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queenimmadolla · 6 days

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Could you do a blurb where reader rolls a joint for Eddie for the first time with all her cute papers and stuff and he loves it?

Happy Stoner Christmas!

happy 4/20! 😶‍🌫️💚

“Well, if it isn’t for my favorite customer.”

You hear him before you see him, and sit up straighter as you look up, torso twisting around to face Eddie.

He’s walking through the tree line that acts as the ‘fence’ to your backyard. Not exactly born into wealth, your home is on the edge of Hawkins and lacks the white picket fence and concrete driveway, with nature and gravel filling in. Just down the street is Jonathan Byers’ home.

Confidence radiates off of Eddie as he approaches the picnic bench you were waiting on, his curls sway a little. He’s rocking a band shirt today—long sleeves rolled up his forearms—and some dark jeans. You try not to squirm under his stare, the wild grin on his face stirring something in your tummy.

You knew you’d end up crushing on him after the first time you went to him for weed instead of Rick. He was cute.

Eddie was so freaking cute and charming and funny. You probably would have been fine if he had just been cute and charming, but the humorous trait was your weakness. You loved funny guys.

Sure enough, by the fourth time he dealt to you—his tongue was in your mouth. And the fifth time, you’d gone to third base. Now, whatever happened when he came around just happened. You accepted it, even if it makes you a little nervous because you know very well you’re interested in more than just the benefits that come with your encounters.

You want him. Like, boyfriend him. It’s kind of tragic, actually, because you don’t even know if you’re the only one of his clientele he treats this way. Eddie can be fucking the rest of them for all you know and it drives you insane because you want to ask—you’re just too chicken shit.

“You say that as if this wasn’t prearranged.” You laugh out and Eddie snorts, dumping his black lunch pail on the leaf riddled bench top next to your scooby-doo lunch box with a metal clang.

“I’m trying to be cute and you’re ruining it.” When you laugh again, Eddie’s eyes squint in triumph, “And I’ll have you know I have been waiting—no, yearning for you to call upon me. Moved my bed over to the phone and everything. Thought you forgot allllllll about me.”

“Me forget about you? Impossible.” You declare in a joking manner, though you truly mean the sentiment. Your mental health might be better if you could forget him. Then you wouldn’t be able to make yourself sick over the idea of him kissing other people.

“You better mean that.” He jabs an accusatory finger, silver ring glinting, in your direction as he settles in across from you, “The usual, my sweet?”

UGH! SEE?! Too damn cute.

“Please?” You’re too busy opening up your own lunch box full of supplies to notice the heated look he fixes you with right then.

Eddie clears his throat, tongue darting out to swipe over his lower lip as he pops the lid of his lunch pail open, pulling out a little baggie with your favorite strain of buds. He eyes it with a glint in his eye before it’s held out to you, dangling from his fingertips.

You look up once you realize it’s being offered, and pinch the top of the baggie as your other hand holds out the folded bills. Eddie flicks them out of your loose grip, and it goes flying to land in your lap while you jump in surprise.

“My bad,” he snickers, his pretty teeth gleaming, “it’s on the house.”

You pick up exactly where he wants you to, “In that case, please accept my offer to smoke you out with my newly acquired goods.”

That feeling in your belly—butterflies—intensifies at the slow and large smile that spreads on his face, forcing his little dimple to make an appearance.

It always goes like this now.

Eddie comes over (or you go to him), weed is exchanged and when you try to pay him for it, he refuses. Then, you invite him to smoke weed with you (and he’ll always pull from the extra inventory he carries around—never from what he’s just given you), the two of you get high and you finally feel brave enough to make a move because you know he always waits for you to do it. Gives you the power to start things, your own comfort, though he takes full control once you get going. He’s always so keen on taking care of you. You’d once thought that maybe he didn’t want you as much as you wanted him, since it was always you initiating things, but the way he’d beg for you, ramble about how much he wanted you, how desperate he was for you and his ‘finally, I thought I was gonna die’s on just your kisses alone, soothed that insecurity.

“I’d be delighted to! But─”

“Nope.” You interrupt, having seen his hand reaching into his pail. “My weed—not yours.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise and when you don’t back down, both of his hands are lifted in surrender before one is extended to you out on the bench, palm up. Eddie’s waiting for you to give him your grinder and the weed so he can start rolling but you low five his palm instead and he chuckles, skin tingling from the contact.

“That’s not exactly what I meant.”

“I know, but I’m also rolling today, too.”

Eddie scoffs and smirks, fixing you with that heated stare again and you quickly divert your gaze, pulling out your pretty purple grinder and getting to work. You are not gonna let him make you nervous and fumble around, “Baby…”

Oh, god. The way he coos it out, nice and low—you’re instantly taken back to other times you’d heard him say it like that. You’d been bent into all kinds of positions as it was rasped into your ear, the sweat from both of your bodies plastering Eddie to you. Your hand twists the top of the grinder on autopilot as you stare at nothing, gaze vacant.

Eddie knows exactly where your mind has taken you and his smirk widens.

“You can’t roll for shit.”

That snaps you out of your stupor, mouth dropping.

“I can, too! You’ve never seen me put in the work.”

“I have, that’s why I roll.”

And you cringe as you recall the first time you’d try to roll a joint. It had been the second time Eddie sold to you, having only used pre-rolled cones prior. Those only meant you had to pack the wrap in with weed, kind of like a funnel and then twist the end closed before partaking.

Rolling from start to finish was a whole other endeavor and you’d failed so badly, Eddie had rolled around on the floor laughing. You didn’t take any offense, too busy jumping up and down inside at having made the cute, charming funny guy you liked laugh.

“I’ve been practicing,” You pout, placing the grinder down after you’re sure the nug of the bud you’d placed in it was now almost powder-like.

“You tryna impress me, hm?” He hums out, and you refuse to look up, knowing those pretty brown eyes of his are gonna be lidded and it’ll do you in early. You’ll have to jump him right there, “Been practicing to show me what you can do?”

You ignore him, focusing instead on the rolling papers you had.

Eddie places his chin in his hand, watching you intently as you frown in concentration before it breaks when you select a rolling paper, cherries decorating the white sheets. You pull your small rolling tray out and some part of Eddie throbs. You hadn’t had that before.

You quickly scrunch a filter together, folding the rolling paper and placing the filter at the edge of the fold before you unscrew the grinder and begin pinching the green within to sprinkle on the paper. Once it was full, and Eddie notices with wide eyes that you’ve packed it with a significant amount, you use dexterous fingers to carefully roll it together, tongue poking out as you take diligent care to ensure no fall out. Once the green flower is properly contained, you lick the free edge and fold it over the rest of the joint before you pinch and twist the end.

After a few moments of intense scrutiny, you hold it out victoriously, “Taduh!!! For you.”

Eddie takes the joint, turning it this way and that as he marvels. You really had been practicing, it was beautiful. He feels an intense amount of pride bloom in his chest and something else. Always for you, only ever for you.

“Did I do good?” You ask, voice shy as you bite your lip and this time you don’t look away when that heavy stare focuses on you. You wanna faint, but you don’t. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you know where tonight is gonna lead.

“Baby,” There’s that rasp again that makes you want to drop dead and smash your mouth to his at the same time, “I’m gonna need you to come over here now. Don’t think I can wait.”

#I got this request before i made the prompt post shhhhh #Queenimmadolla’s smokesesh #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson blurbs #eddie munson fanfic

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rainylana · 9 days

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“I’m not always bad.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: eddie finds you crying. why does he care?

warnings: bully eddie, bad boy, awkward and meanie eddie, language, crying, upset reader, talk of cancer, readers dad has cancer. a potential series if you want it, let me know!

gif is not mine!

update! part two has been posted and is located on my masterlist!

He supposed maybe over time it wouldn’t be absolutely crazy to have some sort of care for you, after all, he had known you since the both of you were in diapers in preschool together, and ever since, he’d treated you like dirt beneath his leather boots.

