he got to see you like that first.

“I’m angry.” Was his short response, and you couldn’t help but frown. Worry etched into your heart again, only for your attention to be taken away from it, a moan escaping your lips when he rolled his hips against you one more time. He felt himself twitch in his pants, a harsh breath leaving his lungs.

“W-Why? With me?” His eyebrow twitched at your question. How could you even think that he was angry with you? No. He was angry at himself. He was angry for being an idiot. For being scared. You weren’t to blame for anything that happened between the two of you. His jaw clenched, his head lowering to place a kiss onto the pulse point in your neck, making you sigh.

“With me.” You shook your head a bit, opening your mouth to try to talk, but you whimpered when he nibbled against your skin. Your belly turned with anticipation, your arms coming to wrap around his shoulders. He pressed his body against yours, his arms coming to wrap around your body. His hands were between your back and the mattress, holding you tightly against him as his teeth ran over your skin.

He wanted to bite down. He wanted to mark you permanently. He never felt like this before, not even with Nancy. When she had been with Jonathan, he just let it happen. But now, the thought of you being with another man, even when you had been rejected, was making him feel like he had to break something. He felt like he needed to punch someone. Like he needed to make you moan his name.

Like he needed you to scream his name.

His lips separated from your neck and instantly crashed into yours. You sighed into the kiss, your hands already disappearing into his hair like they always did. He groaned at the sensation, his lips smacking against yours in desperate motions, harsh, rough. His mind was clouding more and more, hazed by the thought of you and–

He had to stop. He had to focus before he lost complete control, and he forgot to be a gentleman. To be the nice and caring boyfriend you deserve. Because he was your boyfriend, not Aaron. He was. And you were staying with him, you said so. You said you were coming with him to California, not going back to Wyoming. He won, Aaron lost.

But fuck, Aaron still fucking had you first.

His tongue immediately plunged into your mouth, his hands coming up to grasp your head, keeping you still as his hips rolled into yours. You felt your cheeks being squished almost harshly. He was desperately holding onto you, making sure you would let him do whatever he wanted with you, and you were delighted by it. You moaned as your tongue danced with his, or tried your best to do so.

His fingertips dug into your skin, part of your scalp, behind your ears. Just everywhere. Your hands came down to hold onto his wrists, trying to keep his rhythm, trying to follow him. You were still confused at the turn of events, confused as to why he got so angry. His right hand left your face, and in a quick movement, his left one came to grip your chin, keeping you still once again. You couldn’t help how turned on this made you. You couldn’t deny it. You were already becoming wet by how he was dominating the situation.

But then you felt his right hand moving downwards, brushing over your covered breast, groping it over your thin sweater. Your back arched and you moaned into his tongue. He breathed heavily through the kiss, and his hand kept moving down, reaching the hem of your sweater and shirt.

He pulled away from the kiss, noticing how you were panting underneath him. Your eyes half lidded, already gone. He could turn you into this mess with just a simple kiss and a roll of his hips. He should feel good about himself; the anger should be gone, but it wasn’t. He licked the inside of his mouth, his hand slowly creeping underneath your clothes, your body trembling at the touch of his fingers.

Your skin grew goosebumps the more he inched up towards your breast. His hand never stopped gripping your chin, keeping your eyes on his face as his hand finally cupped you, over your bra. He groaned at the sensation, his hips giving an involuntary roll. You moaned at the friction of it all. He was hard, pressing against you, and you wanted more, needed more.

You could see his eyes staring down at you as he kept moving his hand, roughly kneeding your breast, and then you gasped when his fingertips pulled the cup down, freeing your nipple. Your eyes widened, and he growled as he flicked your nipple with his index finger, his lips crashing back down on yours. His hand left your chin, moving slowly down towards your throat. He pressed his hand around it, not putting much pressure, but enough to keep you down and still.

You felt yourself flush from the arousal, the embarrassment, the nervousness, the anticipation, the excitement, the thrill. His lips immediately started moving desperately against yours, as his index finger and thumb pinched your nipple, making you gasp into his mouth, your back arching against him. He tugged at it, desiring to see it, desiring to make you melt underneath his body.

Your legs spread even more as your belly coiled slightly, and you wanted to ask him now what made him do this. Not that you were complaining, but you were still in the dark about the reason. You jerked again as he rolled your nipple in between his fingers, moaning against his lips.

“Steve– Stevie, what has gotten into you?” And fuck, if he had to answer truthfully to you, he wondered if you would get scared. What if he told you he is fucking livid? That he is desperate to see you moan and cum? That he is insanely fucking jealous and angry that he wants to ruin you for everything and everyone else?

He pulled away from the kiss, just enough to keep his lips brushing against yours. You looked so delectable. Fuck, if you weren’t… If you just weren’t… He would do things to you right now that would not let you walk the next day. But he had to be patient with that one. He had to make that moment perfect… But this one– This one, he can be a little rough with.

“I’m fucking jealous.” Him admitting that sent a shockwave throughout your body. Him saying it for the first time to you made your heart skip a beat. Even if he was being a little harsh, it was just his way of trying to put a claim on you. You gulped and licked your lips, your eyes finding his as his fingers ran over your nipple, making you shiver from the sensation.

“I’m– I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to–”

“Don’t you dare apologize to me, got that, Sunshine?” His voice was imperative, his hold on your throat giving a soft press that made you nod as you sighed. His jaw clenched, and he squinted a bit towards you, “But I’m going to make you forget about him.”

Before you could even process what he had just said, he kneeled up, grabbing the hem of your sweater and shirt, pulling it all the way up, just above your breasts. You gasped, a strong heat covering your face and ears as you realized one of your cups had been pulled down. Your hands moved to cover yourself, only for his hands to grab your wrists, making you look at him.

He slowed his movements down, just a bit, not wanting to scare you. That was the last thing he wanted you to feel. He wanted you to feel secure around him, to feel safe no matter what happened, and that you could tell him to stop, and he would. But he wanted to ease you into it, relax you. Even as he stared at your breasts and all he wanted was to dive in, his dick twitching in his pants, he took a deep breath to contain himself and closed his eyes.

He leaned down, his lips coming in contact with your stomach, making your breath stutter. His lips brushed against your skin as he moved, kissing another part, then your sides, then moving upwards, and your body writhed underneath his. You sighed deeply the more goosebumps he created on your skin. He looked up at you as he kept kissing his way up, seeing you close your eyes as you let yourself relax under his touch. He licked his lips as he kissed the round of your breast, then the top, and finally he engulfed your nipple with his lips.

Your eyes widened, his hands still grabbing your wrists, pressing them against the mattress as he sucked on your left nipple, sending jolts of electricity towards your belly, making you clench around nothing at all. Steve was trying not to lose himself in your taste, finally having you on his lips in a way that he had been wanting for so long. His brain was short-circuiting at each roll of his tongue, at each tug he gave, and you moaned.

Your eyes then closed as you dove in the sensation, and he noticed, finally seeing you were relaxing into his touch. He took this time to let go of your right hand, guiding it towards your right breast, his fingers gliding over the cup of your bra. He pulled it down slowly, freeing your nipple from its confines. When his index fingers brushed over it, followed by a soft nip of his teeth on your left nipple, your body jerked underneath him at the stimulation.

You had been touched like this, but it felt so different. This feels so good. This feels so right. It feels so much more pleasurable than that one time. You couldn’t help but compare, because it baffled you how much it changed, how you felt when Steve was the one doing it. Instead of thinking about him when someone else did it, you now don’t have to imagine it. You were experiencing it. And you loved it.

“Steve…” You mewled and Steve moaned into your skin, his cock twitching against his pants, his hips jerking into yours involuntarily. That only prompted you to moan his name again, and he realized he had to keep his composure, or he was going to lose complete control over himself, and that was not the goal. Not today.

He let go of your nipple with a pop, his lips moving down, kissing your chest, then your stomach, causing a tickling sensation that made you tremble. You looked down at him, his eyes looking up at you as he kissed around your belly button. His hand left your breast as he slowly kneeled up, his jaw clenching as he looked down at your pants.

He cracked his neck a bit, thinking to himself to keep it cool. To make this about you and just you. But fuck, his dick was screaming at him to do something. It felt as if all the blood of his body was rushing towards it, making him lightheaded. His eyes looked at yours again, and he noticed the nervousness behind them, despite the arousal and the willingness.

“Trust me.” He repeated those words he once said to you back when you barely talked to one another. When you had to undress in order to warm each other up in the confines of a car. You felt your heart warm up at the memory of it, and you gave him a slow nod. Happy with your response, he stood up and started taking your boots off.

You were trying really hard not to cover yourself. The nervousness and embarrassment were still present, and much bigger than before, because one obviously wants to be liked by the person they are dating. You want him to like what he sees, but you are still self-conscious because it wasn’t dark in the room. The small night light in the corner, above the bed, was still on.

But Steve was enjoying every single inch of your body. He could dip down and kiss you all over if he had the time to do so. He had to remember that Eddie and Nancy could not stay out for long, and they had to get moving, but he was having a hard time doing so. After he took your socks off, his hands went to unbutton your pants. He couldn’t help the gulp happening in his throat, how his mouth started to salivate at the thought of seeing you.

You felt the button being popped off, then heard the zipper slowly move, and you realized just how hard you were breathing, how your stomach was in a turmoil of nerves, and how your heart was trying to break free from your chest. Would he like what he sees? You washed yourself today, but what if it wasn’t enough? With Aaron, you weren’t even thinking about these things, but you couldn’t help but do so with Steve.

And Steve was in a whole battle with himself, because the moment he had a glimpse of your white panties, he was about to moan out your name, just by the mere sight of you in your underwear. He knew you had him wrapped around your finger, but never to this extent. He wished he wasn’t in a time limit, that he had time to do this slowly for you, to take your clothes off one by one, but there wasn’t time.

His fingers dipped into the hem of your pants and your underwear, slowly taking them both off together. Your mouth opened as you gulped a breath in. Your hands came to cover your chest as you realized you had to help him. He tapped your hip once, and you raised them so he would take everything off.

He took a deep breath in, sliding the pants and panties away from you. He tried not to look until you were freed completely. You felt the coldness hitting your legs, and you flushed at how cool your center felt, noting you were wet. Really wet. Your face started burning, as well as your ears, not knowing where to look as he left you bare from your waist down.

He dropped them to the floor, and when he turned to look at you, you had closed your legs slightly. He was having none of that. He knew he had to be gentle with you, but would you notice just how bad he wants you if he were? Would you realize just how much he wants to engrave himself into your mind? Would you realize that all he wants right now is to have you?

“Open your legs, Sunshine.” He asked, trying to be nice, trying to keep himself calm. You gulped, hesitating for a bit due to your embarrassment, even if you wanted it. His hands came to grab onto your knees, his eyes searching for yours. “Sunshine.”

When you turned to look at him, his eyes were intense, determined, yet desperate. You clenched around nothing again just by the sight of him. You took a deep breath in, letting him guide your legs open, spreading yourself for him. You have never felt this exposed. You have never felt like this. It wasn’t shame, it wasn’t that you didn’t want it at all. But the guy you liked was guiding his eyes towards your core, and you couldn’t help the butterflies in your stomach.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Steve could see the glistening of your wetness even, seeing how you had reacted to him. Seeing how much you wanted him, wanted this. And he could only take a deep breath in, grabbing the back of your right knee and lifting it up a bit, his lips finding purchase on the top of it. His other hand brushed over your other thigh, gently, trying to relax you. You looked so beautiful, even better than what he had imagined or even dreamed of.

Your breath hitched as his kisses started moving downwards, lips on your thighs now, softly pecking you. You melted under them, closing your eyes as shivers ran all over your body, feeling yourself feel your belly tense up because even on just your thigh, it felt so good. He eyed you, his hands now gripping the back of your thighs, spreading your legs even more so he could start lowering his body, the further his kisses went.

The gears inside his brain were trying to stop working as his lips found your inner thigh. He felt you tremble underneath him, making his fingertips dig in your skin, holding you still. He wasn’t going to let go of you, not now. He might be selfish, he might be harsh or rough, but he couldn’t hold himself back. Not anymore. Not after what he found out.

His teeth nipped on the soft, sensitive flesh and then sucked on it. A gasp ripped out of your mouth, eyes widening at the sensation. His lips kept latched onto your skin, marking you, claiming this private part of yours. Skin no one would ever see but him. Skin that belonged to him now, and even if it sounded possessive, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

After a few seconds, he let go of your inner thigh with a pop! only to quickly move onto the other one, immediately repeating the same actions he did with your right one. One of your hands left your chest to grip the sheet below you, tightly. You needed to hold onto something, your breathing heavy as it anticipated what he was about to do.

Steve pulled away to see his masterpiece, his breaths coming out rough and needy. A purple mark now evident on each of your inner thighs. Good. But now, came the main course. His self-doubt kicked in for a second. He never had any complaints about how he performed orally, but he couldn’t help but think about not being able to be better than Aaron. He was older, and he looked experienced; Steve’s self-consciousness kicked in.

But then his eyes found your face, eyes half lidded, half gone, your chest moving up and down with your bra pulled down, and you were looking at him with a neediness that he could have been able to detect a mile away. And that was enough for him to lie on his belly, in between your legs.

He should go slow. He should be gentle with you. He shouldn’t let his possessiveness get the best of him. He should kiss the top of your belly, ease you into it. He should be perfect. But then again, this wasn’t your first time with this. This wasn’t the first time you were touched like this.

And he dove in with a growl.

Your eyes widened, your back arched as your nails dug into the fabric below you. His lips circled your clit, his tongue starting to press onto it and move it side to side. A gasp escaped you, the hand on your chest now coming to cover your own mouth. Your belly instantly flipped at the feeling, his hands moving in between your ass and the mattress, gripping you tightly to keep you in place.

At your taste, Steve moaned, not being able to help himself and rut his hips into the mattress. He felt you twitch and jerk with each flick of his tongue on your clit. His eyes looked up, over the hair that was falling over his face, seeing you had your knuckles over your mouth to keep your noises in. He groaned at that, wanting to hear you, leaving your clit with a pop. His tongue lolled out, licking a stripe of your wetness from in between your folds, a whimper leaving you as your hips bucked into him.

Shit, you were delicious. You were a perfectly aged wine that made him drunk with just one sip. He felt light-headed, driven only by his lust, by how amazing you feel underneath his touch. By how hot you sound, how good you look, how beautiful you are. And now, he had to find out you were delicious too? Even if there were a rehabilitation center to cure him from the growing addiction he was having over you, he wouldn’t go. Fuck that.

He dove his tongue in between, pointedly licking upwards and towards your clit again. Your head felt like it was in the clouds, your body starting to burn a thousand degrees, not even feeling the cold in the RV. You were sure there was still music going on, but all you could hear was Steve’s licks, the soft groans escaping him, and the blood that was rushing towards your head.

“Steve–” You whispered, and he moaned into your clit as he flicked it again, his hips circling against the bed, needing friction at his hard-on. It was involuntary. He should focus on you, but he couldn’t stop his body from reacting. He pulled away, licking his glistening lips as his eyes never left your center.

“You taste so good, Sunshine… So perfect for me, such a good girl.” He purred, and your mouth fell open at the words that just came out of his lips, only for your thought to be interrupted by his lips latching onto your clit again as his tongue licked and licked. A moan escaped you, louder now, not being able to cover your mouth anymore.

It felt amazing. He felt amazing, fantastic even. He slurped, eating you like a man starved. Both of your hands were now gripping the sheets beneath you, back arching off the bed as a specific lick felt a little too good. You gasped, followed by a sigh of delight. Were you too needy to want more? To want to feel more of him?

But you didn’t even need to say anything, because he wanted to taste you further, feel you further, pleasure you further. He unlatched from your clit, only to dip in between your folds with his tongue, and push in. He moaned, thrusting into the mattress at feeling your warmth.

“St– Steve!” You whispered-yelled at him, your eyes clenching at the feeling, body trembling at feeling him inside of you. He couldn’t help himself anymore; the bulge in his pants was now painful. He needed to free himself, at least a bit. One of his hands left your ass, his hips rising slightly so he could get in between and pop his button open and pull the zipper down. He sighed a bit in relief, now his hard-on not having a thick denim constricting it.

But then his eyes opened to see your hands gripping the sheets, and he was having none of that. That same hand moved to grab onto your right hand, making you open your eyes through your pleasure and look down.

His eyes were fierce, determined, sharp, and he moved your hand towards the top of his head. He was signaling you that you could grip his head, his hair. He would love it if you did so. His hand went back to gripping your ass, pulling you deeper into him, his tongue now swirling inside of you, and your hand closed on his hair, a moan leaving your lips without any shame.

Fuck it. Fuck it. It felt too good to hold back. You couldn’t handle it anymore, much less when Steve was clearly enjoying himself, letting you know by the moans he was letting out. You knew his fingertips were going to mark your flesh from how tightly he was holding onto you, but why the fuck would you even care about that? It even made you happy to know that. It made you happy that he marked you all over.

His tongue left you, his heavy breath hitting you, making your skin grow goosebumps because of the coldness you felt from it. From how wet you were. His lips kissed your clit gently, one, two times, his right hand leaving your behind, slowly moving it towards your pussy, and you flinched from the surprise at the feeling of his middle finger running over your slit, covering it in your juices.

“Relax, baby…” He cooed at you, gently, and you let a sigh escape you as you shook your head, rubbing his head with the hand that was still gripping it.

“I am, I was– Just surprised…” He hummed in approval at your response, glad you were being talkative and not shying away from him, or not telling him how you truly felt. His lips circled your clit again, and then his finger started to slowly push in.

A long gasp broke from your lips, choking a bit in your throat as you felt him go in. Your fingers dug into his scalp, making him growl against your clit, your warmth engulfing his middle finger, sucking him in completely. He didn’t move for a second, flicking your clit to check your reactions.

You moaned again when you felt the tip of it wiggling a bit, making an electric shock travel all over your spine.