He was an absolute prick to you, and you couldn’t remember one memory of him being nice to you. Maybe it was because you came from a ‘white picket fence’ home, had good grades, an honor student, actually. Maybe it was because you were pretty? Maybe he liked you? No. You had long since disregarded that idea many years ago. He wouldn’t be this mean.

You walked as quickly as you could to the gymnasium, pink heels clicking with every step and turn. Your eyes blurred with tears and you hiccuped a breath. You pushed open the door, relieved no one was in there, at least, not to your knowledge, and plopped down on the closet set of bleachers to your right. You put your head in your hands and cried like a baby pathetically.

Eddie was closing up a deal when you’d come busting in dramatically. He quickly hid his stash, thinking it was a teacher as his customer quickly left the scene, muttering a thank you as he did so. When he say it was you, he cursed under his breath and put away his things.

He adjusted his jacket, putting away his weed and wallet as he watched you. He squinted his eyes. Were you crying? He’d seen you cry before, that wasn’t anything new, but you looked upset. He walked across the gym floor, adjusting his junk like a typical male specimen.

“Why the long face, L/n?” His demeaning voice boomed and echoed.

You jumped, revealing your tear stricken face. You groaned. “Fuck! I- I didn’t know anyone was in here. Sorry.” You went up to leave.

“Woah, woah,” He held up his hands. “You’re on my turf, L/n. Crying and trespassing on my property are not to go unpunished.” He tried to ignore the fact you were visibly upset, thinking maybe you got a bad grade or tripped over your own feet and embarrassed yourself. That’s usually what it was, anyways.

Today, however, you couldn’t deal with his dramatics. Your face crumbled into tears and you sobbed, slowly sinking back down to your seat and hunched back over. Eddie, despite his antics, couldn’t help but furrow his brow. He watched you for a moment, looking to see if anyone else was around he could pass you off to. He looked back at you, and when you pushed out a particular harsh sob, he knew that this time was different. Something was wrong.

Unbeknownst to him, he frowned, pursing his lips and climbed up to bleachers to sit beside you. He looked at you like you were from another planet, eyes wide and alert like you were playing a joke on him. He didn’t like this said joke.

“Hey, uh,” He cleared his throat, looking for the quickest way out. “Stop crying.” Way to cheer her up, buddy.

“I can’t.” You sobbed into your hands. “My life’s falling apart!”

That broke him out of his shocked state and he rolled his eyes at your dramatics, leaning back into his seat. “What happened now?”

“Just leave me alone, Eddie!” You snapped angrily, jerking your head toward him so hard he thought it was fly clean off and roll onto the floor with the rest of the disregarded basketballs. “Do you have to be such a jerk everyday of my life? Can’t you let me cry in peace just for once?” You stared at Eddie, who was startled and wide eyed, looking at you like you’d gone made.

He sighed heavily, a mask of irritation and annoyance falling over his hooded eyes. “Fine.”

He got up to leave, obeying your wish for once. You watched him get up and leave, and for some odd reason, your heart seemed to sink even further. Once again, you sank back into yourself, listening as his footsteps got further and further away.

He cursed when he got to the gymnasium door, turning back to look at your weeping figure. “Fuck.” He clenched his fist and brought it up to his teeth angrily. Why? Why did he suddenly seem to care about your distress?

He was back beside you, sighing loudly like he didn’t care. “Alright, L/n, what’s going on?”

You gave him a sharp glare, shooting him daggers. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” He fired back. “But I don’t need you busting in during my deals, so you might as well get whatever it is off your chest and wipe your damn tears.” He lifted himself off the seat briefly, reaching back and grabbing his black bandana and handing it to you. You didn’t grab it, so he placed it on your lap with a huff.

It was your turn to look him strangely, like he was from another planet, a strange land you’d yet to be aware of. “You’re being weird.”

“Shut up.” He retorted. “You’ve got snot all over your face.”

You purposely rubbed your nose with his bandana, making sure to clean your face of mucus and tears. He recoiled, grossed out at the action. “Yeah, you can keep that.” He said.

He gave you a minute. Nobody said anything as you calmed down, sniffling to yourself here and there. His concern grew when he noticed the shaking of your hands. “Hey,” He said, voice deep and gruff. “What’s the matter with you?”

You looked at him sadly, shaking your head. “My dad has cancer.”

He couldn’t help it then. His whole face dropped. His jaw fell slack and his eyes widened.

“I just found out yesterday.” Your voice was full and thick with tears. “I was in math class and just had to get out before I had a public fucking breaking down like I’m doing now!” You said, angry with yourself.

“It doesn’t even make sense!” You continued. “My dad is a good man! He’s done nothing to deserve this! I don’t understand!” You cried, rambling to him at this point. He didn’t mind, he didn’t know what to say anyways.

“My whole family is just…numb. Dad’s pretending he’s not bothered by it. He’s doing everything he normally does. Mowing the grass, helping mom with the flower bed.”

You kept talking and Eddie listened, and in that moment, he felt pure sorrow and remorse, compassion and empathy for you. He listened to your words and felt his stomach sink. And you were beautiful, a random thought jostled in the middle somewhere between sorrow and empathy.

You cried to him for almost an hour. You talked about your family falling apart, but continuing on despite the downfall. The number of months the doctors had given your father to live. You talked about not being walked by him down the aisle, him not seeing his grandchildren. It was all here and there, but Eddie listened and said nothing, and after awhile, you forgot he was there and that it was Eddie.

When two o’clock rolled around, you breathed heavily and looked at your watch, then him. “You didn’t need to stay.” You were completely exhausted, mentally and physically.

“It’s alright.” It was the first thing he’d said in an entire hour. “You needed someone to talk to. I’m just being a good samaritan.”

“Still,” Your eyes were red and raw. “Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not always bad.”

You managed to smile. He didn’t.

“Well, thanks.” You said softly. “My friends don’t know yet. Nobody does. Please don’t tell?” You looked at him with round eyes that were always so full of innocence.

“I won’t say anything.” He shook his head.

You sniffled once more and nodding, standing up and fixing your white skirt. “Well, I better get back to class. Thanks for listening.”

He let you walk all the way across the room and to the door before he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t look at him and he didn’t look at you, but both of your hearts seemed to lighten. The door clicked open loudly and shut, leaving him to himself.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #bully eddie #stranger things #stranger things season four #joseph quinn #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x female character

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reiding-writing · 18 days

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hi red !! i'm sending through a rec for your climacteric event hehehehe <3

spencer reid x fem!reader with the colour prompts red 1 ("You're bleeding."), green 2 ("You're safe here, I promise."), and purple 1 ("You know you're my best friend, right?") please? LOVE YOU LOADS RAHHHH

SCARECROWS [CLIMACTERIC]

1. “You’re bleeding.”

2. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

1. “You know that you’re my best friend, right?”

WARNINGS: reader injury, blood duh, mentions of being stabbed <3

spencer reid x reader || hurt/comfort || 1.6k || event page!!

a/n: you adding the direct quotes made my job so much easier in finding them rip 😭 thanks for the request ml <333

main masterlist!! ⋆｡°✩ event masterlist!!

Sometimes you wondered why you joined the FBI.

If by making one different decision you’d be in a completely different career in a different part of the country with a husband and children living in a two story house with a white picket fence.

Spencer would probably fill you in on the butterfly effect, how a single flap of a butterfly’s wings could change the trajectory of the wind and spin into a tornado, or in your case, leave you stranded and unarmed in an overgrown cornfield with your only company being the crows flying overhead.

It was arguably, definitely, your fault, but what were you supposed to do when the unsub was running off into the night after you’d finally tracked him down.

He’d slipped under the radar for too long, you weren’t going to let it happen again.

Though you weren’t going to lie, you were starting to regret not waiting for the rest of the team.

How were you supposed to know that the welfare check you were sent on would turn into a chase?

They were twelve minutes out last time you checked. You didn’t have signal anymore, who knew how close they were now.

All you knew was that you were a sitting duck with an empty magazine in an unfamiliar location with a light level so low you could barely see your own feet.