“Stevie, please–” It was the first time you had begged all night, asked for more, asked for him to keep going. And fuck, was he going to comply. He started thrusting his finger in and out of you. It was slow at first, letting you get used to the feeling of it, giving your clit a few kisses so you could melt even more into his touch.

His hips rutted into the mattress below him at the same tempo that he was thrusting his finger inside of you. He was like an animal right now, not even realizing or thinking through what he was doing. He heard your soft moans, some you were trying to hold in, some were leaving your mouth without restraint.

He felt your nails digging into his scalp, pulling onto his hair at each flick of his tongue on your clit, while his finger curled upwards inside of you. You felt your chest heaving at the feeling, your head rolling onto the pillow, feeling sweat all over your body. Steve knew you were feeling good, but his possessiveness kicked in again, the memory of this not being the first time you were experiencing this coming right back.

He pulled away from your clit, his teeth tugging it as he moved, making you jerk underneath him, whimpering his name. His finger moved faster now, his left hand moving from your ass towards your waist, pulling you into his other hand as if urging you to ride his finger.

“You feeling good, Sunshine?” He also wanted to know you weren’t in any discomfort. That you weren’t in any pain at all. You nodded enthusiastically, making him chuckle, a teasing smirk appearing on his lips as he shook his head. His jaw clenched as he pulled his finger out, making your eyes widen and look down at him. He tapped it slowly against your clit, making you clench around nothing. “I need words, baby.”

“Yes– Yes, it feels good, Stevie, please–” You gulped, not being able to feel embarrassed any longer. He nodded, now his middle and ring fingers gliding in between your folds again, gathering more of your slick. Then he pressed them against your clit, doing short and quick movements, side to side. Your other hand immediately grabbed onto his hair too, your head falling back onto the pillow as multiple shocks made your body spasm underneath him.

Your mouth was open, letting your moans fill the RV, hopefully drowned by the music inside of it. You and Steve were really not paying attention to that anymore. Not when his fingers started to push in again, now his ring finger joining his middle one. He moaned as he felt you clench a bit around them, fluttering as your name fell off his lips almost in a prayer.

You felt tight, you felt so warm, and he had to clench his eyes as a thrust of his hips sent a jolt of electricity all over his body. Eddie’s words rang in his ears, taunting him, wanting him to cave in. He didn’t need to think of where the condoms were, not right now, not today. He clenched his eyes tightly as he breathed shakily, concentrating once again when he felt your nails scratch his head, pulling on his hair slightly.

He started going slow, his tongue lapping at your clit as his fingers went in and out of you, the squelching starting to be heard, even over the music. His left hand was still gripping your waist, pushing you against his fingers, guiding you. Your body trembled at the feeling of him, at the brush of his fingers and knuckles inside of you.

Your legs were spread and bent around his head, letting him have the full access he required, that he needed, that he craved. You were being so good for him. So perfect, just like he always knew you’d be. His fingers picked up a pace, curling his fingers upward, feeling your fingers pull on his hair when you felt your insides turning. Your belly was starting to cramp, and you were overwhelmed at how good all of it felt.

His eyes opened to look up at your expressions, at your movements, his mouth leaving your clit so he could concentrate on your sounds. He could now feel you moving underneath him, jerking your hips every now and then. Your head was thrown back on the pillow, your back arching and your chest heaving as moans and whines escaped your lips. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He felt you fluttering around his fingers, a triumphant smile spreading on his lips as he felt you getting wetter and wetter. You rubbed his head, urging him to put his mouth back on you again, but he was not moving. You whimpered, forcing yourself to look down at him with pleading eyes. Big, begging, and he almost, just almost, caved in.

“Stevie–”

“Did you cum?” His question threw you off, breathing heavily, about to answer only for your words to die on your tongue when a particular drag of his fingers sent a jolt to your belly, your head falling against the pillow again.

“Steve–” You sighed and he groaned, his fingers slowing down again, keeping them curled, but moving at a pace that was not satisfying you. You frowned, looking down at him once more, your mind in need for him to keep moving. “Don’t stop–”

“Did he make you cum?” You stuttered, closing your eyes as his thumb brushed against your clit. “I won’t keep going if you don’t–”

“I didn’t! I– faked it– I faked it–!” Happy with your answer, his fingers started moving again, and you sighed in content, your head back on the pillow as you felt yourself start to flutter again. Your climax was so close, you could feel it, and you knew he could too.

“Why?” He growled out, and you were not answering again, making him slow down again, his teeth coming to tug at your clit rather harshly, making your entire body jerk against him. Your hands were still on his head, and he fought against every tug and push of yours. “I am asking you questions, Sunshine.”

“Fuck– Stevie– I’m gonna cum, I–”

“Focus.” He wanted to hear it. He needed to hear it. It was already a win that Aaron hadn’t gotten an orgasm out of you, but he had a feeling that he was going to love the reason as to why you did what you did even better. You took sharp breaths in as you felt your entire body start to cramp, trying not to rip your boyfriend’s scalp off.

“I couldn’t– I couldn’t stop thinking about you– And I just wanted it to be you– OH god–!” Your right hand left his hair as your back started to arch when he picked up a pace again, desperately so. It went to grip the pillow underneath your head while the other tugged at his hair.

His hips started to rut into the mattress at your answer furiously. He was so drunk on you. He was so hypnotized. You had thought of him the whole time you were with the other man. Steve had definitely won it all. Despite this not being your first experience, he now knew you would consider it your real one. The one that made a difference.

His lips came to desperately take your clit again, sucking on it as his fingers moved rapidly inside of you, abusing your g-spot over and over again. Your mind was blank; you weren’t measuring your moans anymore, nor the number of times you were sighing Steve’s name out of your lips.

All you knew was that you started to see stars, your entire body setting on fire as you started to pulse around his digits. You were breathing heavily, your head thrashing around the pillow, trying to survive whatever tidal wave Steve was about to unleash on you.

“Cum, baby. Cum for me.”

And you listened. Your insides clenched around him, tightly, and your legs closed around his head as your belly exploded, your climax crashing over you instantly. It was big, it was intense, it was something you’ve never felt before in your life. Your entire body felt like it was on fire, yet it was cool, and your toes cramped as they curled into themselves.

Your mouth was open as you tried to breathe in, and then, a loud cry escaped you as you trembled fiercely underneath him. He moaned into your clit as he rode your orgasm out, feeling your legs around his head, almost about to crush him, but he didn’t care. Holy shit, he couldn’t care fucking less because you felt so tight. You felt so fucking good, and his cock wasn’t even inside of you.

You heard him groan loudly, or maybe it was your imagination. You didn’t know what was real and not anymore. Your mind was gone as your orgasm started subsiding. You felt your walls unclench slowly from around him, fluttering every now and then as his tongue licked at your clit with kitten licks.

Once he felt you completely let go of his fingers, he started to slowly take them out of you, and you whimpered as you felt the loss of them. He then saw your cunt, glistening, almost dripping down towards the sheets. He couldn’t help himself when he lolled his tongue out and licked the stripe of your wetness, tasting you even more than before. He groaned into you as he lapped at you.

You whined, your body jerking at the overstimulation. Your hand gripped his scalp, trying to rip him away from you, legs spreading again to let go of his head. You were panting, catching your breath as you felt yourself a little lightheaded. You were in complete and utter bliss, all out of your boyfriend becoming jealous and possessive.

He pulled away from your cunt finally, licking his fingers clean. Now, he felt so sweaty. He should have gotten his shirt off at least. He was breathing heavily, wiping his chin with the back of his sleeve, knowing he would have to wash it now anyway. He felt you spasming a bit, and he let go of your waist, looking up at you as you lay spent on the bed. Good.

He crawled slowly over you, kissing your hip and then your stomach as he went. He could feel now how hot you were running, and he was so happy that he was the reason for all of these reactions of yours. He sighed as he kissed your jaw and then your cheek, trying to center you back in the present.

“Sunshine? You okay?” He asked, wanting to really know that you were alright. Wanting to know he didn’t overdo it. He is now slowly realizing just how rough he had been with you. A side of him he never got to meet before. When he saw those romance movies where the man got overly jealous always seemed exaggerated to him. He was so wrong. Those feelings existed with the right person, and the right person for him, was you.

“Y–Yeah…” You sighed, giving a slow nod, your eyes finally opening again. You found him looking down at you and he looked so disheveled. He looked so gone. He looked so good. A smirk appeared on his panting lips.

“Felt good?” You nodded quickly at his question, almost making him sigh out of relief. You gulped, licking your lips. You were tired, but you wanted to return the favor to him. You wanted to make Steve feel good too. You wanted to at least try.

“I– Can I return the favor?” His eyes widened at your request. He licked his lips nervously as he felt his heart skipping a beat.

“You don’t need to force yourself to do it. I wanted to do that to make you feel good, not expecting anything in return–”

“I want to give something in return. I want to taste you too… I want to touch you too, Steve…” And he trembled on top of you, his breathing becoming steady again. He gulped, shaking his head slowly.

“There’s… No need for that…” You frowned, a bit of your self-consciousness kicking in again as you looked up at him.

“I– I know I never did that, but you can teach me… I can learn as I go… You just have to show me what you like best, Stevie…” He wanted to shoot something at your words. He wanted to cave a hole into the RV’s ceiling with his fist to get some cold air in because he felt suffocated. How can you say something like that to him? Do you even know what kind of power you had over him?

“Thank you, baby, but I really– don’t have the need for it, right now…” His eyes were hopeful, wanting to save himself from shame, but you only looked at him with confused eyes.

“I… Are you sure–?”

And before you could doubt yourself anymore, he decided to rip the truth out like a Band-Aid.

“Jesus chri– I came in my pants while eating you out, Sunshine.”

You blinked a few times, his words starting to process in your head. He was blushing a furious red, his hair falling over his forehead as he looked everywhere but your face. He came just by touching you. Just touching you. You didn’t even know that was a thing.

“O– Oh!” You couldn’t help the giggle that came out of your lips, feeling the entire situation funny, yet endearing, yet… so sexy. So erotic. His eyes went down to look at your laughing face, feeling embarrassed, but despite that, he smiled, digging his face into your neck to hide himself.

“Don’t laugh, you menace.” You felt him kiss your pulse point, your arms coming to wrap around his shoulders as your giggles kept going.

“It’s hot though.” He let go of your neck, moving to face you again and you were looking at him with an innocent look in your eyes.

“Definitely a menace.” His heart felt like bursting while staring down at you when another smile broke on your lips. He leaned down to take them into a kiss, his arms wrapping around your body as you kissed back. He was content, he was happy, and he was proud he had made you feel that good.

You let him cuddle you and kiss you after. Steve left for the bathroom to wash himself and change, while you changed in the bedroom. When you were left by yourself, you couldn’t help but remember every single touch he gave you. Every single sensation you felt, and just remembering that his tongue was on you, was enough to make your entire face burn up and melt away.

When he returned, he was wearing his sweatpants and a white loose shirt on. His hair was wet, and he shook his head like a dog, trying to dry it a bit more. You bit your lip while looking at him as you sat in the bed, inside the covers, waiting for him. He felt his heart skip a beat, and he opened his mouth, only for you to cover your mouth, alarming him.

“Eddie and Nancy! They– They definitely heard me!” You gasped with terror, and he chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head.

“Yeah, uh… I should turn the music down…” He blushed and you frowned, confused, tilting your head like you always did. Then, you finally realized how loud the music was compared to other times. He had dialed the volume up on purpose, with the pure intent of doing what he did to you.

Before you could say anything to him, feeling shame invade him, he closed the blinds and he rushed out towards the front, reaching out to the radio to turn it off. He gulped as he took a deep breath in, walking towards the cupboards to grab one of the water bottles. He opened it and took a big gulp, trying to quench his thirst. He closed the cap, and then he started hearing murmuring outside the RV.

The door opened slowly, Eddie and Nancy walking in. They were talking about possible towns to visit, the map and journal in their hands, and Steve sighed with relief as they didn’t question anything, nor spared him a single look as they went to the front to take their seats. Steve grabbed the water bottle, turning to go to the back again, his hand grabbing the handle of the sliding door.

“Steve.” Nancy’s voice cut his thoughts short, turning his head over his shoulder, and he found two pairs of cheeky eyes looking at him, a smirk on each of their face, making Steve nervous.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Don’t forget to change the sheets.” His mouth opened in shock, the two friends turning to look at the road again, and their talking resumed as if Nancy hadn’t said anything at all.

He gulped, opening the blinds and stepping back in. He looked up at you, and he noticed your horrified face. He winced, frowning almost in pain as the embarrassment kicked in for both of you.

“They definitely heard me.”

“I– Yeah.”

☀︎

#love #AHHHHH

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watermelondip · 1 month ago

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you reblogging my stuff is the highest compliment cause i love your writing omg omg

that's so sweet omg <33 i love YOUR writing!!!

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watermelondip · 1 month ago

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changed (marked 2, teen wolf, stiles stilinski x reader)

read part 1 here

pairing: stiles stilinski/fem!reader, backround! scott/allison summary: something weird is going on with reader. she’s fighting jackson and sneaking into stiles’ bedroom in the middle of the night. stiles is determined to get to the bottom of this, like he always does. general tags: same as part 1 honestly (childhood friends to lovers, endless pining, yearning, seemingly unreciprocated feelings) specific tags: reader being super protective of stiles, defending him from bullies, reader can fight, reader revealed to be a werewolf, guest appearance from the sheriff, noah and reader have banter, domestic fluff, stiles is fantasizing about domestic bliss with reader (see? he’s not always horny!), hurt comfort, reader sleeps over at stiles’ place, but no funny business no sex (yet?) but reader jokingly treats stiles like a dog and he loves it (he’d bark for you), reader sneaks into his bedroom so he thinks he’s dreaming and he starts fantasizing about what would happen next, reader gives stiles a massage, just general canon compliant stiles horniness warnings: bullying (Jackson shoves Stiles at lacrosse practice, reader gets called psycho and bitch by Jackson, it implies the latter really upsets her, he also asks Stiles if he paid reader to have sex with her, honestly the bullying is a little exaggerated and not very realistic), reader fights Jackson (it end very quickly and she wins), stiles helps reader out of what he assumes to be a panic attack (but its actually reader almost turning), depiction of stiles’ low self-esteem, mentions of reader having nightmares (not detailed) and stiles comforting her, stiles having issues distinguishing between dreams and reality but it’s not related to the nogitsune, reader says she doesn’t deserve stiles (he disagrees), its more out of guilt than a lack of self-worth on her part let me know if I’m missing something word count: 7.6 k

Everything in Stiles’ body hurt. Ever since Lydia’s party, Jackson has had it out for him and he’s been merciless on the lacrosse field. The boy considered giving up, since he wasn't even that good anyway. Y/N smacked him up the back of the head when she heard him float the idea around during lunch.

“You’re not letting that neanderthal bully you into quitting; you belong on the team just as much as he does.”

Stiles wanted to say that Jackson was captain of the team, actually co-captain, and he was a bench warmer. They were not even in the same stratosphere in terms of belonging to the team.

“Tell me if he gives you any more grief, I’ll take care of it.”

He laughed, but he knew the girl meant it.

Something about Y/N changed the night of the party, and Stiles was failing to grasp why – but she was fiercely protective over him, like a dog with a bone more than a normal girl with her friend. A guy made a snarky comment about Stiles’ jeep within earshot and she loudly yelled “no one cares what you think!” which made the guy turn red. The chemistry teacher made a joke about how he never pays attention and the boy could swear he heard Y/N growl at him. She offered to scratch his car in retaliation, but Stiles talked her out of it.

There were other ways she changed.

Like the way her hands kept finding their way to Stiles’ body. She would absent-mindedly put a hand on his back to gently guide him from one spot to another; she would squeeze his shoulder or his knee at random points in conversations, she’d jokingly pat his head like you do to a dog. And every single time Stiles had to pretend like her touches weren’t driving him closer and closer to the brink of madness.

It didn’t mean anything– not really. Stiles knew it because the girl never looked like she did it intentionally. Her hand seemed to wander around by itself and end up on him, like she wasn’t thinking about it. Like this was normal for them.

They would pass by each other on the hallways, she’d squeeze his arm and before he’d have time to react, she was gone. They would study together for something, her hand would end up on top of his for a few seconds, and just like that she'd take it away and say nothing. The first time it happened Stiles thought he imagined it.

And then there was only five minutes ago. Stiles, Scott, and Allison were having lunch in the cafeteria when Y/N walked up to them balancing her tray with one hand. She patted his head with the other, only to sit down as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Like she just said hello.

Stiles was gonna remember that instance later that night for sure because it went straight to his dick. Something in the condescending nature of the touch, or the way she looked down at him for a second before she sat awakened something in him that he wanted to put back to sleep. The moment kept repeating in his head like a broken record; the tips of Y/N’s fingers on his scalp, the way she looked at him so innocent, the not-so-innocent ideas that came to his mind.

Then she turned around towards Alison and Scott, making a funny face.

“You two are so cute you make me sick,” she teased and took a bite out of an apple.

Stiles stared at the lip gloss marks left on it and he’d never thought he could be jealous of a fruit. He wanted her to bite him again so much it hurt. There was this hunger in him that he’d never felt before. Sure, he’d been attracted to other women, he’d feel certain urges (all the time) but not like this. What he started to feel for Y/N was different than anything he felt before and – for as much as he tried to chalk it up to him growing desperate to lose his virginity– it terrified him.

Something in Y/N changed that night, but he was afraid to admit that something in him changed, too.

“So, what were we talking about?”

That’s when Scott filled her in with Stiles’ plans to give up lacrosse because Jackson had become unbearable, so she made her neanderthal comment.

“Tell me if he gives you any more grief, I’ll take care of it.”

“You take such good care of me,” Stiles joked as he shamelessly ogled her taking another bite of her apple.

Stiles wondered if her being so protective of him came out of a sense of possessiveness. Like “you can’t call him a dumbass and shove him around, only I get to do that”. And he wondered if it made him a bad person for liking the idea so much. What did it say about him that when a hot girl pushed him around it turned him on rather than turn him away?

“My ears are burning, I think some losers are talking about me.”

Stiles didn’t need to turn around to know that it was Jackson who said that, but he did it anyway. He was passing by their table, holding Lydia by the waist like a trophy. The sight made Stiles sick. As he passed the group by, he hit Stiles with his elbow in a pretend accident.

“Up your ass, co-captain of the lacrosse team,” Y/N said with a mouthful of apple.

“You seem to be awfully protective of a boyfriend who is all over my girlfriend like a dog in heat.”

Boyfriend. He called Stiles her boyfriend. Did people really think that they were dating or was Jackson just trying to make fun of Y/N by implying she’d date someone as uncool as him?

“He can do whatever the fuck he wants, I’m not jealous. You, on the other hand, reek of insecurity,” she scrunched up her nose like she could honestly smell something.

There was this scary truth about Y/N that she had a secret talent. She could tell right away your biggest insecurities and had no gripe with using them against you if she saw fit. She was slighting Jackson by calling him co-captain, knowing how much it bothered him. To Scott being co-captain of the lacrosse team was a step ahead in the sport, to Jackson it was a demotion. Because Scott used to be a bench warmer and Jackson used to be the sole captain of the team.

Even the fact that she didn’t correct Jackson when he called Stiles her boyfriend was intentional. This way she could make herself the carefree confident girlfriend that made Jackson look like an insecure mess by comparison.

Once she mentioned that she almost felt bad for him. How living your life constantly proving yourself to everyone including your parents, your teachers, your girlfriend, your friends, must be exhausting. She said that if he wasn’t such a thorn in Stiles’ side she would actually be nice to him. He couldn’t relate, he had always hated the motherfucker.

Stiles was just happy to never be at the receiving end of the girl’s wrath. If she knew his biggest insecurities, she seemed willing to take them to her grave.

“Sicing your girlfriend on me, Stilinski, really?”

Stiles couldn’t help but love the idea of Jackson running his mouth to the whole school and make everyone believe that he and Y/N were dating. As horrible and selfish that was, he hoped it would deter guys from asking her out. Because Stiles had a reoccurring nightmare where some hot jock asks her out in front of him and all he can do is watch helplessly as she says yes and he whisks her away never to be seen again. He knew it was only a matter of time before the other guys in school notice how hot and awesome she was.

“He’s not sicing anyone, I’m not a dog.”

Jackson could tell the way to get to Y/N was by picking on Stiles. For him it was a two for one sale on bullying. Make Stiles miserable, make Y/N miserable for free. It worked the other way around, too.

“No, you’re just a bitch-“

“Don’t talk to her that way!” Stiles found himself saying with more self-assurance than he believed he possessed.

“Oh you get between my girlfriend’s thighs and suddenly you think that makes you a man,” Jackson announced louder than he needed to. “Or did you finally lose your v-card and found a spine? Was it this one?” he asks pointing at Y/N. “Did she pity fuck you? Or did you have to pay her?”

In the blink of an eye Y/N shot up from her seat and grabbed Jackson so forcefully by the sides of his jacket he stumbled backwards a few steps.

“Take that back, you pig! Or so help me god we’ll both regret what I’m about to do.”

Jackson looked shocked for a fraction of a second, but then he regained his composure as he stared the girl in front of him down.

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” they boy said mockingly. “It sounds to me like your mouth is writing a check that your ass can’t cash.”

It took Stiles longer to process what he saw than it took for it to actually happen. Y/N, hands still on the lapels of Jackson’s leather jacket, grabbed him and thrust him towards the table where another group was eating. He hit the margin of the table stomach first, bending over in pain. The girl took advantage of this position and grabbed one of his arms, twisting it behind his back, still pushing him into the table. It looked brutal.

“That’s enough, Y/N, he got the point!” Scott yelled from behind her.

The girl was huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf as Stiles placed a hand on her shoulder, and she visibly stiffened for a second as if she forgot he was even there. They had a silent conversation with their eyes, where Stiles hoped he communicated “thanks for having my back but don’t kill the poor guy”. Or something between those lines. Y/N looked genuinely shocked of the position she found herself in, like something possessed her a few moments ago and she was getting back to her senses.

She did finally let go and left the cafeteria in a hurry. Stiles and Scott ran after her, hearing Jackson yell behind them about how McCall’s cousin is a psycho.

“What were you thinking, Y/N? If word of this gets to the school or worse - the cops, your folks will send you away.”

Y/N seemed to be hyperventilating and Stiles almost yelled at Scott for scolding her in such a moment. She needed help and he was only making it worse.

“Hey, take a deep breath, Y/N. It’s fine.”

Stiles took in a deep breath as if to show the girl how to do it, she started mimicking him and after a few seconds she seemed to calm down.

“There, all better,” he gave the girl another pat on the shoulder hoping it would be a soothing gesture. “Why are you freaking out so much, Scott?”

“It’s cause I’m here on probation,” Y/N finally said. “I got in a few fights back at home and my folks wanted to send me to a boarding school. It took like a month of me, aunt Lisa and Scott begging them to change their minds. Coming here was the compromise, but they said one more stunt and off to boarding school I go.”

The girl closed her eyes and pulled her head back until it hit the wall she was backing against, then let herself slide down it until she felt the cold ground through her jeans. The coldness helped with the panic.

“It will be uniforms and not leaving the premise without a signed paper and eyes on me at all times and like three or more fucking roommates. They’d stick eight of us in a closet if we could fit. I’ll only be seeing mom and dad on holidays and I’ll probably have to wear an ankle monitor.”

The girl ran a hand through her hair in frustration and sighed.

“It was nice seeing you, Stiles. See you again when I’m thirty and my parents finally relent to let me out of house arrest?”

She gave him a crooked smile that seemed forced and Stiles swore to himself that he will do everything in his power to not let that happen.

Yes, he knew that Y/N was in Beacon Hills only temporarily, that she would leave either at the end of that school year or earlier and not dwell in there a moment longer. He told himself it didn’t really make a difference, whether she’d leave now or later; that maybe it would be better for him if she left now and ripped the band-aid instead of lingering and letting Stiles get more and more obsessed with her. He had no idea which prospect was worse. Y/N leaving now and him not getting to spend another moment soaking in her presence or her leaving later after he had already fallen head over heels. He just knew he couldn’t let her go, not yet – maybe not ever. He knew he’d do anything for just another moment with her, even if every moment sent him closer and closer to heartbreak.

“It might be good for me, you know. I have been awful lately. I scared my folks.”

“Oh, come on!” Stiles protested. “Jackson has been begging for a beating since he had that growing spurt in seventh grade. There just hasn’t been anyone brave enough to face him until you came around.”

He sat down cross-legged next to the girl and just because she looked so miserable he needed to say something to make her smile.

“Thanks for that, by the way, hero.”

And he very gently punched her shoulder, which seemed to do the trick. The corners of her mouth quirked lightly and suddenly Stiles was twelve again, still trying his hardest to get the same girl to smile, still feeling like king of the world for managing to do so.

“You’re not leaving, I just got you back.”

And he was too busy staring at Y/N with heart-shaped eyes to notice his friend rolling his eyes at them and murmuring something that sounded an awful lot like “you two make me sick”.

Stiles wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or not. Y/N was standing above him in his bedroom in the middle of the night. One second he was having a weird dream about werewolves and vampires, and the next one he’s awakened by a gentle hand shaking him by the shoulders.

“Y/N?” he asked tentatively, still unsure whether she was really there.

Why would she be there in the middle of the night? It didn’t make any sense. And she was in nothing but an oversized shirt and biker shorts? Definitely dreaming. Stiles had this exact scenario play out in his head more times than he cared to admit.

“What are you doing here?”

“Long story, I need a place to crash. Can I take the couch in the living room? Promise you won’t even know I’m there.”

She almost bolted for the door but Stiles managed to get up and out of bed in record time. He gently grabbed her by the arm as soon as he reached her, squeezing gently if only to make sure that she was real. It felt real. But then again so do a lot of dreams.

“How did you get in? The door is locked,” he whispered, managing to sound a bit less groggy.

“Your dad let me in.”

She wasn’t looking him in the eye. He let go of her arm and she hugged herself as if seeking comfort. Stiles has never seen her in this state, jumpy and defensive.

“Dad isn’t home tonight, he’s working a night shift. Why are you lying to me?”

He didn’t sound mad, mostly worried. Y/N’s eyes darted toward the window in Stiles' room and he had to do a double take. There was no way she snuck in through his window unless she brought a ladder with her. But then again, there was no way she got in through the front door either. Unless she lock-picked it or stole her dad’s keys.

“Can’t the interrogation wait until tomorrow morning? I’m really tired.”

Y/N’s eyes once again ping ponged between the window and Stiles only to ultimately fall on the floor. She didn’t look tired, quite the opposite, actually. She seemed alert and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Like a cornered prey animal. She was just as scared as one, too.

It hurt Stiles that she’d hide things from him like this and then lie to his face. He liked to think Y/N thought of him as a friend, someone she can confide in. But she looked like she really didn’t want to talk and Stiles was exhausted and couldn’t think straight. A sizeable part of him was still considering he might be dreaming.

“You can take my bed, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

He reached for the door of his bedroom but Y/N slammed it shut with a loud thud, boxing him in between her body and the door itself. Now it was looking more and more like his usual dreams.

Except if this was a dream they’d be feverishly making out by now, and she’d be desperately pulling on his clothes halfway between trying to pull him closer to her by his shirt and trying to tear it off him. Her hands would be wondering down from his chest to his abdomen and lower, just a little lower. And she’d be whispering the filthiest things in his ears, the kind of things that send a shiver down his body – but they weren’t. Y/N wasn’t looking at him with hunger but confusion and worry and hurt.

So… totally not a dream.

“You can’t do that,” she murmured. “I come in your house in the middle of the night, wake you up from sleep, lie to you and you offer me your bed! You can’t do that,” she repeated louder.

Stiles was feeling guilty. Y/N sounded clearly in distress but he was too busy being horny to do anything about it.

“Are you mad at me cause I’m being nice?”

“Yes! Cause I’m not used to people being this nice to me. I don’t know how to react to nice.”

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and tried to recollect himself. That might be the saddest thing he’s heard someone say in a long time. And it was too late to have a whole conversation about it. And he knew that if he tried to talk to Y/N tomorrow about this she’d deny she had even said it.

He’s had his suspicions. The way she’d get aggressive every time he tried to pay her a compliment or do something nice. Her love language consisted of jeers, shoulder-punching and teasing comments.

But hearing her admitting it in a moment of vulnerability made him realize he didn’t know how to help her. He settled for being her punching bag. He’d throw a compliment her way and she’s throw a pillow in his face. And he was content with their dynamic. The one where he was clearly in love with her and she didn’t care because it was easy and familiar. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if she flirted back. If he could have her, then he could lose her. That thought terrified him.

What they had worked. He would openly admire her and she’d brush it off. He’d make sure to never take it too far and push her away. Compliment her just enough to flatter her without creeping her out. This way she stayed in his life, they remained friends and all was well. Anything else was unfamiliar territory and therefore dangerous.

“Well, get used to it. Cause I don’t know how to not be nice to you.”

She stepped away so Stiles finally opened the door and made his way to the living room so he could sleep on the couch. He came back a moment later to grab a spare blanket from his wardrobe to cover himself with. Y/N was on his bed, crouched in a corner with her head in her hands. He hated seeing her like this but didn’t know what else to do. She didn’t want to talk and he didn’t want to force her.

“Good night, Y/N.”

He half expected her to cuss him out just to prove a point about not accepting his niceness but she just raised her head and looked at him like she forgot in whose house she was in.

“Night.”

Stiles awoke again an hour later when he heard the snarls coming from his bedroom. And then Y/N screaming.

Maybe he was having a nightmare. Maybe the whole thing was a nightmare and he’ll wake up in his bed with Y/N nowhere in sight.

He feels like he’s running up the stairs in slow motion as he tries desperately to reach the door in time. Pulling in the door handle his mind catches up to him.

What is he doing? Jumping into danger like that? He can’t fight a werewolf, he can’t save Y/N. The only thing he could do is offer himself up as bait to buy her time to run away. Could she out run a werewolf? Could any normal human?

The boy looks at the bed. There was no werewolf in the room. Just a terrified Y/N who jumped half out of her skin when the door opened and hit the wall with a loud thud.

“Sorry, I thought I heard…”

His eyes slid from Y/N to the claw marks on his pillow then back to the girl. There was no werewolf in the room. Has there been a werewolf in the room? Then, suddenly as if a switch flipped in his brain– oh.

Ooohh.

“You’re the werewolf.”

That’s how she climbed through his window. That’s how she got here in the first place.

“That’s crazy,” Y/N said. “You’re crazy.”

But she was panicking, Stiles could hear it in her voice.

“You don’t have to lie, you know. Scott’s one, too. Did Derek do this to you?”

He was gonna kill him. He was gonna sneak into his old decrepit house while Derek was asleep, tie him with wolfs bane to whatever dog bed he slept in and set him on fire.

“Who’s Derek?”

As his eyes were getting used to the darkness in the bedroom Stiles started to see things better. The beads of sweat on Y/N’s forehead and the scared look in her eyes. He remembered the snarling and her screams earlier, the sound so well embedded in his memory he knew he won’t forget it any time soon. He started putting things together.

“You had a nightmare,” he arrived at the conclusion. “Are you okay?”

Her hands gripped the sheets she was covering herself with, which also had a few pieces torn here and there. Stiles could almost see the gears turning in her head, how she was willing herself to come up with a plausible lie but couldn’t and ultimately chose to relax her shoulders and shake her head defeated.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head one again. Stiles expected that answer. It would be a cold day in hell when Y/N decides to be vulnerable in front of anyone, let alone him. She projected this image of the cold, uncaring girl who will run you over with her car if it meant she’d avoid being late for class. The boy sometimes thought he was the only one who saw through her façade.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Another shake of her head, and that one surprised Stiles.

“I wouldn’t mind if you stayed. I’m just a little shaken, that’s all.”

She lied. Stiles was already getting quite good at telling that. Her hands, which she tried to relax on her lap, were trembling. Stiles still remembered the nightmares he had when he was dealing with his mother’s death. And on particularly bad nights he still had them, even after all these years. He remembered what his dad used to do.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

He grabbed his chair, the one he usually sat on at his desk, moved it closer to the bed and plopped down on it. His movements betrayed how tired he truly was. He rested his head on the top rail of the back post and wrapped his arms around it, trying to find a little comfort in an otherwise very uncomfortable chair.

“You shouldn’t have to sleep on that chair. I’d let you come in bed with me but I just don’t trust myself.”

Stiles also didn’t trust himself to get in bed with Y/N for non-werewolf related reasons. He almost made that joke but it felt inappropriate giving the gravity of the situation.

“You won’t hurt me,” Stiles said with full conviction.

“I might,” she whispered half drifting back to sleep.

“I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

A yawn and then Y/N dragged the bed sheets up to her neck as she made herself comfortable.

“Forget what I said earlier, go back to the couch. I’ll be fine.”

But Stiles stayed put on the chair and waited for her to fall asleep. And then not so long after, in between thinking how cute she looked asleep in his bed and that he’s a creep for thinking that, he also fell asleep.

Stiles woke up the next day around noon when his father knocked on his door. Before the boy could answer, his father let himself in, assessed the weird sleeping arrangement and made a questioning face. He raised his eyebrows and pointed towards Y/N with his chin as if to ask “what is she doing here?” Stiles just made a gesture to keep silent, putting his pointer finger above his lips.

He got out of the chair with great effort because everything hurt from his legs to his back and his neck. He heard a few loud snaps that surprised him when they didn’t wake up Y/N, especially with werewolf hearing. She must really be exhausted.

Joints still cracking, Stiles followed his father all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where two omelets were waiting for them.

“I made breakfast, I didn’t know we had company,” the man said, pulling out a third plate.

Breakfast at noon was something of a tradition in the Stilinski household. When Stiles didn’t have any school that day and his dad worked the previous night, they’d both sleep until noon and whoever woke up first made breakfast and they’d enjoy it together. On the one hand, Stiles loved this tradition; on the other, there really couldn’t be a worse time for this.

“Just be quiet, she was really tired last night and I don’t want to wake her up,” Stiles whispered as his dad got started on a third omelet.

He wasn’t being loud, per se, but Y/N had werewolf hearing so really the sound of someone breathing could probably wake her up. He was still processing that information. Y/N was a werewolf. Both his best friend and the girl he had a massive crush on were werewolves. Life couldn’t get any fucking weirder for him.

“Do I have to ask why Y/N is sleeping in your bed and you on the chair? If I had walked in on you sharing a bed, I would have jumped to some conclusions, but now I’m just confused. My best guess is that you said or did something moronic last night that made her kick you out of the bed,” he took a breath. “But I like to think I raised you better than that.”

Stiles took a big bite out of his food trying desperately to buy himself some time to come up with a story; one that made sense while omitting werewolves and not implying that he slept with Y/N. He couldn’t come up with anything so he settled for a half truth in the hope that his dad wouldn’t ask too many questions.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, dad. I wasn’t being a moron. We were just having a sleepover, like old times.”

“Just the two of you? Without Scott?”

“He bailed on us for Allison so it was just us.”

Stiles was proud of the lie he came up with on the spot considering his brain was still half asleep. Probably after Y/N leaves he’ll just go right back into his bed and sleep the rest of the day off. Now to tie it all off with a neat little bow he had to smoothly change the subject without his dad noticing.

“Besides, if getting kicked out of bed makes you a moron… I seem to remember you spending a few nights on the couch.”

The man smiled like he remembered even his fights with his dead wife fondly. He probably missed fighting with her the same way Stiles missed telling her to mind her own business when she was being nosy. Losing someone really makes you so forgiving in hindsight.

“Yes, your mother liked her personal space when she was mad. But we always worked things out in the morning.”