You’d lost the unsub a good few minutes ago, and you weren’t about to stand around with nothing to protect yourself with, so you started running back the way you came, hopeful that it would bring you out back at the farmhouse, with floodlights and a phone signal.

You weren’t that lucky.

You never were.

—

“Oh my god—“ Emily sounds like she’s seen a ghost as she cups her left hand over her mouth, her right lowering to her side until her gun is limply resting in her fingers.

Her face is a mix of relief, astonishment and absolute horror, and as the team follow her gaze they mirror one by one until the whole group is frozen in abject shock.

You were alive, thank god, but you were also stumbling backwards out of the corn field like a final girl in a horror movie, completely disheveled and torn up with your attention completely focused on the rows of stalks in front of you like you were afraid something was going to pop out and finish you off.

The sight was enough for Spencer to feel like he was going to throw up his stomach, although whether out of relief or anxiety he wasn’t exactly sure.

Either way he was pocketing his gun and practically sprinting in your direction the second he got a full view of you, no care for what you were running from in his mind whatsoever.

At least you were okay.

“Hey-” His hand barely grazes over your shoulder before your instincts kick in and you swing your elbow outwards with the intent of sending it straight into his face.

It hits him directly underneath his nose, sending his neck back sharply to stop any worse injury occurring under the force of your arm.

It doesn’t deter him though, and he doesn’t so much as even cover his nose from the pain as he takes your arms in his hands to swivel you in his direction so that you can see that you aren’t in danger.

“Hey- Hey, it’s just me you’re okay, you’re safe here I promise,”

The flicker of absolute terror in your eyes makes him swear his heart is going to shatter, and even as he watches it fizzle out under the realisation that he wasn’t someone to be afraid of that small pit in his stomach didn’t disappear.

You looked bad.

Your hands were grazed and raw, you were covered in mud, half of your shirt had been ripped from the hem and tied around your left thigh — presumably as some sort of makeshift bandage, and you were so much paler than you usually were, all of the colour completely drained from your face until you looked almost translucent under the mix of moonlight and blared foglights.

“You’re bleeding— Did I do that? I’m sorry—” You reach up your hand towards and he swerves to take it in his own with a shake of his head, clasping his fingers gently around your shaking palms, careful not to irritate the angry red covering them.

“Don’t worry about me, are you okay? What happened?” His eyes roam anxiously over your frame, lingering specifically on the torn piece of fabric around your thigh that is slowly but surely turning from a charcoal grey to a dark maroon the longer you stand talking.

“I- He ran and- and I followed him and then I lost him and- I don’t- He doubled back on me and I didn’t-” Half of the words coming out of your mouth were almost completely incoherent, and he could see your pupils refusing to dilate even under the direct beam of one of the SUVs’ headlights.

“Okay okay, calm down, take a breath for a second,” Spencer gives your arms a small squeeze to cut off your attempt at an explanation, glancing over your shoulder where the team is still grouped together, with Morgan and Hotch on the phone — presumably for an ambulance and some backup respectively— and the others watching you cautiously, unsure whether they should join in on Spencer’s examination of your health.

“How did you hurt your leg?” You follow Spencer’s gaze downwards towards your thigh, and it’s like the second your eyes recognise what it is you completely loose control of all of your motor functions from waist down.

“Woah—” Spencer takes the sudden change in your weight distribution in his stride, or at least he tries to, shifting his arms underneath your armpits to stop you from hitting the ground underneath you and supporting your weight with his own as he stumbles a few steps backwards. “Guys—”

Emily is at your side immediately, alleviating some of your weight onto herself so the two of them can hold you upright.

“He had a weapon…” You wince under the searing pain in your leg, the adrenaline wearing off fast and hard now that your body knows it’s no longer in danger.

“What kind of weapon?” The concern seeps from Spencer’s voice to soak into your skin, leaving your heart to accelerate under the knowledge that you were injured bad.

“A uh… fork, like a gardening fork… He stabbed me with it…” Although more coherent now, your voice was slowly fading into small mutters and whispers, like the exhaustion in your body was catching up to your mind and making even your tongue too languished to move. “I’m really tired…”

“Hey no- not yet-” Emily shakes her head with a conviction. “There’s an ambulance on the way, you have to stay awake until then,”

“But…”

“Emily‘s right, stay awake you’ll be fine,” Spencer sounds like he’s more trying to convince himself than you as him and Emily support your weight back towards the cluster of SUVs, and the added weight of your head resting against his shoulder doesn’t help his anxiety whatsoever. “Hey, come on…”

He lifts his shoulder slightly to shift your head and you let out a soft noise of discontentment. “I’m awake I’m awake, just conserving my energy…”

“Just keep your eyes open okay?”

You give him a small hum as the two of them sit you down on the hood of one of the cars, and Emily leaves you in Spencer’s care to check with Morgan on the arrival of the ambulance.

“You know that you’re my best friend, right?” You turn your head a little further into Spencer’s shoulder as he becomes the sole pillar of your support, blinking slowly in an attempt to keep your eyes open.

“Don’t say that to me right now,” He shakes his head with furrowed eyebrows, a dark line forming between his eyes as the skin pinches together in his worry.

“But you are though,”

“You can remind me of that after you’re in the hospital,”

“I hate hospitals,” You let out a small, fatigued huff, rolling your eyes at the prospect. “I’m gonna be in there for god knows how long and I just wanna find this guy before he hurts anyone else…”

“Well, he has hurt you, and that’s what’s important right now,” Spencer’s tone contradicts itself between concern and relief. You’re alive, but you’re not in good shape. “We need to make sure that you’re okay before anything else,”

And in an act of holy divination — or just coincidence if Spencer was concerned — right as he mentions making sure that you’re okay the blaring lights of the called ambulance come into view, joined by a shrill, sharp ring that seems to echo over the field.

You all but hobble over to it once it’s parked, successful only in the fact that Spencer is actually supporting more of your weight than you were.

At least he stays by your side the entire time.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #mgg #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #climacteric 🪶

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luna-rainbow · 7 months

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The reason people were saying don’t forget fandom history isn’t because anyone thinks Stucky is the oldest MLM ship, or the biggest MLM ship, or the only MLM ship of its time. It’s because it was 2014 and gay marriage was still illegal. It’s because it was 2015 and MAGA was flying everywhere. It’s because it was 2016, people took to Twitter and trended #givecapaboyfriend. Mere weeks later, comics Steve Rogers was written into a Nazi.

It’s because it came at a turning point not just in superhero history but American history. MCU Steve Rogers was a return to a more sincere worldview after two decades of grim dark cynicism. The MCU, previously the domain of (mainly cis white) dudebros — you only have to look at the way Nat and Peggy were written in the early movies to know that women and other minorities, whether as characters or audience, were a distant afterthought — has gained traction with the mainstream audience. The advent of social media and internet accessibility meant a blossoming abundance of fan content that previous generations didn’t have.

This coincided with a time of intense ideological clash between progressive and conservative voices. Unlike what dudebros say, very few people believed the MCU would actually give Cap a boyfriend, but it did squarely place Captain America on the side of the LGBT community. Up until this point, MCU Steve in both canon and fanon has often been portrayed with hazy nostalgia for “the greatest generation” and the white picket fence dream. The hashtag trend was a reclamation of a character who was written by a minority, whose origin was a marginalised group for his time, and whose moral code was always supportive of people sidelined by history.

There will always be older ships, bigger ships, “more canon” ships, but you’ll never get another ship that rode the nexus of social media growth, genre popularity, LGBT recognition and political tug-o-war to breach containment the way Steve-Bucky did.

Don’t forget the history of #GiveCapABoyfriend, the BBC Steve-Bucky fan video, the “of course it’s a love story”, the “we went a little Brokeback” and the “Bucky is his home”. All of these were acknowledgement of the sheer size and international reach of the fandom. With a character many people thought of as the face of conservative America, it brought gay romance into the mainstream consciousness…and yes, without Steve-Bucky and several other concurrent massive MLM ships laying down the ground work, many of the newer canon gay romances would not have been green lit by profit-hungry studios.