The boy wondered what it was like. To love somebody so much that you’re willing to work things through, no matter what. To love them so much you’re willing to forgive and forget. And to be loved like that in return.

Stiles felt his dad's hand weighing on his shoulder as he gave him a serious look.

“Just be careful, son. She’s not the same girl you had a crush on as a little kid. We got her juvenile record and I haven’t read it yet but it’s a thick folder for a teenager.”

Stiles knew that already. That she got into fights, that the cops got involved at one point, she told him that. He also could extrapolate that her violent outbursts had something to do with her being a werewolf.

“Why sir, you flatter me,” a feminine voice came from the first floor.

Y/N made her way down the stairs with too much grace for somebody who just woke up. Stiles wondered how long she had been listening in. Has she heard the comparison his dad made between the relationship he had with his wife and theirs? Did she realize his dad assumed they were a couple and that Stiles didn’t get to correct him because she interrupted them?

“A girl’s gotta make her own fun in a small town, don’t you think?”

“Not too much fun, though. I’d rather spend time with you here than at the station.”

Mr. Stilinski tried to hide his embarrassment from being caught talking about someone behind their back with a cough and poured the omelet on the girl’s plate, inviting her to eat with a gesture. She scarfed it down so fast Stiles was genuinely afraid she’d choke.

“Careful,” she said between huge bites. “You might get sick of me coming over.”

She wiped her mouth and poured herself a glass of water like she’s been at this house a million times. And Stiles remembers her coming over all the time with Scott but it’s been so long since then, he assumed she’d forgotten all about it. Instead, she was moving about like she owned the place.

A warm feeling enveloped him, a stupid-stupid thought was racing through his mind and he realized he’d better lock it up and throw away the key before it got dangerous. He liked seeing Y/N in her pajamas waltzing about his house like it was hers, bantering with his dad and having breakfast together. Spending time together like they were family. There was a certain domesticity to this picture that made him yearn for a type of life he could never have.

Thinking Y/N looked hot in the tank top she wore to PE and thinking she looked comfy in her pajamas in his own bed were two completely different things. One was normal, he thought the same things about other girls. The second one was dangerous. Because she would leave, go back home and he would be stuck here probably for eternity and with his heart broken.

Ten seconds. He’d allow himself ten seconds of delusion before forcing himself back on earth, pushing all thoughts of domesticity and Y/N away forever.

Ten. She looked cute in her oversized shirt and biker shorts. He wondered if those were her usual pajamas and she just came here prepared to sleep over.

Nine. Come to think of it, he never got an answer as to what she was doing here.

Eight. She stole a piece of bell pepper from his plate and ate it just as quickly, grinning like she pulled a big heist.

Seven. He could get used to having her around, waking up next to her, even if he has to sleep in that damned chair forever.

Six. He could wake up earlier, make her breakfast. He wondered what her favorite foods were.

Five. She’d probably loudly complain about his cooking but still eat all of it and give him a kiss on the cheek as thanks.

Four. They could have lazy morning on the living room couch where they could watch movies and just cuddle.

Three. They could do laundry together, file taxes, all the mundane boring activities. Together.

Two. Was she a night shower person or a morning shower person? Would they have a dog or a cat?

One. Would they have children? Would they be werewolves?

Oh. No.

Stiles heard something similar to a record scratch, which he was pretty sure existed only in his imagination.

Where did that last thought come from?

He was so utterly fucked.

“What are you thinking about?” Y/N poked him in the shoulder.

“The usual, word domination, is a hot dog a sandwich?”

“Avoiding the question, bet you think you’re so clever,” she poked him again, this time on his temple. “And it is…. A sandwich, that is.”

“But a sandwich has two pieces of bread, a hot dog only has one.”

“It’s an open sandwich, duh.”

She rolled her eyes like it was so obvious and Stiles found himself looking forward to having a thousand nonsensical debates with her in the future.

No. Stop it. Time’s up.

The sound of his father’s plate dropping into the sink forcefully ripped Stiles away from falling even more in agonizing love with his friend. That’s what this was – love. It stopped being a crush maybe a long time ago, maybe that morning. Stiles had no idea when but at some point in his life his silly crush has morphed and calcified into love and there was no going back.

“Thank you for the food, Mr. Stilinski. It was great!”

“My pleasure, it’s nice when somebody appreciates my cooking.” He gave his son a pointed look. “I’ll leave you two alone and go back to my room. It was nice finally seeing you, Y/N. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble.”

“Is the promise legally binding, sir?”

“Dad, stop interrogating her. You’re off the clock.”

“It’s not an interrogation if I didn’t ask any questions,” then he turned towards Y/N. “And you can call me Noah. It’s Sheriff Stilinski when I’m in uniform, but hopefully you’ll never need to call me that ‘cause you promised your folks you’ll behave. Remember? You’re in Beacon Hills on probation.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

The man laughed. Honestly laughed like Stiles hasn’t heard him do in so long that his heart ached. He then closed a door behind him and Y/N let out a breath that Stiles thought she’d been holding in for a while.

“Sorry for him! He’s not usually like this, I swear.”

“You mean he doesn’t threaten to arrest all the girls you bring home? Huh, I feel special.”

She winked at him and Stiles went right back to his plate in order to hide the subtle flush in his face. Girls you bring home, what does that even mean? He didn’t bring her, she brought herself here.

He realized in horror that after he ate his last bite he had to say something back. In order to make himself look busy after he finished his meal, he got started on the dishes immediately. It was only fair that if his father cooked he should do the cleaning. They sat in silence for a while, Stiles chewing on his lip like that would give him an excuse for not talking. Every sound was magnified in those moments; the water rushing out of the faucet, the plates clinking when porcelain met porcelain, the creak of the floor as he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

He turned around, drying his hands on his own pants in the absence of a towel. He hoped the girl didn’t find that habit too off putting. Leaning his head a bit to the side like a puzzled dog Stiles felt a jolt of pain surge through his neck. Instinctively, he covered the spot with his hand like that would do something.

“You didn’t really sleep on the chair the whole night, did you? I told you I’d be fine.”

“It’s not that bad, I’ve slept worse.”

But just as he moved his head he felt a barking pain in his neck once again, making him wince involuntarily.

“Do yourself a favor, never play poker,” Y/N deadpanned.

As Stiles sat down back in his chair he felt the girl’s hands on his shoulders. His entire body froze. She started massaging the painful spots, making her way up and towards his neck. It felt amazing having her touch him so gently and carefully. Not punch him, shove him or poke him. Or bite him, for that matter. Her hands went up and down, then she pressed on his shoulder blades and Stiles let out a gasp. He told himself he wasn’t a weirdo for enjoying this, that was the point of the massage.

His heart was hammering in his chest, so strong and loud he was certain she’d hear it even if she wasn’t a werewolf.

Wait a moment.

If Y/N has been a wolf the whole time, she must already know. She has been hearing Stiles’ heartbeat go crazy every time she was nearby, sensing every small, humanly unperceivable way he reacted to her presence, her smell, her touch. She has to know. She has to.

Then if she didn’t say anything, it must be because she didn’t feel the same. Or if Stiles allowed himself to be self-indulgent one last time, it was because she also couldn’t bear the thought of being with him only to leave again. That’s what the version of her that lives in his fantasy would say. And then she’d say something cheesy about how keeping him at arm’s length was pure agony and she wished nothing more than to throw all caution to the wind and make love to him.

He really needed to stop reading romance novels. But they were the only action he was getting for now, and the only kind of pleasure he had with no guilt attached to it.

Y/N firmly pressed her thumbs at the base of Stiles’ neck, which earned her a quiet whimper. She leaned in closer, as to get a better angle, but as a consequence Stiles could now feel her breath on his neck and he shuddered.

“This would be a lot easier if you were laying down,” Y/N murmured as she worked a particular spot on his back.

Fuck no. He was already half hard, biting on his lip to stifle any undignified sounds he might make. There was no way he was making it out of a full massage, laying down with her on top of him, her hands touching him everywhere, with his dignity intact.

He felt dirty. Because she was trying to help him out and he was enjoying it entirely too much. This was supposed to be a friendly gesture and Stiles was making it dirty because he couldn’t get his shit together for five minutes. But her touch was so gentle yet firm and the boy couldn’t help but wonder how her hands would feel on other parts of his body.

“No,” the word came out whinier than Stiles intended. “I’m fine.”

“Ok then, there’s another, quicker way.”

And before he could ask Y/N what she was talking about, she lifted her hand off his back and grabbed him by the arm, her burning hot skin making full contact with his own. He felt the pain in his body being lifted like a fog, only a small fraction of it remaining like an echo.

He saw something akin to jet black tar crawling its way up the girl’s arm from the very same spot she was holding onto him. As his mind cleared a little from continuously repeating she’s touching me, she’s touching me omg he realized what she was doing. Scott told him that werewolves can relieve someone’s pain if they make physical contact. All the hurt that was lifted from his body must be going into hers.

“Hey, stop that.”

The boy shook off Y/N's touch, although it felt counterintuitive for as much as he loved her touch, and she let go of him with a gasp.

“Sorry, is this creeping you out? I just wanted to help.”

“You don’t have to do that, I don’t like the thought of you hurting just to help me.”

“Well, you’re only hurting because you slept in that chair to help me. So…”

She trailed off, not needing to say anything else to make her point. She was fidgeting with her hands and Stiles found it impossible not to stare and think about those hands on him. Touching, squeezing, scratching, rubbing –

“I know you have questions so let’s get this over with. Shoot.”

It took him a moment to comprehend what was being said to him. Partly because he was thinking about something else entirely (cut him some slack, he’s never received a massage before, let alone one from a hot girl he was in pathetic limerence with) and partly because Y/N said what she said very quickly, like she didn’t want him to understand.

“Why did you come here last night?”

“That’s it? You find out I’m a monster and all you want to know is why I’m here?”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Stiles said a little louder than he intended. “Please,” he added softly.

“You’re awfully calm about the whole I turn into a wolf on a monthly basis thing. I wasn’t that calm when I realized.”

“I told you Scott is one, too. And I figured it out before he did.”

“Of course you did, you clever boy,” Y/N laughed humorlessly, like she found this trait in Stiles endearing but she was in such a sour mood she couldn’t bring herself to really laugh.

“I don’t care, we’re still friends.”

Stiles tentatively reached out a hand towards her, moving so very slowly in order to give her time to dodge his touch if she so wished. His hand gingerly made contact with her arm and he squeezed it. He couldn’t actually take away her pain like a werewolf could but he hoped the gesture was comforting nonetheless. He didn’t expect her to lean in closer and closer until her head was resting on the crook of his neck and he found himself wrapping his arms around her once again, ever-so-slowly as if he was afraid she’d run away. Her hair smelled like berries and he wondered if she used a strongly scented soap and shampoo to cover the wolf smell. He breathed it in regardless and let out a contented sigh.

“You don’t have to explain to me about last night if you don’t want to. I’m just happy you know that when you need someone you can always come to me, ok? Whatever happened last night, if it happens again, I’m here for you.”

Stiles stopped talking, almost abruptly so, when he felt Y/N press a gentle but firm kiss on his cheek. He felt his tongue turn into lead. It was a good thing since what he said sounded dangerously close to a love confession, and maybe if he didn’t stop right that moment, he would’ve confessed. And he’d say something painfully corny like “I’m here for you because I love you. I always have and I probably always will. I was willing to sacrifice myself as werewolf bait last night for you, just so you know.” But he shut his mouth, smartly so.

“I don’t deserve a friend as good as you,” she whispered.

Friend. He loved being her friend. He relished in walking with her to classes and having lunch together at school, helping her with school work and being helped in return, listening to her problems big and small. But good god he wished he could be a friend she can kiss, touch, make love to. He wished he could still be her friend and her lover. It was childish and preposterous, wanting to have his cake and eat it, too; since he could only choose one, being her friend will have to do.

“But you have me anyway.”

i'm already 1.5k words into part 3 of this thing that was supposed to be a one shot. i think part 3 will be the last but i'm not making promisses. i might write a part 4 that's just smut. it feels wrong to have stiles thirst for so long and not give him release, that's just mean. like always feel free to ask to be part of the taglist for this fic or this blog in general.

@dumercredi @domineezy @sabii5

#love #ahh this is so good!!

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watermelondip · 1 month ago

Text

bikini season, stiles stilinski

summary: this right here (basically just trying on bikinis w stiles)

word count: 1200

warnings: reader wears a bikini, some sexual jokes, definitely not dressing room etiquette (nothing sexual happens), reader has a purse, pet names, mentions of food

stiles masterlist

your friends had invited you to the beach, which meant one thing… you needed a brand new bikini.

and when you debated who to take with you… your best friend or your boyfriend, you ended up choosing stiles, mostly because you loved watching him get flustered over literally everything, but also because you wanted his opinion.

plus, he had a car.

you were at your favorite store in the mall, racks of bikinis in every color you could imagine, and stiles was trailing behind you like a lost puppy, your purse hanging awkwardly from his shoulder.

“can we get auntie anne’s after this babe?” stiles asked, adjusting your bag on his shoulder.

“ya, i’ve been craving a pretzel,” you said, glancing back to smile at him.

“why does everything have to be so tiny?” he mumbled, holding up a neon orange bottom.

“that’s fashion” you laughed, taking it from him and hanging it back up. “we’re not getting that one, calm down.”

“i’m just saying, it’s like, super small,” he continued, waving his hands. “uh you’re like supposed to wear in public right?”

“you act like you don’t like them on me” you teased, shooting him a wink before grabbing a handful of bikinis and heading toward the fitting rooms.

“uhhh—” he stuttered, his ears already turning a shade of light pink. “it feels like i’m gonna get, like, arrested… just for being here.”

you peeked back at him, smirking. “then go look around in the store, while i’m here….alone.”

you disappeared behind the curtain, leaving stiles to awkwardly hover near the entrance, rocking back and forth on his feet, trying not to make eye contact with the sales associate who kept giving him suspicious glances.

“babe!” you called after a moment, peeking your head out. “can you come in here and give me your opinion?”

he stiffened like a statue. “uh, nope.no. that’s okay. just, uh, show me at your place later.”

“stiles,” you whined, motioning him to come over, “come on. It’s not like we’re gonna fuck in here or something.”

“please don’t say that word right now,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes darting to the sales associate, who definitely heard you. you didn’t care. you raised your eyebrows, daring him.

he makes his way towards you, taking small baby steps before you pull him into the small fitting room with you.

he stood with his back pressed against the wall, fidgeting with the strap of your purse, eyes glued to the ceiling.

“so,” you said, turning to check yourself in the mirror as you adjusted the floral bikini top, “i was thinking of wearing this one with shorts over it, you know, casual but still cute.”

his eyes darted down to your body for a split second, and then they shot back up so quickly. “uh-huh. yep. cute. great.”

“stiles, you’re supposed to actually look at me,” you said, hands on your hips, giving him a look.

“i am trying to be respectful, like you know a gentleman” he hissed, his face completely red now. “you’re literally half naked right now.”

“wow ok… just say you’re not attractive to me” you joke

he let out a strangled noise, before rolling his eyes at you. “you’re evil.”

“c’mon, you can look. i promise i won’t tell scott you got a boner in the dressing room.”

“BABE,” he groaned.

you burst out laughing, turning around to adjust the straps again, giving him a full view of your bare back, the bikini barely covering anything. you glanced over your shoulder, “well? does it make my ass look good or what?”

“Oh my God,” he whispered, covering his mouth with his hand as his eyes dropped despite his best efforts. “yes. yeah. yup, it looks— i can’t do this.”

“stiles,” you said, trying not to laugh, “it’s literally just a swimsuit.”

“yeah, on you, it’s like— it’s not just a swimsuit,” he stammered, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“oh, so you think i look hot,” you teased, stepping closer to him.

he gulped, his brown eyes wide and soft, darting down your body before shooting back up to your face. “mhm,” he mumbled, voice hoarse, “you look really, really pretty.”

your heart fluttered, but you kept your smirk. “you’re so easy,” you teased, reaching up to adjust the straps again. ”want to help me with this knot?”

“uh— i—” he glanced at your shoulders, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. “i can’t. i will die. actually die.”

you laughed again, turning around and pulling his hand to the knot. “you’re fine. just untie it so i can try the next one.”

his fingers fumbled, brushing against your warm skin, and you felt him freeze for a second before he finally got the knot undone.

“you’re so red right now,” you said, turning to face him again while holding the bikini top against your chest, your grin wide. “like, cherry red.”

“Oh God,” stiles muttered, dropping his head to the crook of your neck. “kill me now.”

“okay,” you said, grabbing the edge of the curtain, “i’m gonna try the polka dot one. step out for a sec kay?”

“oh thank God,” he whispered, stumbling out like he’d just escaped the trenches, “don’t take forever.”

you giggled as you changed, adjusting the polka dot bikini until it hugged you perfectly. you checked yourself in the mirror, you notice how your tits and ass are sitting perfectly in the set. it was a hundred times better than the floral one, you were excited to see stiles’ face.

“okay, you can come in now,” you called.

the curtain rustled, and stiles peeked in, his eyes widening instantly as they swept over you. he opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed the back of his neck, looking away before forcing himself to look again.

“well?” you asked, turning so he could see the back, “floral or polka dot?”

he cleared his throat, swallowing hard, his eyes trying his hardest to not stare at your tits. “i, um— the polka dot. definitely. It’s, like, really… wow.”

“wow?” you repeated, stepping closer, smirking. “you’re great at articulating”

“hey, wait you try forming words when your girlfriend looks like that,” he shot back, his face bright red.

“okay, so I’m taking that as a yes,” you said, reaching up to press a soft kiss to his jaw letting your lips linger for a second before pulling away.

he was quiet for a moment, blinking at you, before he mumbled, “you’re, like… super duper hot.”

you grinned, pulling the curtain shut again to change back into your clothes. “you’re so cute when you’re flustered.”

“i’m not flustered,” he mumbled outside.

“you’re so flustered.”