#stucky #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stevebucky

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bangaveragewhitewine · 7 months

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soft slow, morning glow

Steve Harrington x Reader

A prosaic peek at Steve Harrington’s inability to sleep in and stay in bed and his reasons for changing his ways.

October 1997; a cosy easy morning, where kisses are shared and ABBA songs are sung as a lullaby.

Word count: 4.3K

Content/Warnings: TW for talk of bleeding during pregnancy, borderline neglectful parents.

Mention of sex (18+), not explicit. This contains dad!Steve & mom! reader toward the end; pregnant reader. Kinda rambling. Very soft. Low angst (but not none).

Note: Thank you to my ST rewatch for making me fall for Steve all over again.

Proofread by @specialagentmonkey | Divider by @silkholland

Steve Harrington was always an early riser.

As a honey-haired little boy, he spent Saturday mornings on the sofa watching cartoons with the volume dialled low as his parents slept. He knew not to make a mess with the cereal, or the milk, rewarded with a stack of pancakes or a new toy for keeping himself amused as Richard and Katherine Harrington slept off the previous evening’s dinner party hangover.

Always the first awake at sleepovers, he would wait with bated breath for Tommy to stir or feign a sneeze to wake him.

He never had to be dragged from bed to go to school during the week, always up and at ‘em to go see his friends, play tag and swap baseball cards on the playground.

As a sporty and popular teenager, he started running when he didn’t have early swim practice or basketball. Steve rose with the sun and waved to his neighbours politely as his shiny sneakers slapped the pavements of Loch Nora.

He was never sure what he was running from, or towards, but the burn of chilly morning air in his lungs made him feel alive.

When he started going to house parties and hangouts on Saturday nights, his Sundays still started early, dragged to show face at his parent’s church. It was less about faith and god and all about appearances. He snuck out of bedroom windows, hopped white picket fences as the sun rose, fought hangovers as the priest’s voice droned and caught the eyes of pretty girls from the convent school a town over - they always blushed when he smiled at them or dropped them a sly little wink as the collection plate was passed around.

When his parents started travelling more, after the shortlived re-commitment to the church, Steve’s Sunday morning hangovers were kept at bay with cold swims in the pool or hot coffee and loud music in the kitchen as he tried and failed to focus on homework.

Steve started working right out of school as punishment for unsubmitted college applications and lower-than-predicted grades. He volunteered for the opening shifts in Scoops Ahoy and Family Video - he liked the responsibility and having a purpose, having an excuse to be out of the house before his parents could tutt and fuss and lecture him. It was easier when they weren’t there; when the office in Indy needed Richard’s attention more than his wife and son did, when Katherine spotted smears of lipstick on his collars again and insisted she spend some time with him in the city apartment.

In their absence, the Harrington house was a mausoleum of failure that Steve couldn’t bear to be in. So he raised his hand for early delivery shifts and stock takes and drove his friends to school when he didn’t have to, already awake after another night of nightmares, memories of flying fists.

Steve Harrington rose early and burned bright; burned out quickly when he realised he didn’t know what to do with himself or what his purpose was.

He filled his time with making himself useful to other people, chasing and seeking a purpose or a person to fill the gaps and spaces in his chest; the hollows once reserved for the people who didn’t return the outpouring of love he offered so freely, so innocently. He found and made a rag-bag bunch of friends, a found family, who returned the love he deserved in the ways they knew how. Woven and knotted friendship bracelets, squished candy bars, mixtapes, weed sold and rolled at buddy rates or for nothing at all.

Steve Harrington moved to the city with his best friends; a Beemer and a battered van filled with boxes and suitcases. The early morning drive made Steve Harrington glow golden in the rising sun, his excited eyes hidden behind dark-tinted sunglasses as Robin Buckley snored in the passenger seat and Eddie Munson listened to metal at an ear-bleeding volume in his van and flipped Steve off with that big grin in the rearview mirror. They stopped for strong coffee and sweet pancakes and started a new chapter in the city.

When you fell in love with Steve in 1990, he found a reason to stay in bed a little longer. A reason to slow down, soak up the sunshine glow you shone on him.

You spent Saturday nights with friends, a patchwork group cheering on Corroded Coffin and selling T-shirts and tapes at a merch table when they scored a bigger venue and a bigger crowd. Movie nights and takeout Chinese food and a stack of new and old movies from Blockbuster. Date nights at swanky bars and restaurants, with flickering candles and pizza on the way home because you didn’t want the night to end yet. You spent hours in bed together, night and morning, talking about everything under the rising sun and dwindling moon, learning about each other’s life and mapping each other’s body with kisses and gentle touches.

In the morning he gazed at your sleepy softness and took his own pulse to make sure he wasn’t dying. No heart attack, just falling in love.

He brought you cups of coffee and sweet pastries from the bakery a block away when his limbs felt restless. He always got back into bed with you to cuddle and while away the morning without a moment wasted. With Steve, those mornings were syrupy slow; he worshipped you between your thighs and held your hands as the headboard bashed against the wall.

You became Mrs. Steve Harrington in the spring of ‘94.

A small wedding. A big party for your friends. A honeymoon week where every morning felt like a perfect lazy Saturday.

When Steve found his reason to stay in bed, together you created a reason that kept you from it.

Bethany Rose Harrington. Born June 21st 1995.

Beth had her Daddy’s eyes and her Mama’s nose, and the sweetest little dimples in her smiley pink cheeks. She was her Daddy’s little doughnut, her Mama’s little bee. She inherited Steve’s charm and wrapped her extensive collection of doting uncles and aunts right around her tiny finger. She took after you in the way that Steve was completely and utterly in love with her.

Just like her Dad, Beth liked to start the day early. After a few weeks of seeking out and settling into a routine, Steve spent the earliest part of the day feeding his little Bethie her bottle of milk in the cosy armchair nestled in the corner of her pale yellow nursery. As he watched her big brown eyes gaze and blink, felt her tiny fist wrap around his finger, Steve decided that these were the happiest mornings of his life.

On those soft and slow mornings, you could hear Steve’s low murmur to your little girl through the baby monitor when his excitement to see her gummy smile or stop her sad fat tears bypassed the off-switch. You fell back asleep to the sound of Steve telling Beth about how the Cubs and the Bulls (their teams now) were doing this season, or about the walk in the park you were going to go on once ‘beautiful mama’ was awake. He sang to her; never typical lullabies, Queen and ABBA and Dusty Springfield.

Steve basked in the joy of her little smiles, soaked in the soft cooing noises as Beth found her voice to talk back to her Daddy. When she fell asleep again, milk-drunk with her cheek against his heartbeat, Steve watched the morning sky shift and brighten and listened out for the sound of your waking time. The soft thud and shuffle from bed to bathroom, running water, your yawn and stretch, the gentle steps to seek and find him and your little treasure. You filled reams of camera film, documenting Steve as a Dad, your little girl's first weeks and months. Lit by morning light, by afternoon sun and the shade of the tree in your yard, and dusky nighttime lit by nightlights.

When your laundry list of chores allowed it, you took one of your three options on those mornings of parenthood - take turns to bask in the warmth of lavender and milk-scented baby cuddles while the other showered; bring the sleeping beauty back to your bed to gaze at the ten fingers and ten toes you had created together; or leave the sleepy and full-tummied grub to sleep in her crib again to spend the slow dawn hours holding each other and trading kisses, and knotting yourselves up in the sheets together once the doctor gave you the all-clear and a prescription for birth control.

You did plenty of all three.

Summer turned to Autumn, then Winter, and Steve balanced being a father and husband with keeping a roof over your heads and the final year of his programme to get his qualification to become a guidance counsellor. His mornings with Beth were part of his routine, leaving her smiling and drooly for you when he kissed his girls goodbye. Missing him during full days of supervised sessions and hours in the college library when he wasn’t in classes bonded you and Beth, thick as thieves and lovestruck for the golden Harrington boy-turned-man. You made sure that he never missed a moment with how many pictures you took, and Beth saved all of her firsts for when he was home. You coached her to say ‘dada’ in Steve’s absence and he sobbed happy tears when she parroted it back. (He had been coaching her to say ‘mama’ during their early mornings together).