“shut up,” he muttered, but you heard the smile in his voice.

when you stepped out, holding the polka dot bikini over your arm, stiles still had your purse in his hand now swinging it, his eyes soft as they met yours.

“so… auntie anne’s?” you asked, bumping your shoulder against his as you walked out of the store.

“ya,” he said, smiling, “but you’re buying, since you’re the one who’s trying to give me a heart attack today.”

you laughed, lacing your hand through his. “deal.”

#love #SO so cute

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watermelondip · 1 month ago

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pairing: stiles stilinski / female reader tags: childhood friends to lovers, jealousy, miscommunication, angst, fluff, undetermined amount of smut (will update), injury & violence, major character death, follows all of season three in chapter two but diverges for the other two chapters, some hurt/no comfort. summary: three seasons of love

chapter one: summer (pt. one | pt. two) chapter two: fall chapter three: post-mortem

#stiles stilinski x reader #stiles x reader #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski fanfiction #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf imagine #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinski fic #dylan o'brien x reader #teen wolf x reader #x reader #stiles stilinski fluff #stiles stilinski angst

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watermelondip · 1 month ago

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Steve forgets to bring the dog in before a storm. You’re upset, but it’s not just about the dog. It’s about peanut butter jars, parenthood, and the quiet fear that maybe you’re too much. Or not enough. Mostly, it’s about love - real, messy, aching love, and trying to believe you deserve it. 14k words

(angst, mentions of parenthood/pregnancy, self-doubt, slightly suggestive)

Rain shot down like obsidian arrowheads, cutting through the heat and sinking into skin. Shirts clung, shoes sagged, and the world turned waterlogged beneath their steps.

Silence took on a new sound - the cannonade of rain filling the space between them, a wordless exchange still fluent in that strange, comic connection lovers know too well.

Told you it was going to rain, he thought as his chest inflated, heavy with humid pine and loamy air.

I told you to bring Pinto inside. The thought wasn’t cruel, just persistent. Your fingers worried at the frayed edge of your shirt, chasing some outlet for the ache spreading through your chest. Every step felt like wading through water with rocks in your shoes.

His thoughts turned over like tired wheels. You’re impossible, he sighed inwardly. First the peanut butter, now Pinto. Just one thing after another.

A sidelong glance was enough to clench your jaw. An open jar left on the counter. Who even knows where the lid is? Angry tears mixed with rain - an imperfect, raw blend. Pinto could get hurt. Hit by a car with lousy wipers, snatched by a coyote, or what if someone takes him in and wants to keep him? He’s our dog. He belongs with us.

Hands were shoved deep in his pockets, pruned fingertips rubbed together. He was a stray once. He knows how to take care of himself. That’s what they said at the pound. It was more a hopeful statement, wishful thinking meant to make Steve feel better.

I'm worried. One small hiccup bounced in your chest, lips pursed tightly so no other noise was made.

The slow burn of his annoyance eased the moment his eyes found you. He caught the difference in droplets on your cheeks - rain, light and fleeting, tracing soft paths; and tears, slow and briny, weighted with every ounce of your frustration.

The inward spiral broke, replaced by sudden clarity.

He reached over, hand caught your own in a tight, reassuring hold.

All that was left was to find Pinto. With thunder cracking in the distance, it was likely he was trying to outrun the storm, or more accurately, just hiding somewhere nearby.

After twenty-some-odd minutes, your hand kept trying to pull away. No longer spurred on by anger, it had switched to fear. Shoulders had dropped. Feet dragged. Your nose ran from both the wet weather and dejection.

He wouldn't let go.

Steve yelled, called out in a sing-song voice, and whistled for five more minutes up the street. Neighbors peered past curtains, out of peepholes, and one elderly couple opened their front door.

A loud clap of thunder set off heinous crying, completely unrestricted. The heels of your palms pressed into closed, tear-streaked eyes. Steps faltered. Breaths caught, trapped in your lungs. In a second, a zeptosecond, Steve rubbed your upper arms, an attempt to pacify the labored wheezing.

Wordless, yet all the while fluent, he cradled the back of your head and gently tugged your body to his. Kisses were peppered along your crown, soothing strokes down the nape of your neck.

Between sobs, you whispered, "I don’t-" A heave caught your breath. "He's my respons-" Another choke, as if tar had coated your larynx, thick and suffocating.

Aware of the marrow of your words, Steve drew back slightly. Ardent hands cupped your cheeks, foreheads pressed together. Tentative promises couldn’t liberate your pain. All he could do was be there for you, with you.

And that, he hoped, would be enough.

A panic far deeper than the fear of a lost dog swelled in his chest. From your reaction, he wondered if you felt it too. That awful thought: what if we’d be terrible parents?

Tears streamed down his flushed face. “It’s okay,” He whispered. He would make it okay - raise homes, carve out patches of thicket, for as long as it took. Hours, days, weeks - he’d give his time like the sunrise: inevitable and resolute.

Your head nodded, heavy with sniffles and a trembling chin. Steve slipped his hand beneath his shirt, lifting the fabric to your face, wiping away the runaway tears and snot. An irrefutable gentleman, no matter how humiliating the gesture.

"Oh, God," A low mumble. "That's gross."

He smiled, not repelled in the slightest. You’d done way “worse” for him before - cleaned his stomach-bug vomit off the bathroom vinyl without a single complaint. Even sat on the floor beside him with a damp towel, saltine crackers, and a couple bottles of water.

An urge to laugh swelled in his chest but couldn’t ricochet out. There was too much ache for humor to coexist.

Only three minutes passed as you trudged down the road when another bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a howl of thunder. The storm was practically overhead now - too dangerous to stay out in.

Hand clasped in Steve’s, eyes squinting through the downpour, he shouted, “We have to go home.” When defiance pinched your expression, he added, “No. Right now.” Water caught in his mouth, sputtering as he insisted.

A dour frown. Your body slackened. You let Steve haul you behind him without resistance. Hurried feet dashed through streets, cutting across strangers’ yards.

Within minutes, legs sore and hearts pounding, you made it home.

Halfway up the driveway, the loudest, most violent explosion of thunder tore through the sky. Pebbles tumbled down the concrete, wet leaves bounced, and eardrums partially burst. Bones rattled - a lingering vibration from such a tactile lash.

A blessing in disguise, however vicious: a string of spooked whines, barely discernible beneath the steel clunker of your car.

Kneeling down, suspicion mingled with a twinge of hope, hands pressed to the wet cement. Turning your head, your eyes traced the undercarriage - where a small miracle huddled, trembling.

In less than an instant, voice pitched, “Steve, Steve-”

Prompted by your muted but joyful expression, he crouched next to the driver’s side door. Pinto’s saucer-like, panicked eyes blinked back. Though the weather made it tricky, Steve reached in carefully until his fingers hooked the D-ring of Pinto’s collar. He pried gently as Pinto wrestled backward. A surge of relief echoed in his chest when the martingale didn’t slip. With more care, he used his other hand to guide Pinto’s back legs forward.

A proper mixture of giddy baby talk and hushed profanity spilled from Steve’s lips when Pinto was finally out in the open.

“Get the door.” Logged, twice as heavy as normal, Pinto was lifted into Steve’s arms. A little flushed and strained, he carried the flailing dog inside.

The second Pinto was free from Steve’s hold and the shackles of the storm, he bolted like a pull-back motor. Your hand grazed his crimped fur before he vanished, buried under the blankets on his homemade dog bed.

Before a step turned into two, Steve stopped you. “We should let him calm down a little.” His hand slid up the backside of your arm.

Your shoulders rolled, and your glance caught his bobbing Adam’s apple before drifting to the crooked parlor palm by the sidelight window. Its slanted leaves browned at the tips - fussy, always needing just the right mix of light and water. A child would require so much more care. How could I possibly be a good mother?

Attention shifted. Soggy clothes created pools on already warped laminate. The old, well-lived-in house bore its frays in chipped corners, missing shingles, unfinished projects; half a patio of pavers, half gravel. Ungrouted backsplash. Popcorn ceilings in only some rooms. A home full of potential, tried again and again.

You and Steve had plans, painted futures on these walls, patch by patch, but goals don’t fly straight like bullets. They loop and waver like dragonflies.

“We should change.” Your voice was mild, scarcely more than a whisper. Nails picked debris from his forearm. “Maybe clean up a bit too.”

He fought against a smile, worried the gesture might be misread. All he showed was softness, a lovesick expression in its place.

He pulled a tiny fragment of a crimson-colored maple leaf from your hair. “Yeah.”

At the door, shoes were toed off and left like husks. Socks, three of them at least, missed the coir mat, tumbling aimlessly across the floor.

Lights hummed on, flickering their way down the hallway and into the bathroom.

Outside, the wind had talons. Tree branches scraped and tapped at the glass, insistent and wild. Steve’s fingers swept the curtain closed. “The wind’s really picking up now,” He said, more to the night than to you, his brow lifted in quiet concern.

“There’s a few of those unused candles your grandma got you in the closet. I’ll get them, just in case.” Your shirt was peeled from your body, then your shorts and underwear. “Isn’t the flashlight in there too?”

His clothes met the tub with yours, forgotten.

You stood bare, body all skin and scaffolding, and behind it, your heart, a red cardinal beating its wings, steady and alive in its cage of ribs.

“No, I think I put it on the baker’s rack.” Bare against the hush, he was a silhouette of calm strength, vulnerable but unyielding.

With a nod, you disappeared into the bedroom. The dresser creaked open, he knew you were rummaging through that cluttered sock drawer, each pair mismatched. A dreamy, sanguine smile tugged at his lips as you passed by: one sock pink, the other striped.

The bulbs flickered, like the house blinking against the storm’s dark gaze. He pulled a Sonic Youth shirt over his head, the fabric slipping softly, and stood beside you. Two of five wicks already danced with a wispy flame.

As he struck a match, he said, “I got this. Grab the flashlight.”

Balsam fir wax climbed the braided cotton Then plumeria. Then seaside holiday.

“Does this count as a vacation?” He asked, voice teasing, as the faint scent of musk and sea salt drifted in - a strange, warm medley that tickled the inside of his nose.

The flashlight switched on, a dim beam illuminating a gallery of framed moments on the wall. Steve. You. Pinto. Families.

With care, each picture was lit up - tucked in sleeping bags, Steve on his first day as a carpenter, ugly Christmas sweaters, him bawling at your college graduation. Family photos with everyone grinning far too wide.

“No beach,” He said, flicking his head toward the garden doors, “But we’ll have plenty of mud to play in once this clears.”

You tilted your head, adoration creasing your features. “It’ll probably be dark by then.”

“And?”

You neared the island. Steve leaned in, the crest of his hip bone brushing the border like it dared him. Willful as ever, he seemed on the brink - if he just pushed, he’d pass right through.

He sought forgiveness, knowing that to ask when it would come was to betray the very humility it demanded.

“We’re still young, right? That counts for something.” He said as he brought a candle closer.

Your head dipped, hiding a playful eye-roll. “Still? Pretty sure we’re the ones who peak early.”

Your skin, once velvet, had weathered beneath the weight of time. Youth fell away like antlers, leaving behind a shape less tender, more bone than bloom. The mirror hadn’t changed - only the person inside it had.

Steve’s eyes answered first, a glint of warmth. “Well, now I like carrot cake. That’s a step up. Who knows, five years from now, maybe I’ll eat every vegetable.”

You smiled softly. “Yeah, right. I guess that’s why I like going to bed early now.”

“Pretty soon we’ll be trading in our bed for something with rails,” He teased.

Featherlight movements carried him to your side. Your giggles suddenly rang like wind chimes in a summer squall.

“Steve,” A breathless laugh. “Sto-” More laughter echoed, startling Pinto beneath the blanket.

Steve spotted the ripple of the afghan - a rogue wave in technicolor. Slowly, movements died. His hands stilled. Your laughter faded to breaths, just a few quiet gasps from emptied lungs.

You stood pressed together. Dilated pupils. Subtle gulps. That unbearable rise in heat.

His cheek had come to rest against the side of your head. What he’d always wanted was this - skin and soul tucked together in the dark, not reaching, not chasing. Just safe.

He had loved you the way water carved valleys, the way light moved - straight and sure. Natural. Uncomplicated. Peaceful.

“I love you.”

Your lashes fluttered against his jaw. You exhaled.

Once, silence would’ve sent him searching - for signs, for meaning, for a door swinging shut. But now, he knew better. He knew you. Knew that silence, in your world, was a kind of trust.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, reverent and still. His arms curled tighter, wordless reassurance wrapped in the shape of him.

A smile rose, unbidden and slow, blooming from some hidden corner of your chest - shaped by safety, by being known. The warmth of it trickled down your spine, filling the hollow places you used to brace against.

“I love you,” You whispered.

There was only one Steve Harrington. Only one heart like his - stubborn, tender, impossible to outrun. Love, spun fine as spider silk, held fast to every part of you - the bitter, the bright, the parts even you looked away from.

Hearts beat as one, a matched rhythm. For minutes, it stayed like that. Comfortable. Assured. Until the wind howled again and a splintered oak snapped. The power cut off, plunging the room into darkness beyond the candlelight’s fragile glow. Shadows deepened, flickering at the edges of the soft, golden light. Sight faded, but touch grew sharper - your fingers found the line of his jaw, his hand warmed yours, anchoring you both in the trembling lull.

Amidst the faint, shimmering light, you kissed his chest.

“I’m going to check on Pinto.” You stepped back. “And maybe...you could get Monopoly?”

He cupped your face, his expression half-hidden in the gloom, but a bright glint in his eyes pulled you in.“Boardwalk’s mine.”

“If we’re picking,” Plumeria in hand, “Then I’m getting all the railroads.” A smirk. You walked away, calling over your shoulder. “And the utilities!”

The storm had passed hours ago, leaving the world washed clean and quiet. The tension between you and Steve drifted away with the rain, like the last stubborn mist fading under a waking sun. The electricity still hadn’t come back on. Outside, the trees stood slick and shining, their leaves catching the faintest glimmers of moonlight, each droplet a tiny prism.

It was one in the morning. The weekend. No one was rushing anywhere. The house settled into a soft silence, broken only by the faint creaks and sighs of wood cooling from the day’s heat.

Steve lay sprawled on the couch, the dim glow of your flashlight casting flickering shadows behind you as you moved. He could only see the gentle outline of your back, the soft sway of your hair catching the weak beam like a halo. The light made you look like a quiet beacon in the dark, something steady and true he could hold onto.

In that dim light, his chest tightened, because you carried yourself like ivy along old stone: deliberate, unwavering, beautiful in the way you never asked permission to belong. He thought how you must be the roots of this place, holding it steady in the dark, and felt a flush rise behind his ears. The thought made his throat dry and his pulse quicken just a touch.

“You really lost at Monopoly.” He teased softly, voice rough with tired amusement.

You smiled without turning, your fingers tracing the edge of the game box as you put it away. “I let you win, obviously,” You said, voice low and playful.

“Obviously,” His smile was slow and knowing, like a river curling around rocks. “Sure.”

You walked toward the back of the room, flashlight glow gliding over the well-trodden rug, its surface like old love letters - edges blurred and faded, every thread telling a story that hadn’t worn out yet.

Pinto was still curled up in his bed, his fur coarse in places, soft in others, warmed by sleep. You crouched beside him, your hand gliding through the uneven coat. He let out a slow sigh, the kind that sank straight to your bones - deep, content, like he finally trusted the night to stay quiet.

Steve watched, his gaze tracing your gentle movements. You moved with the kind of care that came from habit and heart - unspoken, intentional, and real.

He remembered the way your hand felt just last night, how it slipped into his as if it had always belonged there. The memory bloomed warm and bright in his chest, like the first slow light of dawn spilling through fog. It made him ache to lean closer, to close the small space between you.

You stayed there a moment, resting your forehead against Pinto’s head, feeling the slow, steady pulse beneath the fur. For a breath, it made your chest swell with something warm and fierce: satisfaction, a kind of quiet pride in having him finally safe, in maybe being enough for him.

Sadly, beneath that glow, a shadow flickered - a whisper of doubt you couldn’t shake. Could you protect something smaller? You nearly lost him just hours ago, your protection faltered. The accusal settled heavy and cold, like a sudden chill under a summer sun. It pressed against your ribs, tightening just enough to remind you that some hopes carried a weight heavier than you wanted to admit.

Steve’s voice was a soft rumble, like distant thunder fading into memory. “You take really good care of him.”

You looked up then, catching the faint light in his eyes. What scratched up your throat was, “I don’t deserve him, or you.” What rushed out instead was, “Well, I’m lucky to have him, and you.”

The words were simple, but the weight behind them made the dark room glow warmer than any flame ever could.

Steve felt like the lucky one between you two. Despite the struggles you carried, when you showed your cracks and still kept moving forward, your love never wavered. It was mighty and constant in its own messy, beautiful way. There was no greater gift, no brighter light, than being loved by you, than existing in the orbit of your heart, strong enough to hold him through anything.

He got up, shifted closer, the slow heat of his body pressing into yours. His fingers found your waist, gentle but sure, an anchor in the quiet night.

The house creaked again, like a slow breath from some ancient creature settling after the storm, and outside the wind whispered through the fields, soft as a lullaby.

You let your fingers tangle in his hair, the way you’ve done countless times before, and he sighed deeply - this time not the weight of the day, but something lighter, something held close.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, “For earlier.”

His nose brushed yours, lips barely touched. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve let him inside.”

The slight shake of your head drew Steve back. His eyes searched your downcast gaze - unreadable, but aching to be understood. If he could see clearly, he’d know the brimming tears came from shame. Guilt burned beneath your skin, and his touch, though gentle, only made it hotter.

“I was upset over peanut butter, Steve.” The ghost of a laugh - embarrassed, thin - hovered between your bodies. “It was stupid.”A crease tugged at your brow, lips flattening as he silently pleaded to hear and dispel the cruel words spinning in your head. “I get moody about everything. I hate it. I wish I’d just found the lid and left you alone. Next time, I will. I promise.”