Your late nights of talking turned to early-to-bed nights, sleeping when the baby slept and when your little home was some semblance of clean and tidy. Steve fell asleep to the sound of Bethie’s breath on the monitor, your heart under his cheek and the soft stroke of your fingers in his hair, along the length of his arm.

Both of you were exhausted. Neither of you had ever been happier.

When he graduated in the Summer, you and Beth cheered and clapped for your golden boy along with his best friends - the loudest bunch in the college auditorium. A picture of the Harrington trio - Steve in his shirt and tie and graduation gown balancing a smiley baby and his degree as you kiss his cheek and tickle Beth’s tummy for the camera - was placed with pride on his desk when he started a counsellor job that landed in his lap in the late summer of ‘96. He coached basketball two afternoons a week on the side; it was perfect for him.

You go back to work part-time and you balance taking care of Beth and each other with the utmost care. With help from your family and Steve’s trust fund from the Harrington’s, you make it work. You are what he holds dear, pride of place in the centre of his chest, once vacant and hollow. The gaping space he yearned to fill with the wrong friends, the wrong girls, watery beer and too many cigarettes.

By the Fall of ‘97, Steve had learned to sleep again. Sleep when the baby sleeps. Enjoy your days off. Enjoy every moment. He is. He’s so tired but never happier.

This morning, you wake first.

Your little house in the Chicago suburbs is bathed in autumn darkness on a lazy Saturday. Six a.m. and Steve snores peacefully.

Beth is silent, dreaming of her two favourite things: fairies and pancakes. That top five list favourites is rounded out by her Daddy and Mama and Mrs. Murphy’s orange cat that visits the backyard.

The littlest Harrington is an early bird too, twirling in your tummy beneath Steve’s protective hand. Until Steve can take the morning shift, you are the early riser.

Beth is your sleepy little dreamer, she loves her bed like her Mama. She sneaks in between you and Steve (and the bump now too) when she wakes too early; you spend those mornings gazing and counting fingers and toes again like when she was a tiny thing.

This baby however seems to take after her father’s love of sport, the way she practices the aim and strength of her kicks on your bladder. You don’t officially know yet (they were less than cooperative at the last ultrasound), but you know it’s a girl. Steve swayed to boy for a day or two before realising you were right. Maybe next time…

The flush and sigh-groan from your aching back pulls Steve from sleep. When you pad back in from the little bathroom, he’s just about upright and wild-haired.

“Y’okay?” Eyes swollen with sleep, he reaches blindly for you to help you back into the cosy nest of blankets.

“Mm, needed to pee.”

You try to keep your cold feet away but Steve sandwiches them between his own size fourteen and always warm feet. His lips brush your shoulder and the back of your neck when you settle into a comfortable position; Bump dictates what will suffice as ‘comfortable’ and settles under her father’s comforting hand. Harrington’s magic touch is famed in your home; settling gassy babies and working out knotted shoulders, fixing leaky faucets and carrying all of the groceries inside in two heavy handfuls, making shadow-puppet shows on the bedroom wall and holding back your hair when you’re not well.

Slowly, small-spooned by Steve’s bigger body, you drift again. Sleep comes and goes like an inconsistent tide, and you are anchored safely in his arms. Baby names ebb and flow into your tired head and you wish Steve was awake to tell you what he thought of ‘Heather’ or ‘Ava’. Whether your (very slow) re-read of Little Women was influencing you too much to ‘Josie’. You wonder about how much candy you should get for the trick-or-treaters, and whether Beth will be too scared to help you answer the door to them this year.

You wish he was awake - because you always wish your every waking moment was spent with Steve Harrington - but you’re so glad he is sleeping soundly, snoring sweetly behind you. You wish you could take more responsibility, take the pressure he puts on his own shoulders from him, but this pregnancy is less easy than the first and you hate that you can’t do it all anymore. You take solace in the fact that Steve is asleep, not awake worrying or nesting.

Turning in his sleepy hold, you place his hand back on the bump to keep the littlest Harrington settled and content, and watch your handsome husband look like the teenager you wish you had known. You map the laughter lines instead of the ones etched by worry, counting the happy memories (which are insurmountable) as you fall back to sleep with him at last.

Sleeping Beauty herself slumbers on until almost 8 a.m., meaning that both you and Steve sleep until almost 8 a.m. too - later on you will toast coffee (decaf for you) over that parent win. For the next few months, the weekends mean Steve will be hitting snooze on his body clock when the chances arise.

This morning Beth’s little voice sings his name down the hall. Steve wakes with a smile and kisses your sleepy face as you stretch and peel your eyes open.

“You’re up, Coach.” Your voice is a tired yawn, mumbled into the fluffy duvet Steve untangles himself from.

“Bring her in for cuddles please.” You pout for a tired kiss and hum happily when he grants your wish.

Steve’s ankles crack as he walks from your room to Beth’s. She’s wide awake and wild-haired, matching her Dad, and she sits up in her bed with her bunny-teddy clutched in her fist.

“Hi bumblebee,” he gasps, his tiredness swept away by his genuine joy to see her. Steve lays down on her too-small-for-him baby bed and pretends to get comfy to sleep again. “Sleepover?” he asks, opening his arm for her.

“Nooooo, yo’bed!” Her sweet voice crackles with sleepiness and the remnants of a cold she picked up as the seasons changed.

In the warmth of your bed, you can hear the mini-eye-roll she’s giving her Dad as he plays up to her dramatics. Uncle Dustin has a lot to answer for.

“Bethie,” you call from your nest, “I miss you.”

Steve watches with barely restrained amusement as her face beams bright like sunshine before leaving him in the lurch to seek out Mama. “Hey! What about me?!”

You can hear his grumbling as he hauls himself up from the tiny toddler bed but your focus is the bundle of sunshine that bounds her way to your room in her sky-blue jammies. Pushing messy hair from her face, she squeaks happily as you lift her before Steve can beat you to it. You didn’t want another moment apart from your girl and she burrows against your chest under the toasty-warm duvet.

“Morning Betty Boop.” You press kisses to her smiling face and hear Steve stomp and flop back into the room and into the bed.

“Is Daddy not invited to this love-in? Just for Mama and Beth?” he asks, scowling at your smushed-together faces.

You cuddle Beth and stroke her back as the girl shifts her impish gaze to Steve. “What do you think, Betty? Kisses for Dada?”

She can never ever resist him and reach-grabs out to be gathered in his big strong arms for kisses and cuddles.

Steve lights up, features relaxing from his feigned annoyance, as he gives and receives morning kisses. You are gathered up alongside the titch of a girl and with her help, you smother kisses all over Steve’s happy face.

“Never ever not invited to the love-in, my love.” You kiss his shadowed jaw once and tuck yourself under his arm.

“Kiss d’baby?” Beth’s messy head pops up and looks at you hopefully.

“You wanna say good morning to Baby?” Steve asks, and she nods. “Mama?”

“I think she’s asleep, but I bet she’ll wake up when she hears Big Sis and Dada.” Beneath the pitched tent of the duvet, you lift Steve’s t-shirt and present the rounded bump for inclusion in the morning love-in.

Beth has been immensely eager to meet her baby since she took notice of your bump and realised the new baby was actually in there.

The little girl’s pillow-soft cheek rests against the curve as she hugs around your middle. “Moh’nin, baby.” Her little voice is still a little stuffed up, nasal.

Your heart and tears swell as you watch her with Steve, who kisses the bump and murmurs hello. You’re at that point of pregnancy where you could cry when the wind changes and you cover your eyes so Beth won’t go out in sympathy-tears with you.

Steve’s big hand squeezes your hand as he distracts Beth, who babbles in toddler talk to her sibling. His eyes are wide and worried as he looks up and sees the hitch of your chest. He’s had that worried look since you bled at ten weeks and the doctor put you on bed rest, just three weeks into actually knowing you were pregnant. Everything has settled bar your hormones and emotions; two perfect heartbeats, an active healthy baby, a happy but tired Mom. Steve is more scared now than he was with Beth but pretends to be brave for you.

You swipe at your hot tears, dry your hand in your t-shirt before reaching down to stroke through Steve’s thick hair.

“M’okay.” You give him a watery smile. “She’s just… so sweet, Stevie.”

Moving up to lie along your side, Steve wipes your cheek and presses a kiss to the trail of the tears left behind. “Sweetest. Sweet Bee. Feelin’ okay?”

His hand stays on top of your bump and then passes over Bethany’s bedhead when she looks up curiously.

Seeing that she is missing out, Beth decides she has had enough and wants to cuddle with you instead of the baby who won’t kick back hello. She wiggles up to lie on Steve’s chest, little fingers poking into the freckles and moles as he pulls the duvet back around you all like a cosy cocoon.

“Feeling good. You okay?”

Steve has tucked away his worry again, but you still see the pinch in his brow - though the curious little fingers might be the reason for that.

“Peachy.” He chases the poking fingers with a growling kiss, pulling a shrieking giggle from Beth. “Hello, can I help you? Why are we poking Daddy this morning, huh?”

You giggle with Beth and kiss where her fingers had pressed, modelling the gentle sweetness you know she possesses in multitudes. “Poor Daddy. See, Betty? Gentle kissies.” A kiss is snuck onto his mouth for good measure.

“Daddy,” Beth sing-songs, patting his cheek lovingly.

“Bethie,” Steve sings back to her, echoing her melody. He accepts a wet baby-kiss as you curl close to them both.

You twirl a finger in the messy wave of her hair. “What will we do today? Do you want to get some library books? Or we could… go to the park?”

Steve pats her back gently. “Oh wow. All the possibilities, huh?” His lips press to Beth’s forehead as she cuddles up to him, her fingers distracted by the gold chain he wears around his neck. “Gentle, please.” He kisses her head again and looks at you. “We can do both… Go get a t-r-e-a-t?”

You smile and nod, covering Steve’s hand on Beth’s small back. “I like t-r-e-a-ts. What do you want to do, big guy?”

Steve’s fingers slot with yours. His lips brush your head as you share his pillow - the firm one to help with his neck pain. “Just be with you two. Could stay right here all day and I’d be the happiest guy.”

You press your nose against his cheek and close your eyes; you’re both surrounded by your favourite people, it is utter bliss.

“I love you.” Your voice is soft and tired against his stubbly jaw.

“Love you. So much, babe.”

Steve tilts his head so you can share a morning-breath-be-damned kiss. He wishes he had woke up sooner, before the wide-eyed toddler, so that he could have showered you with kisses, made out like teenagers (despite the baby bump between you).

“No! Me!” The frustrated little whine makes you smile apologetically to each other, chancing one more peck before you both look to scowling Beth.

“Sorry, Bee. Mama’s too delicious for me to resist.”

“Steve!” you tuck your face in his neck as you laugh, an affectionate headbutt.

“What? The kid’s gotta know.”

The two-year-old smushes her face to her Dad’s chest, still too little to comprehend her Dad’s silly banter when she just wants to be the centre of both of your attention. You have a few months left to figure that out before the baby arrives, but it scares you that she might feel like she’s not the best thing that ever happened you (bar her Dad, of course).

Your pout matches hers and you push back the stinging Mom Guilt Tears. She is only coaxed away with sweet little cheek-kisses from you as you hum-sing Take a Chance on Me (accompanied by Steve’s tapping fingers on her back ‘take a chance, take a chance, take a, take a chance-chance.)

The girl's smile splits her frustrated face, a quiet giggle as she is serenaded by her current favourite song (you have just got I Was Made For Lovin’ You out of your head after Steve had introduced her to KISS in the car). Her little arm hooks around your head as you whisper how much you love her, soft voice tickling her ear and cheek.

Beth’s laughter coaxes a fluttering kick against your belly, which Steve feels against his side as you spoon against him. He wears the same wide-eyed joy on his face every time he has felt your babies kick.

“Oo, she’s awake again. Finally joining the party.” You rest your hand against the side of your rounded belly and telepathically tell the tiny one how much you love them too, how you can’t wait to meet them but please stay in there until they’re fully cooked and ready.

Steve’s free hand - the one not keeping Beth upright as she sits up on his torso - joins yours and echoes your telepathic communication to the littlest Harrington - I love you, I can’t wait to hold you, please stay safe in there and be nice to your Mom.

His wide palm on your bump settles the fluttering before she aims her kick right against it Hi Dad! Okay, Dad!

You share a secret little smile with him and kiss his cheek as his eyes shimmer before rolling onto your achy back, feeling the satisfaction of the pop and crack as your spine relaxes against the mattress. Steve’s hand stays on your belly, and you hug his arm to your chest, as Beth sings her toddler-babble version of an ABBA mashup for you both from her throne.

Steve’s face hurts from smiling as he listens to her, hears some semblance of the lyrics in Beth-speak. He doesn’t remember mornings like this with his parents, few and far between were the times he was even allowed to cuddle with them in bed on a weekend morning.

You glance at his face, watching shifting emotions come and go as he remembers, tries to forget and focuses on the memories being made right now in your cosy nest of a bed. You squeeze his arm and hold his hand on your belly - matching gold wedding rings clicking against each other as your fingers intertwine.

Steve squeezes your hand, three pulses. There is simply nowhere he would rather be.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington character study #dad!steve harrington #dad!steve harrington x mom!reader #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington x f!reader #prosaic fic #bangaveragefics

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tightjeansjavi · 2 months

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The Rite of Movement | part five

“something I’m not, but something I can be”

A/N: big disclaimer for this chapter: I do not know if this is actually how the porn industry functions. And while Brazzers is a real porn site, I don’t have any knowledge of how they run things on their site. For the sake of fiction, and the storyline, I wrote Joel’s era in Brazzers as a very very toxic work environment. Please heed the warnings. This takes place pre-miller-co. Joel and baby love have not met yet. Joel does however have a girlfriend during his time at Brazzers. Oh, and I listened to what was I made for on repeat while I wrote this 🥺 thank you to @itsokbbygrl for betaing and being my little cheerleader through this series 💗 and thank you to all my other friends for your endless support on my silly lil stories! (Y’all know who you are and how much I love you!)

~word count: 3.1k~

Summary: it’s Joel Miller’s 30th birthday. 30 years of existing, 12 years working for Brazzers, and what does he really have to show for his life outside of being a pornstar?

Pairing | pornstar!joel x pornstar!female reader

Warnings: angst, implied smut, toxic work environment, implied workplace abuse, mentions of the porn industry, misogynistic comments/behavior towards women in the porn industry (not by Joel), feelings of body insecurity, shame, mentions of smoking, grief, resentment, language, mature themes, +18 minors dni!

series masterlist

Los Angeles, CA. September 26, 2009

An alarm clock blares on Joel’s nightstand, the shrill sound pierces his eardrums, sending his arm flying out from under the covers, smacking the top of the device, silencing it with a heavy groan rumbling up his chest.

6:00 a.m. the sun has barely just begun to peek over the mountains, the bustle of LA traffic, late-night goers returning home, early-morning risers preparing for another droning day.

The big 30: The age where you were expected to have your shit together. No more making foolish mistakes, no more job hopping, you should be married with kids and have a house with a white picket fence and drive a minivan. You should be invested in the stock market, your lawn should be properly trimmed, maybe you even make enough money to own a vacation home.

Joel hadn’t a fucking clue what he wanted out of life. He wasn’t married. He didn’t have any kids. He lived in an apartment with his brother Tommy, splitting the rent between their paychecks. LA never felt like home to him. He liked the palm trees and the beach. He hated LA traffic, smog, and that stupid Hollywood sign that alluded to a lifestyle that only the ‘chosen’ members of high society would get to indulge in.

City of Angels? Not even close.