His hands moved to cradle your face, as if holding the sorrow itself - wanting to see it, to soothe it, to damn it away with love. “What? No. Tell me when I mess up. I don’t want bugs to get in the house because I left food out. Yell at me when you’re mad, hug me when you’re sad, or - or use my shirt to blow your nose. I don’t care as long as you’re not silencing yourself for me.”

Your bottom lip trembled, voice catching on the swell of emotion. “That’s not fair.”

“Who cares? I love you.”

Your warmth slipped from his grasp as you stepped back, as if bracing against the kind of rebuttals that always disarmed you. “You don’t deserve my anger, especially not over something small. That’s mine to manage.”

He kept his hands at his sides, though every instinct screamed to pull you close - if only to soothe the wild thrum in his chest. “All I’m asking is for you to come to me, with anything. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Stillness settled between you, padded and heavy. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Instead, your hand crept forward, curling into the hem of his shirt.

“You’re not wrong for being upset,” He said softly, as if too much noise might startle you away. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve snapped at some guy at work for being a total idiot. I feel bad about it afterward. Well, sometimes. Sometimes they deserve it.” His head tilted, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as he thought it through. “That new guy I told you about? Keeps skipping his goggles while sanding. I told him once, twice...three times. Ended up practically yelling at him in front of the whole crew. I just hate feeling like someone’s gonna lose an eye on my watch.”

A soft huff slipped past your parted lips, like wind through a cracked window. Too faint to shake anything loose, but still there, still felt. “That’s a good reason, though.” Your nails picked at the frayed stitching, a quiet fidget. A mental note tucked itself away: fix the seam before washing his shirt. “No one loses an eye over an uncapped jar…or a toilet seat left up.”

Steve caught your wrist, halting the nervous tug of your fingers as he knelt before you, desperate to meet your gaze. “Listen to me, baby. Please. Stop giving those mean voices in your pretty head any airtime.” His hands were warm. His voice was softer now, more deliberate. “I used to get pissed when my dad left every light on in the house. I get irritated when you flush while I’m showering, and I get weirdly bothered when Pinto puts his butt on my pillow every time I’m gone.” His eyes flicked to Pinto, laying belly up and lip caught on a snagged canine. “Why he won’t lay on your pillow is beyond me.” A dry shake of his head, and then his focus was back on you. “The point is, what you feel is natural. It’s okay. You’re not unkind. You’re not unfit to love, or to be loved.”

Each of Steve’s hands clasped your wrists, bringing the underside to his lips to kiss your pulse. like he was greeting the place closest to your heart that his mouth could reach, as if the beat there called to something in him. For a moment, the world beyond the walls slipped away, and there was only this: the two of you, wrapped in stillness, holding onto each other like roots gripping soil - firm, growing, and unbreakable.

“Come here,” Your voice wavered, a sudden surrender that caught you off guard.

Slowly, you moved together through the dim house, the faint glow of the flashlight tracing the outlines of familiar shadows. You reached the bedroom, the air cool and heavy with the scent of damp earth and candle wax. The sheets fluttered beneath you as you sank into the bed, your body folding into the familiar weight of soft cotton. The comforter, passed down from Steve’s grandmother, wore its floral patterns proudly, despite the itchy fabric and pills from years of use - a reminder that love is often wrapped in imperfections.

The bedroom held its own stories. The bed, made but softened in the places where Steve sat every morning to tie his shoes, the gentle crease a quiet mark of routine. The wooden dresser stood nearby, its drawers stubbornly misaligned, opening with a faint protest like an old book unwilling to yield its secrets. Beside the boombox, cassettes were stacked haphazardly.

Steve climbed in after you. He lay behind you, warm and quiet. He pressed in close, arm hooked around your waist, his palm settling low, fingers spread like he needed more surface just to be sure you were there. The pads rubbed against the band of your shorts.

His face nuzzled into the soft crook of your neck, and you felt his breath when he spoke, “We should dig out the gutter tomorrow.”

A pause, then a quiet, “Mhm?”

“The backyard overflowed again.I saw mulch floating all the way to the fence.”

You turned your face toward the window, catching only the haze of silver light. “We should cut the grass too.”

“Can’t cut wet grass,” He mumbled. “You know that. I’ll end up flinging clumps at the neighbors lawn.”

“Maybe they’ll enjoy the fertilizer.”

“Maybe they’ll finally wave at us after seeing that gift.”

You smiled, soft and unseen. His thumb brushed along your ribs absently, like he didn’t even realize it. It felt like the kind of gesture you’d see in animals, something instinctual - seeking reassurance in the dark.

Inside, Steve’s mind traced the shapes he loved most - the gentle arch of her neck, the sweep of her collarbone, the quiet strength in the curve of her silhouette. A subtle cadence moved through him, like the slow turning of a weathered wheel, drawn by the gravity of those familiar lines. His body responded before his mind caught up, heart fluttering like a bird startled into flight, skin warming in the dark.

The conversation drifted away, like morning fog thinning beneath a rising sun.

Steve stayed pressed to you, head buried now somewhere between your shoulder and the curve of your spine. His breath came slower, heavier, like the weight of his day had finally peeled itself off and left him here.

A quiet, telling sigh escaped him, like a secret slipping from his lungs before he could stop it. Turning over, your hand moved up to his scalp, finding the crown of his head and scratching gently, fingers parting his hair. His whole body softened against you, as if your touch unraveled every knot the day had tied inside him.

Still, he clung. Not out of desperation, but something older, serene. Like a vine curling toward the only thing that ever gave it sun.

Brief, unwelcome thoughts flickered through your mind. A feeling you couldn’t name, only carry. That every good thing you were given was something you’d have to pay for later. That happiness, when it came to you, came on borrowed time.

And that - that man with his arm curled around you like you were something precious - he was the best of them all.

You truly didn’t feel worthy of him. Not of the way he looked at you like you held the sun in your smile, or the way he never pulled away when your feelings got too big, too complicated. You’d give him everything - your time, your strength, every last shred of tenderness you had. You’d give him the whole world, and still, it wouldn’t feel like enough.

You wanted to give him more. A child. A piece of him, shaped by both of you. A small, perfect echo of your love made real. Yet, it felt like a gift meant for someone else to give - someone warmer, better, more sure of herself. Someone who didn’t lose the dog for an hour because she was stewing over peanut butter. The wanting didn’t stop, but it lived beside shame now, like glass trembling on the edge of a shelf.

Your fingers continued their slow rhythm in his hair. He gave no words, just a hum, almost a purr, as his hand tightened slightly at your hip.

Outside, somewhere far off, a branch scraped along the side of the house. The ceiling fan creaked above like an old bird still watching the nest.

Inside: two bodies folded together, saying nothing, meaning everything.

The sun had dried the yard in a patchwork, bright puddles of heat baked onto the bricks, steam lifting off the fence posts. The humidity lingered like something draped over the shoulders, clinging to skin and hair, the kind of thick warmth that made every breath taste like water.

You were crouched near the patio table, knuckles raw with effort, trying to fix the crooked umbrella arm that had blown out of alignment again. You swore it was held together by stubbornness and the one bolt Steve hadn’t gotten around to replacing.

Sweat gathered behind your knees as you wrestled the metal hinge, pressing your thumb into it until it gave the cruelest little click and then, maddeningly, popped loose again.

“You okay over there?” Steve called from the far side of the yard, voice half-lost under the grind of his shovel. “Need any help?”

“No, no,” You grunted, your hair sticking to your neck. “Just…trying not to fry.”

He dropped the shovel with a thunk and jogged over, boots squelching slightly in the damp grass. You didn’t look up, too embarrassed and too hot to offer anything but your stubborn squint.

“You’re gonna break your thumb,” he said, crouching beside you.

“I’m not.”

“Move,” His hand brushed yours gently, then took over. It took him maybe seven seconds, firm pressure, one palm holding the post steady while the other coaxed the joint into locking.

Click.

The umbrella blossomed above you, casting a dappled patch of shade that felt like relief itself. You exhaled through your teeth, nearly limp with gratitude.

“Hmph,” You muttered, standing upright. He looked smug, already turning to jog back toward the trench. “Thanks,”

You caught his collar, yanked him back a step, and pressed your lips against his cheek. A little sun-warm, a little sweat-salty. You held there for a second longer than usual.

“Always coming to the rescue,” You said softly.

“Oh, no,” He smirked. “I saved the umbrella from you breaking it.”

“Here I thought you cared about my bones not breaking,” You hummed.

His smile twitched, crooked and boyish. “You’re resilient.”

He made it three steps away before the words built too fast in your throat. That buzz again - low and full, under your ribs and in the soles of your feet, fluttering up into your hands. You sat down in the shaded patio chair and watched him pick the shovel back up.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, “Hey, Steve?”

He looked up.

“You’re…I just-” You scratched behind your ear, squinting past the umbrella spokes. “You’re really…good at this. At all of it. Everything.”

He blinked. “At shoveling wet dirt?”

“Yes, but, also, no.” You shifted, pulling your other leg up onto the chair and hugging it. “You’re good at fixing stuff. Not just this rusted patio set,” You gestured to the wrought iron and glass. “But anything that’s broken…you always know how to put things back together.”

He said nothing, so you kept going, because if you didn’t let it out, it would rot in your throat, “And Pinto sleeps better when you’re home, and the house just…it feels like a home because of you. Because what you’ve done, and your presence. I know you don’t think you’re doing anything special, but you are. You’re special.” You paused. “It’s not the shovel, or the umbrella, or the way you organize the junk drawer better than I ever could. It’s you.”

Steve stared at you like you’d just opened your chest and handed him a small, fluttering thing he wasn’t sure how to hold.

“Anyway,” You mumbled, “That’s all.”

He turned back to the trench too fast to hide the way his ears had gone red. His shoulders rounded forward a little, like he was trying to disappear into the job, but his next scoop of mud came up lighter. Smoother.

“Who knew you were such a sap?” He called over his shoulder.

“I can be,” You said, biting back a grin. “When I want to.”

He paused mid-dig, glanced back at you - his smile cracked wide and helpless, full of all the things he couldn’t lay out in the open. For a brief second, his eyes held admiration for your courage, for the words you’d dared to say when you usually kept them locked inside. Then he turned back to work, head bowed, digging in again with just a little more joy in the swing of his arms.

Left alone, you settled into the chair, the rust scratching at your thighs, a grounding contrast to the buzzing flutter in your chest that came every time you watched him. The sun filtered through the umbrella’s thin canopy, dappling your skin with light like the soft dappling of leaves on a forest floor.

Thirty minutes later, you rose and made your way inside to cool off. You lifted the hem of your shirt and fanned your chest with quick, practiced flicks before starting on a late lunch.

The house had stilled into something comfortable and slow. The air inside smelled like cooled metal and pine bark, remnants of the yard clinging to the open windows. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, the tile cold against your soles, slicing heirloom tomatoes with a blunt knife, hands moving more by muscle memory than thought.

The fridge wore a collage of colorful postcards, notes from Steve’s friends; Nancy, Robin, and even his parents - each carrying a little piece of their lives and well-wishes. Scribbled grocery lists and reminders curled at the edges, held in place by an assortment of mismatched magnets. Nearby, clean dishes sat stacked on the counter, their smooth surfaces dotted with faint water stains that caught the dim light like tiny fingerprints of the day. A glass vase cradled a small bouquet of roses Steve had brought you, their petals still fresh but tinged with the faintest blush of evening, filling the kitchen with a subtle, lingering sweetness.

Outside, Steve was still at it - arms deep in dirt and elbow grease. His shirt, a gray one that had once been thin and loose, now clung to him with sweat and summer’s humidity, darkened down the spine and chest. Through the window, you watched him lean over the fence, tapping mud from a spade, hair stuck to his forehead in golden-brown strands. It was the kind of sight that hit low and warm in your stomach - a modest, earned sort of attraction. Hard work. A shared home. Something sacred in the ordinary.

You plated two sandwiches, poured water over ice, and walked outside with the food balanced against your hip. The heat kissed your arms immediately. Steve looked up, blinking through sun and sweat.

“You didn’t have to-” He started.

“You say that like I didn’t want to,” You replied, setting the plates on the patio table. “C’mon,”

He chuckled, dropping the trowel and brushing dirt off his hands. His boots thudded on the porch steps as he sat beside you. A breeze caught the umbrella just enough to sway shadow patterns across his face.

The first bite tasted like salt and garden - ripe tomato, a smear of mayo, the tang of cracked pepper. Steve groaned softly, pleased and satiating his hunger.

“You should’ve said something.” You said, shifting your weight carefully to avoid the scorching metal burning your skin.

“I didn’t want to stop.”

You glanced at him, watched a bead of sweat slide down the column of his throat. “You look like you haven’t stopped.”

He caught your stare and grinned, boyish. “You’ve got something-” He gestured vaguely to your forehead. You wiped at it with your wrist. “No, not there. Let me,”

Before you could stop him, he leaned in and used his thumb to brush the strand of hair from your forehead. He let it linger for half a second too long, fingers trailing down your temple like he couldn’t help it.

“You’re staring,” You murmured, not moving away.

“So are you.”

You smiled and took another bite, letting the juice from the tomato dribble against your knuckle. Songbirds filled the air with a sweet, scattered melody - as if they trilled just for the two of you. Pinto’s distant, happy grunts came from the yard where he rolled enthusiastically in a muddy puddle, leaving little wet paw prints across the pavers.

Toeing a displaced brick back into place, you said, “I’ll come move these back where they’re supposed to be.”

Steve looked down through the glass tabletop. The patio showed the storm’s handiwork: half the bricks shifted from their positions, the gravel scattered like spilled sugar. The rain had left its mark everywhere, and now had muck clung to your foot.

“They’ll just move again the next time it rains.” His voice cracked slightly, dry from the thick summer heat and no water left to soothe it. “Don’t worry about it.”

His tongue flicked out, moistening his lips. Without hesitation, you swapped your half-full glass for his empty one. His eyes held gratitude, and something deeper, something thoughtful.

As you tore off the crust that a fly had landed on, the faint crackle of crumbs breaking under your fingers, you asked, “About done?” And nodded toward the shredded ground, where the mud lay thick and dark, slick like the raw guts of the earth.

He swallowed his bite slowly, exhaling a breath that stirred the warm, humid air. “For today, yeah. I’ll go to the store first thing tomorrow to buy a perforated pipe and finish the swale.” His eyes darted to the neighbor’s window. “I hope they don’t say anything about the mess.”

With a budding smile, eager to steal your boyfriend back to the cool indoors, you hummed, “I’ll help you clean.”

“I got it,” He said, mouth tugging sideways as his eyes flicked down, briefly, to where your shirt clung to your skin. “I’ll be quick.”

“It’ll be faster with another pair of hands.” You raised your brow, picking up your sandwich.

Both finished around the same time - the seeds of the tomato squashed onto the plate, the glasses of water all emptied. Steve leaned back in his chair, eyes roaming over you. From the curve of your tank top to the worn edges of your denim shorts, down to your bare feet dusted with dirt.

You stood and began gathering the plates and cups, and before you could step away, Steve knelt down beside you, gently brushing the dirt from your feet with his hand.

Before he turned away, he kissed your lips - not deep, not rushed, just rich with meaning, like punctuation to a sentence only the two of you understood. His voice was low, like it didn’t want to interrupt the moment. “You’re not even trying, and still…” He trailed off, smiling, eyes flicking down to where the sunlight touched your cheek. “It’s unreal.”

You watched him walk back to the tools, the way his shoulders flexed, how even covered in grime he still looked like something made from sunlight and soil. You followed him moments later, helping him rinse trowels and coil the garden hose. The silence between you wasn’t empty - it was full, brimming with shared rhythms.

By the time you made it back to the door, Steve was stripping off his shirt and kicking off his boots to remove his jeans.

“I’m not tracking this through the house,” He said.

You were about to praise his thoughtfulness when Pinto came barreling from the yard - mud-caked, joyful, and very fast.

“Pinto!” You both shouted.

It was too late. The dog raced through the open door Steve had left behind him, leaving pawprints like little muddy constellations across the floor.

Steve muttered a quiet curse under his breath, a trace of frustration passing through him before he pushed it aside, the warmth of seeing Pinto so full of life lingering beneath it

“I’ve got him,” You called, already grabbing a towel and chasing Pinto into the kitchen.

“I’ll get the floor.” He shouted back.

You rounded the corner and found him kneeling near the dining table. The curve of his back catching what was left of the afternoon light. He’d followed the muddy trail from the back door - a smear of paw prints, now beginning to dry into soft brown ghosts along the laminate. His hand moved in slow circles with a handful of damp paper towels, like he could coax the mess away with enough patience.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, the towel dangling from your fingers - sopping, foul-smelling, and warm in a way that made your stomach turn. You held it away from your body like it might stain you on contact.

“He stinks,” You finally said, flat with certainty.

Steve glanced up. His mouth tugged into something soft - a crooked, amused smile that flashed through the sweat on his face. “Yeah?”

“Like something that crawled out of a swamp and died in the sun,” You muttered, inching the towel farther from your chest. That made him laugh, a low sound that eased the tension from his shoulders. You loved when he laughed like that - unguarded, rough around the edges. It curled in your chest like warmth finding a place to settle. “We need to give him a bath,”

Steve leaned back on his heels. The light caught his collarbone, the damp shine along his ribs. “We?”

With narrowed eyes, your hand went to your hip. “He’s your son too.” Steve’s smile grew. You exhaled through your nose, stepped past him to the kitchen, and dropped the towel in the sink with a wet splat. “You’re on soaping duty.”

He rose, slow and deliberate, wiping his palms on his boxers. You caught the motion out of the corner of your eye, and he glanced up just in time to meet your gaze - his smile twitching like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Rinsing,” He said, the word hanging between you with a subtle challenge.

“And drying.”

Steve shot you a look, affectionate and resigned. He brushed past you on his way down the hall, and you followed - both of you already peeling away the parts of the afternoon that didn’t matter anymore.