30 years old, and feeling like he had nothing to show for his life outside of being a pornstar. A branding identity that shamed him more times than he was willing to admit. Is this all I’m good for?

Brazzers was the bane of his existence for 12 years, and yet every time he would try and put his foot down and quit, he was lured right back in. He loved sex just like anyone else. He loved the intimacy, the closeness, the connection to another human being. Above all, he loved making his partners feel good. To make them come, fall apart on his tongue, fingers, or his cock. To hear their pleasured cries, high-pitched real moans of his name.

It was euphoric for him, to make another person feel so good that they completely lose themselves in the moment, in the feeling of the rite of movement. He used to think that this was enough, that the act of sex and unbridled pleasure was all viewers would want to see. He thought he was enough.

But in the adult film industry, sex was never just enough.

He didn’t like being told how he should fuck.

Yank her hair harder.

Slap her around a little.

Squeeze her cheeks till she cries.

Choke her.

I want to see bruises on her ass, Joel.

Fuck her like you mean it, like you hate her. Like she’s your bitch. Your property.

Are we making a porno here or what? Don’t wipe her tears. That’s not what men want. They want to see a cunt being pounded. C’mon, Joel. This is supposed to be a male fantasy!

He learned how to dissociate and remove himself from the scene entirely. He worked on autopilot, tuning out the jarring voices that demanded more from him and his partner(s). And when the passion faded, he struggled to stay hard and on top of his game.

And even with the warm, wet mouth of a fluffer sucking his soft cock, he wasn’t turned on. Not in the slightest and he could feel the shame creeping up on his neck as the director barked at him to get his shit together.

“What do you mean you’re not able to get hard, Miller? You got a hot piece of ass under you, man! What the hell else do you want? Y’know, would it really hurt for you to be more like your brother?”

“She’s got a name, you know.” Joel bit back, grinding his jaw back and forth. The blatant disrespect that women faced on a day to day basis was downright disgusting.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. You make pornos, Joel! Or did you forget? Stop acting like a fucking sissy and do your goddamn job.”

“I need a minute,” he gruffed out and gently pushed the fluffer's mouth off of his cock. He strode past the director and the rest of the set crew and pulled his boxers on in a haste.

“Fine. You get 10 minutes, Miller. And when you get back, I expect you to be fucking ready, and hard.”

Joel didn’t respond as he shucked on his shorts and threw on his hoodie, grabbing his phone and pack of cigarettes to stuff in his pocket. He averted making eye contact with the director, shoulder checking him on his way out of the room.

10 minutes, Miller!

Fuck you is what Joel really wanted to say as he walked at a fast past towards the nearest exit in the long hallway.

The sun was blinding the moment he stepped outside into the back alley. He whipped his phone out, nervously pacing back and forth as he dialed Tommy’s number, listening to the dial tone ring and ring.

“Hey, you old fart! Feelin’ 30 yet?” Tommy said playfully.

“Yeah. I’m feelin’ 30 alright.” Joel grumbled, sinking back against the side of the building.

“What’s up? I know how much you hate your birthday, but why do you sound so—”

“I’m fuckin’ quitting, Tommy. I can’t do this shit anymore. I can’t fuckin’ do it. I’m about five seconds away from stormin’ back in there and beatin’ the living shit out of the director.” He snapped, carding his fingers through his hair, gripping the roots tightly. “I’m throwin’ the towel in, and I ain’t lookin’ back.”

“Woah, woah, woah! Hold on now, what the fuck happened? Are you sure you just want to—”

“Tommy.” Joel warned him, squeezing his eyes shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t start this with me, okay? I need to know if you’re with me on this because I sure as hell ain’t leavin’ you out here on your own.”

“I ain’t a kid anymore, Joel. If you want to quit for your own reasons, that’s fine, and I support you, but that doesn’t mean that—” he sighed deeply, weighing out his words in his head before he said, “of course I’m with you on this.”

“I’m not gonna force you to quit, Tommy. I jus’ don’t think this cesspool is fuckin’ good for either of us. Talked to a few others that were thinkin’ of quitting, but no one has pulled the trigger yet. We can do some amateur work till we find our footing again, and I want to move back home, Tommy. I want to move back to Texas. I fuckin’ hate this state. Everythin’ is too damn expensive.”

“I’ll follow you wherever you go, Joel. You know I will. But what about…Carmen and Sarah? You jus’ gonna pack your shit up and not tell her?”

Joel felt his heart twist and clench, knocking the air from his lungs because for the first time in his 30 years of life, his heart was going to be broken, and there was nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable from happening.

“She’s never gonna accept me for who I am and my job, Tommy. She resents it, I know she does. And Sarah will eventually resent me too. She’ll grow up and feel ashamed that her stepfather is a fuckin’ pornstar. They both deserve better than what I can offer them. It’s not like I can just start over and get a respectable job! What established company is gonna hire a guy who’s CV consists of a highschool diploma, a year of working construction jobs and 12 years in the adult film industry?”

Tommy felt his heart break for his brother, splitting right down the middle. “Joel…” he trailed off.

“Her friends treat me differently, and everytime I’ve brought up the potential of meeting her family, she changes the subject on me, Tommy. And you know what? I don’t blame her. Who the fuck would want to introduce their pornstar boyfriend to anyone, let alone her family? I jus’ figured I’d cut her losses sooner rather than later. And even if things were to work out, and I get a new job, a new life, am I just supposed to accept the knowledge of knowin’ that the entire time we have been together, she’s resented my job? Some things just aren’t meant to work out, and that’s fine. I’ll let her go and she’ll meet a nice, normal, man with a good stable job who doesn’t fuck for a living.”

Joel Miller. Paging, Joel. You’re needed on set. Hurry the fuck up—

“Fuckers.” Joel muttered under his breath as he rose to his feet. “I gotta go, okay? I’ll text you in a bit.”

“Wait, Joel,” Tommy started, trying to think of what he could possibly say to his brother that would make the situation better. “Everythin’ is gonna be okay. It’ll all work out in the end.”

“Yeah, sure.” He replied flatly. “I’ll see you.” he ended the call, shoving his phone back into his hoodie pocket and pushed open the exit door just as his name was called over the intercom again.

This time he was going to put his foot down for good. He wasn’t going to be lured back in. He was done. His mind was made up and there would be no turning back.

“Fucking finally. I said 10 minutes, Miller. You’re lucky I even gave you that.” The director scoffed and snapped his fingers at the fluffer to do her job.

Joel stopped her with a gentle hand along her shoulder before he made direct eye contact with the director. “That won’t be necessary.”

“What the fuck do you mean that won’t be necessary? We were supposed to be wrapped up with this shit already. I have a freshie to introduce to you afterwards, so if we can just get a move on—”

“I said, that won’t be necessary.” Joel calmly reiterated as he grabbed his bag from the floor and slung it over his shoulder.

“Boy, you better fucking start talking. What do you mean that won’t be necessary?!”

“It means that I quit. And I hope that freshie and every other woman here fuckin’ quits while they still have the chance.”

The atmosphere in the brightly lit room immediately shifted and the tension was palpable. Joel’s onscreen partner was shocked, the fluffer was shocked along with the rest of the film crew.

“You have gotta fucking joking me right now.” The director laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You got some fucking nerve, Miller.”

Joel shrugged, glancing around the room before he turned towards the door, grasping the handle in his palm and pushed it open. He paused, looking over his shoulder, giving his onscreen partner a small, reassuring nod, “oh, and just a little word of advice? If you want sex to sell, and for Brazzers to not tank like the fuckin’ stock market, start by treatin’ women in the industry with respect. Jus’ a little food for thought. Pass that onto the CEO, and then tell him to shove it right up his ass.”

He walked out after that, listening to the director holler his name and something along the lines of, you’ll be back. They always fucking come back!

And on his way out, his shoulder gently made contact with another body rushing up the stairwell. “‘S’cuse me.” He rasped.

You didn’t get a look at the stranger's face on your way up. You were too focused on the fact that you were running late, and couldn’t afford to be potentially fired.

He didn’t get a look at your face either.