Five minutes later, the bathroom was a small ecosystem of humidity, dog hair, and glossy patches on the tile. Pinto stood like a soggy statue, fur heavy and matted with suds, the oatmeal shampoo working its way slowly through his thick coat.

“He acts like we’re torturing him.” Steve said as he held the shower head, spraying the curved porcelain rim of the tub, sending a steady stream of lukewarm water swirling the dirt and suds down the drain. Every so often, the spray caught a stray droplet that landed on your arms, cool and welcome against the heat of the room. “It makes me feel bad.”

With a grunt, you said, “We’ll give him some yogurt or peanut butter to make it up to him. I’ll even let you give it to him, since you’re on rinsing and drying duty.”

Your shoulders bumped against his as you leaned over Pinto, reaching around to scrub a stubborn patch behind his ears. Each small contact sent a quiet pulse beneath your skin - an unspoken closeness threaded through the simple rhythm of the bath.

Pinto huffed through his nose, then leaned forward and licked your cheek - an appeasement, gentle and warm. You let out a soft sound, part laugh, part sigh, and pressed a kiss to the bridge of his snout, right between his soapy eyes. The shampoo clung to your fingers in thin ribbons, slipping through the fur like cream.

“Alright then,” You said, easing back on your heels, legs stiff from crouching. “He’s ready. He’s all yours.”

Steve shifted beside you, knees brushing yours as he straightened to reach better. You didn’t move. The contact, subtle and solid, sent a hush through your thoughts. Pinto’s tail gave a soft wag, barely there. Just enough.

You watched him closely. His posture still held tension - ears tipped back, eyes a little too wide, but even so, he leaned into Steve’s presence like it secured him.

Like love could soothe every nerve. That, and Steve’s baby-voice could undo any worry. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re a good little trooper.” The water ran from the showerhead in Steve’s hand, a low hiss echoing off porcelain. He rinsed with care, sweeping suds down the curve of Pinto’s legs, guiding the stream in practiced arcs. Each pass cleared a layer of murky gray, revealing soft curls beneath. “Momma said you could get a treat after this.”

Your eyes looked around, at the rim of the tub that was cluttered with cheap shared shampoos - labels peeling, one nearly empty and flipped upside down. The loofah that was hung slack from its hook, its edges frayed and dulled from months of use. To the clean towel lay folded in your lap for Pinto, its corners soft and curled from use, and you smoothed your palm over it without thinking, chasing creases with your pruned fingertips.

I would need to get new towels for a baby. You glanced at Steve. Our baby.

Not abstract, not someday, but vividly, like a memory imagined forward. A small body with flushed cheeks and a mess of dark-blonde curls plastered to their forehead. Toys floated around - tiny boats, squeaky ducks, a sponge shaped like a star. From the next room, a cassette would hum, something old and soft, something that made the light feel golden.

Steve’s hands, those same hands, would cradle your child gently, like he was made for it. Like every callus and scar had been softened by the sheer want to protect something smaller, something his.

The thought bloomed, full and sudden. It pooled low in your belly, warm and ache-sweet.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him rinse the last of the lather from Pinto’s haunches as he cooed nonsense, and felt that tug again - not a throe exactly, but something illusive, more tender, more dangerous. Because maybe loving something before it exists is just another way to hurt yourself. Maybe this daydreaming, this soft imagining, was its own kind of cruelty.

Steve glanced over, hair sticking in every direction from the day’s heat and work, flattened in places and fluffed wild in others. He smiled, lopsided and easy, like he felt you thinking.

“I think he’s the cleanest he’ll get.”

You nodded once, gaze surveying Pinto, who was starting to shake. You dropped the towel over the dog, scratching and rubbing to draw out the moisture.

Steve watched you, head bowed in thought, light brushing over the edge of your cheekbone like a whisper. Your mouth was set, movements precise, the towel twisting between your hands as you pressed it down against Pinto’s back. He didn’t need words to know something had shifted - the air between you thrummed just slightly out of tune, like a guitar string pulled too tight.

He saw it in the line of your jaw, the way your shoulder lifted a breath too high. You didn’t look at him, not fully, just the faintest glance from the corner of your eye before you straightened, composure sliding into place like a sheet pulled too neatly over a bed.

He had expected something biting, a throwaway quip to shield the quiet unraveling. Instead, silence.

His hand found your thigh, slow, familiar, brushing the warmth there like he was thumbing over a page he knew by heart. The skin was damp and dappled with the warmth of the room, and he rested there a moment, grounding you both.

“What is it?” He asked, voice low with something like knowing, though he hadn’t yet named it.

Your fingers curled gently around Pinto’s muddy paws, lifting each one with care to pat dry the darkened pads. “Nothing,” The dog’s body shivered beneath your touch, small ripples of unease you swallowed down. Steve shifted closer, the heat of his thigh nudging yours, a silent offer of company. You glanced up just enough to murmur, “He’s cold. We should get him out.”

That simple admission drew from him a slow, lingering breath, like twilight folding over restless grass, carrying both surrender and a tender, unwavering hold. He rose with deliberate ease, his eyes lingering on you, a gaze full of patient understanding and gentle resolve. Not ready to press you, not yet, but not willing to let the silence grow too deep.

Steve bent low, cradling Pinto like a small, sodden treasure as he lifted him from the tub. The dog’s legs stiffened briefly before a shuddering shake erupted - droplets bursting outward in a sparkling arc, catching the light like scattered glass shards. They rained down, splattering the mirror’s surface with watery stars, drumming softly against the vitreous china of the toilet, and speckling your arms and Steve’s chest with chilly kisses. You raised the towel like a flimsy sail, twisting it between your fingers to shield yourself, a breathless laugh slipping free.

Steve’s head turned away just in time, his eyes crinkling with merriment. “He waited to do that. That was malicious.”

He stood slowly, the bathroom door yawning open, and Pinto, unfettered with freedom, bounded out like a river breaking its banks.

Knees popped softly as you pushed away from the tub’s edge, a quiet creak of tired bones settling into motion.

His voice broke the warm haze, light and teasing. “Sounds like those knees are calling for some oil.”A playful swat met his words, fingers brushing his chest as you tried to slip past him, but the doorway became his mild trap. He leaned in, effortless and sure. “Where’re you going smelling like that?”

An eye roll, half-smile curling at your lips. “I smell better than you.”

Your grin grew, and it took him to his knees. His hands moved with practiced ease, unbuttoning your shorts, tugging the fabric low enough to tease the skin beneath. A surge of kinetic charge vibrated low and wild beneath your calm exterior, restless and awake.

Steve’s breath hitched, not from lust, but from reverence. Like the kind felt in chapels or forests. You saw the look in his eyes - the awe, the disbelief.

In his mind: this is where life begins. This is where softness is made holy.

You smiled, fingertips ghosting through his damp hair. “Steve,” You whispered.

Hearing you say his name like that - dulcet, almost like a prayer - turned the world inside out. You spoke as though he were the divine, a presence too extraordinary to be standing right there before you.

Steve turned, reaching for the shower knobs, the metal clicking softly beneath his fingers. Steam began to bloom against the curtain, curling like breath on glass. He tested the water, wrist held under the stream, eyes narrowing in quiet concentration. You moved behind him, fingertips grazing the hem of his shirt, gathering it in your hands. Before you could lift it…

“You’re taking the fun away from me,” He teased, half-turned toward you, a grin tugging at his mouth.

You paused, then let go, hands falling back to your sides. “How mean of me.”

The smile slipped into something gentler. He stepped forward, undoing the edge of your tank top with the same care he'd once reserved for old Polaroids and saved letters. The fabric skimmed your skin as it rose, catching at your shoulder blades before slipping free. Steve’s gaze followed every movement - where the cotton had rested, where the blue bra now hugged the slope of your chest, the soft crease of your waist as you shifted under his attention.

His breath deepened.

His eyes took in the rise and fall of you - measured, deliberate - like he could read each breath, like it was telling him something sacred. The room felt thick with something unnameable. Behind him, the water kept running, an unbroken hush that made every heartbeat feel louder. His hands hovered just shy of your skin, as if even the space between you might catch fire, or fold under its own gravity.

For a moment, he forgot the feel of dirt under his nails, the noise of the world outside the bathroom door. He knew only this: the heat your skin gave off, rich and steady like a midsummer dusk; the pale gleam catching along your collarbone like moonlight on polished stone; and the slow roll of moisture down your shoulder, as if your body was translating the air into something finer.

He swallowed hard, then reached again - slow, obedient - as if your body was a place to be blessed, not hurried.

Your breath caught, not quite from nerves, but something kin to it, fluttering under your ribs like a bird unsure of its own wings. You leaned in with a flicker of boldness, brushing your lips against his, quick and almost clumsy, landing just shy of center.

Steve’s mouth twitched, a breath of a laugh threatening, but he bit it back - he couldn't make light of it, not now, not when your heartbeat was tucked so close to the surface. Instead, he cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your temples, and kissed you the way you deserved to be kissed.

It was full, anchored in everything unspoken. His lips were warm and certain against yours, the kiss unfolding like a deep exhale after holding your breath too long. It tasted of salt and steam and closeness - something humid and heady, like rain clinging to the petals of an overgrown garden. His fingers curled just slightly at your jaw, grounding you both there in that moment, where time had no edges and the only sound was the hush of water waiting.

He drew back a breath’s width, just enough for the space between you to pulse. His exhale traced your cheek like a tide pulling back from shore.

“You’re perfect,” He stated, the words tasting like conviction.

You gave a huff through your nose, more bark than breeze. The kind of sound meant to make things lighter, even as you braced beneath the weight of what he’d said. Your features twitched with disbelief, but he didn’t try to unravel that knot. Not with explanations, not with reason.

Instead, his fingers returned to your shoulders, drawing the bra straps down in a gradual descent. The fabric resisted faintly, then slipped free like dusk falling from the edge of a roof. His arms moved behind you, precise and familiar, and the clasp came undone with a subtle click, not sharp, not grand, just the sound of something long-held being released.

It dropped to the floor, a pool of worn fabric landing on tile.

You adjusted your footing, and one bare foot landed square atop the cotton. You lifted it again without thought, dragging it up your opposite calf, the motion instinctual and oddly childlike. The crease of your ankle brushed lightly against the bone below your knee, a momentary fidget as the world shifted shape between you.

Steve watched, his gaze caught not on grandeur, but on the living details of you. The way your skin carried the flush of summer, the way the light clung to the bend of your elbow, the arc of your neck. You weren’t posing. You weren’t trying, and still, it stole the air from his lungs.

Not divinity, not myth. Just you. And that, somehow, felt like the most angelic thing he’d ever seen.

Your gaze lifted, drawn by the weight of his stare. When your eyes met his, it was like recognizing a face you’d loved in a dream long before you'd ever touched it.

You studied him openly now, the same way he’d just looked at you - without flinching, without artifice.

The slope of his nose, once proud and boyish, now softened slightly at the bridge - recast by years of holding his breath through fights he hadn’t wanted, by learning patience the long, painful way. The smattering of freckles across his cheeks looked like they’d been pressed there by sun and time both, dusted on like cinnamon. His lips - still full, still shaped like they were made for smiling - wore the faint imprint of restraint. A tenderness he hadn’t spoken. The kind that only deepens with age.

You let your gaze wander lower - his jaw, shadowed and a little unshaven, carried a line that looked carved from intention more than pride. His hair disorderly, stuck out in tufts that curled and straightened in the same breath - flattened where the heat had pressed against him, wild where your hands had left their memory. That hair had once been vanity, you remembered. Now it just looked like him.

And his eyes…God, those eyes. Still honey-warm, still holding all the gold of August afternoons, but with something deeper now threaded through them. Something like ache, like home.

Love had weathered him gently, like water smoothing stone.

“You’ve changed,” You said, voice quiet but thick with wonder. He raised an eyebrow, a question forming behind his lashes. “Not worse,” You rushed, nervous with a sudden frantic energy. “Just…loved. It’s in your face. You wear it everywhere.”

Something flickered across his expression - an emotion you couldn’t name, something between humility and heartbreak.

Then, without a word, his hand reached for yours again, fingertips grazing your knuckles like he was still learning how to deserve them. “Trust me, I know it’s for the better.” He said, eyes tracing your face like it was the only map he’d ever learned. “I’m a better man with you around.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in and pressed your nose beneath the hinge of his jaw, breathing him in - soil and salt and familiar, like summer clinging to linen. Your lips brushed the skin there, and he dipped his head to kiss the slope of your shoulder, where the warmth gathered like honey left in sunlight.

His hands slid to the curve of your hips. Fingers curled just beneath the waistband of your underwear - cotton, damp from splashed bathwater and sweat, clinging in places like a secret held too long. The fabric caught slightly where your body curved most, and you felt the drag, the slow give as it eased past.

You helped, thumbs slipping into the sides to guide them down - his hands ghosting yours, not rushing, just…there. The elastic fell to your thighs, then your ankles, a hush of fabric gathering at your feet.

The air hit you like a second skin - cool and close, thick with steam. You felt the difference immediately: the shift from clothed to bare, from protected to seen. It wasn’t shame, it was magnitude. Like standing on the edge of something vast, water lapping at your toes, knowing you were about to step in.

And still, despite all the closeness, despite how much he’d already touched - his gaze didn’t devour. It honored. It made your skin feel like a landscape worth exploring, not just undressing.

You reached for him next, fingers brushing the curve of his hips where sweat still clung like sea salt on driftwood. The elastic waistband gave a little resistance. Your grip faltered for a heartbeat, just enough to make the gesture feel human, unsure. He felt the shake in your touch like a ripple through still water, and instinctively went still, breath drawn in like a held note.

You tried again. The fabric dragged slightly, clinging to the warmth of his thighs. It wouldn’t fall easily, so you leaned back on your heels and gave a firmer tug, a small grunt rising in your throat before you could stifle it. The movement broke the hush for a beat - something almost mundane, almost funny, like dropping a spoon in a church. He smiled, barely, and kicked the boxers away with a lazy sweep of his foot. They landed against the cabinet.

Now it was only skin. Only the hush of breath between you and the thin shimmer of condensation on his chest, where heat and effort had drawn patterns you’d never tire of tracing. Your eyes roamed upward, over the swell of his ribs, the mole near his shoulder blade, the hollow where his collarbone cast a shadow. Every inch of him held the story of a life weathered and softened by care. Not untouched. Tended.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

You looked at each other like people seeing dawn for the first time - no fireworks, just light cresting the horizon, slow and certain. It was the kind of nakedness that lived beyond the body.

In that breath between heartbeats, the moment gathered weight - not heavy, but hallowed. Like standing ankle-deep in a tide that knew your name.

You stepped into the tub first. The water beat down like something pure, immediate. Not like the rain that had come last night - cold and feral and full of warning. This was warmth drawn through copper, coaxed from deep within the walls, a comfort made domestic. It kissed your shoulders, curled behind your ears, sluiced down your back in ribbons.

Steve waited behind you, not crowding, letting you have the first touch. You felt his presence in the quiet, in the shift of air behind you, the way the curtain swayed from his breath.

“Ladies first,” He said, a faint smile in his voice. His hand brushed your hip, like a suggestion, and he reached as if to tug you into the spray with him.

But you angled sideways, blocking him with your shoulder, already reaching for the loofah hanging limp from its hook. It sagged like a well-loved rag, frayed and sweet with the scent of your shared soaps - lavender and citrus and something faintly herbal from a forgotten bottle long out of label.

“Uh-uh,” You said, squeezing a line of soap along its surface. “You were elbow-deep in the earth, Harrington. You’re up first.”

He laughed - a low sound, all breath and affection - as you turned toward him. His hair stuck to his forehead, his lashes clumped from steam, and his skin bore the faint shadow of the day.

You began at his shoulders, dragging the loofah over sun-warmed skin. The suds caught in the valleys of his muscles, tracing the map of work done well. His breath hitched just slightly as you reached the dip beneath his ribs.

“Keep still,” You said softly, not because he was moving, but because it felt good to say - to pretend he needed instruction. To mark the moment.

He did.

As the water laced down over both of you, as your hands moved with care and familiarity, you weren’t scrubbing away the day so much as honoring it - turning labor into intimacy, sweat into something sanctified.

Steve’s hand brushed yours, gentle and unassuming, as he took the loofah from your grasp.

“My turn,” He said, voice softer now, shaped more by feeling than words.

The sponge lathered quickly in his hand, and he moved with unhurried care, as if your skin were made of something rare and fleeting - cloud vapor, the silvered hush of a moth’s wing, the breathless shimmer of snowfall just before it touches ground.

He started at your shoulder, dragging the loofah down in a slow arc. The suds curled along your collarbone like mist spilling over stone. His eyes followed the path they made, watching as the bubbles caught light and clung, as though they too were reluctant to leave you.

When he reached your stomach, his hand stilled for a moment. The curve of you beneath his palm - familiar, but never less than extraordinary - held him suspended. The soap traced around your navel, sliding in rivulets down your side. His eyes dropped, unable to look away, even when the water washed the suds clean.

Still, he looked.

Something folded open in him then. It wasn’t hunger, but wasn’t devotion either. It was the fear of standing before something beautiful and fearing it won’t stay.

How could he deserve this? You. This moment. This body that trusted his hands, this heart that let him in without armor. He thought of all the years before you - the ones marked by carelessness, by recklessness, by the casual damage boys like him did without thinking. He remembered being cruel in ways he never apologized for, selfish in ways that never came back to bite him - until now, maybe. Until you.

Because now, with his hands on your stomach and the water running clean down your chest, he felt unworthy. Like he’d been given something holy without having ever gone searching for redemption.

What if it slipped through his fingers?

He swallowed, loofah forgotten in his hand, and let his palm rest flat over your stomach - bare and open, where life could begin if you both let it.

His thumb moved just slightly across your skin, like he was trying to remember something he hadn’t earned.

You glanced down at him, sensing the shift, but you didn’t speak. Not yet.

And he didn’t look up. Not yet.

Because he was still there, caught in the pause between devotion and doubt. Watching you. Watching the place where the future could take root, and wondering if a man like him was meant to hold it.

You placed your hand over his, fingers slipping between the spaces his left - warm on warm, skin on skin, something wordless passing there. Not comfort exactly, not permission, but a knowing. A promise made without breath.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t, for a moment.

Something fragile welled up beneath his ribs, caught in the soft hollow of his chest where old guilt still lingered. It was all there - the ache of what he’d been, and the ache of what he wanted to become. For you. With you.

His voice cracked low, barely shaped into sound. “You’d be such a great mother.” So soft, it didn’t reach you over the thrum of water.

Clueless to his admission, you’d reached behind him for the bottle of shampoo and cupped his jaw to tilt his head back. The droplets traced down the planes of his throat as you worked the lather in, fingers drawing small spirals into his scalp, coaxing loose whatever weight he still carried. His lashes fluttered, lips parting faintly - not from desire, but something heavier and older.

When he opened his eyes again, he leaned in, nose brushing yours in a kiss that didn’t need lips.

His hands found the crown of your head, palms full of adoration. Shampoo pooled between his fingers as he worked through your hair, careful not to tangle, not to tug. You both stood there, haze curling in delicate skeins, as if the room were trying to remember a dream.

Each of you washing the other. Each act an offering. A benediction.

A shared baptism for the life not yet made, but hoped for, already.

You both leaned back beneath the spray, the warmth slipping through your hair, down your spines. Fingers combed, coaxed, cleared the last traces of lather from scalp and skin. Just as the water sluiced over your brow, you caught him watching you - head tilted, eyes open in defiance of soap and common sense.

A blink too late.

“Shit, shit, shit,” He hissed, squeezing them shut, blinking furiously.

You laughed - a bright, sudden sound that bounced off the tile and blossomed into something whole. A sound that shook the steam loose from the corners, that cracked through whatever weight had gathered behind his ribs.

Steve groaned dramatically, rubbing his face like it might fix him. “That’s what I get for looking at an angel,” He muttered, half-teasing, half-meaning it.

He reached blindly for the curtain, hand finding the edge. A quick tug, and his arm extended for the two towels hanging like flags of peace on the rack. He shook one out and wrapped it around you with a gentleness that didn’t need ceremony, just presence. Then the other went around his hips, clinging to damp skin as he stepped over the edge of the tub.

The air outside the bathroom hit sharp - cool against flushed skin, goosebumps trailing your arms and legs as you padded into the bedroom. It felt like stepping out of something consecrated and into something lived-in, the silence of the hallway giving way to the creak of the floorboards, the whisper of towel against skin, the quiet promise that followed.

You crossed the room, still wrapped in warmth and dampness, fingers grazing the edge of the dresser as you pulled it open.

You paused, turned to look at Steve, blinking once - twice.

Your lashes fluttered like butterflies caught in a breath of wind as you watched him from across the room - the way his arms moved, muscles flexing beneath a faded college tee he’d never attended, but wore as if it belonged to a version of himself still waiting to be.

Your gaze dropped. The towel at his hips hung like a whisper, more memory than fabric, the last edge of modesty, a promise he wasn’t in any hurry to keep. Something in you burst, sudden and unrelenting, like a star remembering its fire.

Love.

Not the careful kind you speak about in daylight. This was nocturnal. Something winged and wordless. You felt it skitter through your chest like fireflies made of ink - staining you with the knowing. Something magical touched you then - just briefly, just enough - and you felt like if you reached for him, your fingertips might glow.

Because he was real, and he was yours. And loving him…loving him was the bravest thing you'd ever done.

You, who feared the unknown like it had teeth. You, who’d bowed to uncertainty like it ruled the sky. You, who’d surrendered to doubt more times than you could count.

But not now.

Now, you stepped forward.

The rug beneath your toes was thick, tangled - your feet sank into it like wading through moss or the fur of something primeval and breathing. The floor didn’t creak surprisingly, but the world seemed to tilt anyway as you crossed the space between you.

He didn’t see you at first. His back was turned, shirt falling into place, hands adjusting the roping of the hem.

He sensed you moving, quiet and deliberate, and his skin prickled as the space between you suddenly shortened. Before he could turn, your hands were already there, slipping beneath his shirt, palms sweeping the planes of his hips, sliding up over his stomach and chest in a single reverent motion. As if to say: this is mine, and I’ve remembered it from the beginning.

You leaned in. Your mouth pressed to the space between his shoulder blades, the place his heart lived behind. The kiss landed like a vow, unspoken but undeniable. You lingered there, lips brushing the fabric.

Steve stilled. Not with shock. Not with confusion, but with wonder. Because he could feel it in your touch this time: you weren’t just reaching for him. You were choosing him.

Your fingers found the knot of the towel, moving slow and gentle, an unsaid question hanging in the space between you both. Time stretched. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the fabric fall, then hastily shed his shirt in one smooth motion, finally turning to meet your gaze.

He caught it then, the flicker in your eyes, the way they shimmered like spun sugar, fragile and fleeting, as if you might dissolve if he blinked too long.

Just like that, the fear he’d glimpsed in you threatened to rise.

His voice dropped, steady and soft, a balm for the trembling. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.” His hand reached for the towel wrapped around you, fingers deft and slow as he began to undo it. “I meant it, baby. No matter what. You’re stuck with me.”

You looked at each other like you'd done this a hundred times, and somehow like it was the first.

You heard the kettle whistle itself out as you stirred beneath the comforter.

The bed was warm and tangled, a little wild where he'd just been. One pillow slumped, still holding the shape of his head. The comforter twisted, the sheet damp with the heat of bodies and quiet breaths. You sat up slowly, skin buzzing, muscles pleasantly heavy. His shirt lay crumpled on the floor - careless, like an afterthought. You reached for it, sliding it over your arms. The cotton stretched loose with wear, clinging softly to your shoulders. It smelled like him - salt and soap and something rich, like leather softened by time.

Bent to the hamper, you pulled out a pair of clean shorts you’d meant to fold days ago. The fabric was chilled from the AC, catching against the heat still clinging to your thighs. You tugged them on, the waistband settling low on your hips.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the warm spill of the ceiling light Steve has always called the 'boob light’ - soft yellow, humming faintly overhead. You moved toward the kitchen by sound alone: the gentle clink of ceramic, the kettle settling, and the soft ticking of a clock marking time.

At the stove, Steve wore only his joggers - black and hanging loose at the waist. He held a spoon out for Pinto, who sat with his back legs sliding out, tongue already working the peanut butter into the corners. His tail tapped the floor in slow, uneven rhythms.

You leaned against the doorway. Let your voice carry. “So that’s why the jar was left out.”

Steve didn’t look over, but you saw the smirk creep in. “Pinto’s got a way of convincing me.”

“Sneaky,” You said, eyes narrowing playfully.

“Yeah, he knows exactly how to work the system.” He said, handing over the last bit of peanut butter like it was a treaty.

Your mug was waiting on the counter - the one with the Christmas tree, its handle darkened by years of use. You reached for it. The steam rose in lazy threads.

“I already put honey in there,” Steve said, wiping his hands on a towel, facing the sink.

You smiled at his back, fingers curled around your mug. “Did you put sugar in yours?” You asked, nodding at the second mug left to the side when he faced you.

“Duh,” Steve said, wiping his hands on the dish towel, then tossing it like a basketball toward the counter. It missed. “I can’t drink it any other way.”

You took a sip, let it linger on your tongue. It tasted like the kind of tea your grandmother might’ve made - earthy and a little sharp, with the right amount of honey stirred in until it turned mellow. You could almost hear the spoon clinking in a cup from years ago.

“Wanna go sit on the couch?” You asked.

His eyes gleamed with something boyish, mischievous. “Let’s go sit on the swing.”

Your brow lifted. “It’s two in the morning.”

He shrugged, reaching for his mug. “Exactly.”

You squinted at him over the rim of your cup, but he was already walking toward the door, bare feet quiet against the laminate. The screen gave a soft squeak as he nudged it open with his elbow. You followed, half-laughing, half-sleepy, rubbing one eye as you stepped into the dim.

Outside, the night folded around you like an old quilt. The porch light had been left off, but the streetlamp at the corner caught the edge of the railing in silver. Fireflies blinked lazily across the yard, tiny amber beacons drifting through the tall grass. A chorus of crickets sang somewhere in the dark, and beyond them, the hush of sleeping houses - just shapes behind curtains, lit faintly from without.

The sky was wide and starlit, smeared with a faint trail of clouds like someone had smudged their thumb across velvet. A warm breeze stirred the hem of your shorts. Pinto snuffled behind you, nosing the screen door before deciding to stay in.

You made your way to the porch swing, your tea in one hand, the other brushing the banister as you passed. The swing moved slightly as you sat, the wood familiar beneath your legs, the chain groaning just faintly in its moorings.

Steve plopped down beside you a second later. The swing jolted, creaked, then settled again with a low whine.

You side-eyed him. “This thing’s gonna snap one day.”

He froze for half a second, glancing up at the chain like it might give out right then and there.

You grinned into your mug. “Not tonight, probably.”

“Yeah, how comforting,” He deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward as he leaned back, arm brushing yours. “I’ll fix it next weekend.”

For a long moment, you sat like that - shoulders close, tea cooling between your palms, air soft with summer sounds.

Then Steve tipped his chin upward. “Think she’s out tonight?”

You didn’t need to ask who. Your gaze drifted to the telephone pole near the end of the driveway, where the branches of an old pecan tree curved like ribs toward the sky. You both looked, waiting.

And there - perched just above the transformer box, where shadow met shadow - a faint shape blinked into being. Round, hunched, nearly still. One eye glinting gold, the other dark as pitch.

“There she is,” You said quietly. “Mrs. Voorhees.”

Steve laughed, just under his breath. “You still think that’s funny.”

“You named her,” You said, nudging his knee with yours.

“You insisted.”

“It fits her. Creepy, solitary, shows up when the moon’s full.”

He took a sip of his tea. “You forgot ‘spotted us going to Amoco at least twice a week.’”

“And when Pinto’s got indigestion,” You added, glancing through the screen where the dog had curled up, muzzle tucked to his side.

The owl didn’t move. Just watched from her throne of bark and cable wire, that one glinting eye catching the light like a penny at the bottom of a well.

You wondered how many nights she’d seen you like this - Steve in joggers, you in his shirt, sitting on a swing that moaned in protest every time he shifted. The two of you talking in half-whispers, like if you were too loud, the magic might snap.

Steve’s eyes drifted to the owl, her silhouette framed in streetlamp spill and moonlight.

She always appeared. Not every night, but most.

He wondered if she understood. If, in that little untamed heart, she sensed what it meant to sit like this - him in joggers, you in his shirt, both of you calm and content and holding thoughts not yet spoken aloud.

Maybe she was more than feathers and shadow. Maybe she was something older. Watching over you both, bearing witness. A keeper of good omens.

And maybe, if you both were lucky, she’d still be there, blinking slow and all-knowing, when there were little footsteps padding out to join you guys one day.

Steve’s arm stretched along the back of the porch swing, fingertips tracing the worn tear in the collar of his shirt. Well, the one of his that you wore like a second skin. His mug rested forgotten on the armrest, steam curling upward in soft spirals that disappeared into the night.

He caught your profile in the mild glow - the way your eyes drifted across the dark street, searching the spaces between the gloom.

His heart hammered beneath his chest, a twin-turbo’s rumble waiting to break loose, but his voice stayed tethered, caught in the hush between breaths.

You were like a fox beneath the silver moon - shy, searching - pausing at the fringe of the dark, wary yet unyielding. So he lingered in the silence, gentle as a hymn, hoping the stillness would wheedle your walls down.

With a voice as soft as the curl of smoke from a candle, he said, “I feel that way too sometimes.” As you parted your lips, he added, “Actually, most of the time.”

“What?” You asked, shifting slightly - crossing the leg closest to him like a subtle retreat.

Steve had always been too much with his hands; reaching, holding, hoping. Half the time, he felt like he overstepped without knowing it. Took too much, gave too little, left fingerprints where he didn’t mean to. “Like I’m no good to anyone.” The words hovered, half-swallowed, suspended in the hush. He let them hang there, weightless but heavy, buying time to catch his breath. “To friends. To family. To you...” His voice lowered, the timbre roughened. “That I’d be the kind of dad who forgets where he put the bottle, can’t find the pacifier when she’s screaming. Falls asleep when she needs me the most.”

Your stomach turned molten, soft and wrecked and hopeful. “You’d want a girl?” The question tasted too sweet to be safe.

Of all the things he said, that was the one you could hold without it burning.

A nervous breath slipped out too quick, catching on a crooked laugh. He took a sip of his tea and grimaced. Lukewarm and grassy - not his thing, but you loved it.“I’d be happy either way,” He said. “But a girl first…a little version of you. That’s how I picture it.” He paused. “Then a boy. Another boy. And maybe a few more girls running around.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just pressed your lips together, like you could trap the ache there - keep it from slipping out in a sound, a sob, a confession. Your throat closed itself on purpose, the way it does when you try not to cry during a song or a commercial or someone else’s joy.

Because what he said, what he wanted, was beautiful. Too beautiful.

A part of you wanted to throw your arms around his neck and promise him the world: the little girl, the boys, the second mug always waiting on the counter. Yet, another part, the one that curled into corners and remembered all the ways you’ve messed things up before, held you back.

What if you failed her, or him, or all of them?

You drew your knee in, the chain above your shoulder ticking softly with the motion, but Steve didn’t say anything. He just looked at you with that same patient, open thing in his eyes that made it so hard to lie.

“That sounds nice,” It wasn’t a full-on lie, it did sound nice. It sounded like something you only get to live in someone else’s story.

You watched him.

The way his lips pressed together like he was trying to seal his dreams behind his teeth. The way his gaze drifted downward, to the rim of his mug, to the porch steps, to anywhere but you - like he didn’t trust what he might see if he looked too long.

But you saw it. That trace of hope. A fragile thread stitched into the corners of his mouth, the soft lean of his shoulder into yours.

You set your mug down, barely hearing it clink against the wood.

Hands reached for him and cupped his jaw. Your thumb swept just beneath his cheekbone, like you could smooth the ache right out of him. He tried to look away, but you didn’t let him. Your palm followed, coaxing him back to you, until your eyes met again.

"Steve," You said, low but certain. "You’d be the best dad."

His brows pulled together, skeptical, braced for kindness like it might sting.

"You’d remember the bottle. You’d memorize her favorite toys. You’d sit on the floor with her until your back ached and build a wonky castle out of blocks just because she asked you to. You’d carry her through fevers and nightmares and the days she thinks no one understands her." You leaned in closer, forehead nearly brushing his. "You’d make her laugh when she feels like crying. You’d braid her hair with too many elastics. You’d call just to say you miss her voice when she’s out of town for a day.”

His throat worked around something too big to swallow.

"And you’d never, not once, make her feel like she wasn’t loved. Because that’s who you are, Steve. You love like it’s the most natural thing in the world."

You didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Because if you could carve those words into his bones, you would.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Just looked at you like you’d said something sacred. Like your words had cracked something in him, split him down the middle in the gentlest, most painful way. His breath caught. His eyes shimmered, and then…

He kissed you.

Quick and full, like he couldn’t bear to be apart from your mouth another moment. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing the skin just in front of your ears, as if he had to anchor himself to something before the swell inside him broke loose. When he pulled back, his face crumpled. Not all at once, but in stages. First the crease between his brows, then the tremble of his mouth, and then -

Then the tears came. Silent at first. Just a blink too full, then a blink that spilled over.

He dropped his forehead to yours, voice cracking in your shared breath. “It’s not fair,” He whispered, hoarse. “It’s not fair you get to love me like that and still talk about yourself like you’re not enough.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head, hands still cupping your jaw like you might float off if he let go. “No. No, don’t - don’t try to deny it. I see it in the way you flinch when someone compliments you. The way you hold your breath when I talk about the future like it’s not meant for us.” He swallowed, the next words dragged up like roots. “You’d be…God, you'd be the kind of mom that kid tells their friends about. The one who lets them cry over stupid things and never makes them feel stupid for it. Who always remembers their teacher’s name, and how they like their pancakes, and tucks little notes into their lunch even when she’s running late.”

His voice dropped, thick and shaking. “You’d teach them how to be soft and strong. How to feel everything. How to survive it.”

He looked at you like he was memorizing you, every flicker of your expression. “You’d teach them how to be kind.” Then, quieter, “You taught me.”

Your whole face gave you away before you could say a word.

The subtle quiver of your jaw betrayed the calm you tried to hold. But Steve’s hands, soft and sure, traced your skin like a whispered promise, tempting out the emotions you’d locked away long ago.

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to say it. Because a part of you still believed that it wasn’t true, that you weren’t enough. But looking at him, feeling him, knowing the truth in his gaze, you understood this: he would never lie to you.

So you sat there, breath shallow, heart bare, wanting nothing more than to give him everything you were. To hand him the fragile pieces of your soul and finally let them be held with the tenderness they deserved.

Words faltered, but your eyes spoke with a language all their own - a vulnerable offering, a steadfast trust, an invitation.

Steve’s hands cradled your face, like holding something precious and rare. “You don’t have to believe me yet,” He said, voice low and certain, full of a fierce kind of promise. “But I’ll spend my life showing you how much you matter. How deeply you’re loved. How good you are.”

Tears slipped past his defenses again, carving warm trails down his cheeks. You pressed your lips to each one, slow and deliberate, a silent surrender that held a thousand words.

“Okay,” You breathed, the single word carrying all the trust you’d been holding back.

His chest, once heavy and closed off, eased open, a spark kindling behind his eyes - bright and alive, steady as a rising sun.

“Our kids,” He said, the curve of his smile folding into the night, “They’ll help me show you, day by day.”

The night wrapped around you both like a living thing, the porch swing creaking beneath the weight of new promises and delicate hopes.

(patterned banner source! cafekitsune)

#love

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