Joel opted to be alone for the rest of the day, sitting on the hood of his car, smoking through an entire pack of cigarettes while he watched the clouds roll by, and tourists stop to take pictures of the infamous Hollywood sign. He thought about his life up until this point.

30 years on this shithole we call earth. 12 years spent in the adult film industry, and never had he felt so lost and alone. Hours away from ending his first ever long term relationship and leaving the past behind.

Fuck 30. He thought to himself.

The inevitable settled into his bones as the sun slowly began to set behind the mountains, creating stunning hues of pink, oranges and purples in the sky. His phone buzzed on the exterior of the hood of his car, tearing him away from his thoughts when Carmen’s name popped up on the screen.

Hey, birthday boy. Are we still on for Thai food tonight? x.

Hey, baby. Yeah, of course. Can’t wait to see you.

5 missed calls from Tommy

10 messages from Tommy.

What happened to fucking calling me later, Joel?!

Why is your phone going straight to voicemail!

Can you just let me know that you’re okay?!

Joel.

Dude.

Pick up your phone!

And you call me the bad texter?!

This isn’t funny.

I didn’t sign up for the silent treatment!

If you’re dead in a ditch somewhere I’m gonna fucking kill you!!

He typed out a quick message to his brother informing him that he was in fact still alive and that he would be home soon.

What he wasn’t expecting was Carmen and Tommy to host a surprise birthday dinner at his apartment. He wasn’t mad at his brother for not giving him a heads up, and it wasn’t like Tommy could tell Carmen a simple, hey, by the way, my brother is going to break up with you and he wants to move back to Texas!

But all Joel could feel now when she pressed her lips to his in a sweet kiss, and planted a silly little party hat on his head, was guilt. An overwhelming tidal wave of guilt and shame for what he was going to do. And throughout the evening his guilt began to fester like an untreated wound. Bubbling pus leaked from his heartstrings like a broken faucet when he opened his unexpected present from Carmen.

It was a pocket wrist watch with an olive green strap that fit his wrist perfectly.

“You’re always misplacing your phone, so I figured that this would help you tell the time better? I know it isn’t much—”

He interjected softly, looking over at her with a small smile tugging on his lips, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” I’m so sorry.

And when Tommy stepped outside for a smoke and to give Joel and Carmen a bit of privacy, the energy shifted and Joel could feel the thread between them being pulled tight, threatening to snap at any given moment.

“Joel, is everything okay? You’ve hardly said a word to me tonight.”

And instead of responding, he got up from the couch in a haste, trying to keep his nerves at bay, but truthfully? He was panicking and it was written all over his face. “I’m fine, Carm. I jus’—I need some air.” He walked the short distance to the little balcony, pulling the door open as he stepped outside into the cooling night air.

Lights shimmered in the distance, palm trees swayed from a breeze off the coast. 30 years old and he felt like the biggest fucking asshole on the planet. Can I fix this? Can I make it work?

He stared down at the watch on his wrist, the tiny spokes ticking away as he rested his forearms along the paint chipped railing, listening to the soft squeak of the sliding door being pulled open as the blood rushed in his ears.

He tapped his foot nervously, jaw ticking under the fading light at the realization that there was no turning back.

“Do you love me?” He suddenly spoke, teeth grinding down on the inside of his cheek, the taste of copper bursting on his tongue. A reminder come morning when he would awake to the same soreness in his mouth that he feels in his heart.

“Joel…” she trailed off, standing alongside him, rubbing her arm as a self-soothing gesture.

“Do you love me…unconditionally?” His question hung heavy in the air, and when she didn’t immediately answer, tears began to prick the corner of his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision.

“Baby, please…why are—”

“Please don’t call me that right now, Carmen. Please.” he sniffled, staring back out over the railing at the shimmering mirage of Los Angeles. “If you did love me unconditionally, you would have answered me right away. It’s okay, I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. I jus’—I know you resent me for being a pornstar. I’ve known about it for a while,” he said softly, feeling a tear rolling down along the side of his nose and drip down over his lips. His dewy eyed gaze met hers briefly, before he looked away. “And I also know that you would never ask me to quit, but you and I both know that’s what you want from me.”

There was no point in trying to deny it any longer. There was no bad blood, no bitterness. Just two adults facing the reality that is life. And sometimes…relationships don’t work out. The passion fades and resentment rears its ugly head.

“And no matter how many times I have tried to earnestly explain to you why I chose this career path, you will never understand. And I would never try to force you to. But it’s not fair to you, myself, or Sarah to continue this relationship when you will never accept me for who I am, Carmen.”

“You’re right, Joel.” She said quietly, her own tears beginning to brew along her waterline. “I’m so sorry.”

He swallowed the lump growing in his throat and the sob threatening to leave his lips, “I am too.”

There isn’t much left to say as they hug for the last time. She wishes him well in life and he does the same. There’s a new ache in his chest at the thought of him no longer being involved in Sarah’s life anymore. But he believes she’ll be better off without him, too.

And when she leaves his apartment for the last time, taking almost 3 years of memories along with her as the front door clicks shut, and her echoing footsteps down the hall become softer and softer, he lets out the sob he had been suppressing, sinking down to his knees in defeat.

Tears stream down his cheeks as a car horn blares below on the street.

Fuck you, asshole! Get out of the road! The owner of a sleek BMW yells with the window rolled down to a teenager crossing the street on his bike.

30 years old and heartbroken. So much for having his shit together.

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starrystevie · 1 year

Text

it’s a horribly normal sunday afternoon when everything changes between steve and eddie.

they’re in eddie’s van, windows down and hair flying, rays of a new spring sun warming their winter chilled skin as their arms dangle outside the open windows. some band that steve is sure he’s never heard of is playing loudly though the speakers and eddie looks over at steve with a grin.

the sun gives him a halo like it belongs there, the wind in his curls breaking up the beams to make it look like he’s flying, like hermes or apollo or some other greek god steve cant name while he’s enraptured with the view. eddie's smile crooks up, something mischievous, and he reaches down to grab a tape out of his collection.

“you know what we need?” eddie asks and steve holds his tongue to stop from saying something stupid like 'you'.

the music changes and it’s familiar and loud and, oh no. the crooning first notes of 'somebody to love' cuts into his heart in a way he never expected queen to. he feels like he’s bleeding out, watching eddie’s smile shift and change, playful and wide, and it breaks him. his face crumbles and morphs into something mean, trying to protect the remnants of his guard from crumbling along with it like ancient remains.

"turn that shit off." and steve’s always been a bit of a bitch, eager to fight with bared teeth and bleeding knuckles, but it's never been towards eddie. eddie with his halo of sun and eyes full of warmth and that smile that makes steve feel like he can fly. "now."

eddie scrambles. his hand darts out and fiddles with the volume knob, his smile cracking along the edges and getting soft and worried and steve is made only of anger, boiling over in a tirade. he keeps talking, barely processing what he's saying, but he sees it hurt eddie and that feels right and so fucking wrong all at the same time.

"who told you," he seethes out, hisses through his teeth like a goddamn snake. "it's all just a rumor so don't think for one second that it's true-''

the only person steve has even told is robin, one drunken night with their friends jack and captain morgan, secrets spilling out from them faster than they can make a new drink. he let it slip that he likes queen, relates to queen, and robin cocked her head in that sickeningly endearing way she does, cartoon lightbulb clicking on above her head.

"steve," she whispered, hand reaching out to cover his knee. it was a moment of surprising sobriety when their eyes met and steve felt something click into place for him, too.

"it's okay to be like freddie, right?" his voice was soft, broken and strained, watery smile covering up what little vulnerability he had left.

they danced until sunrise with queen blasting through the way too extravagant speaker system in the living room, screaming lyrics about not wanting to be born at all and asking for someone to find them somebody. they fell into a pile all breathless and dizzy and the relief that flooded steve's system was enough that he could drift into a deep sleep for the first time in a long time.

but now that memory feels tainted, destroyed, because he only told robin and that means she must have told eddie about being like freddie because no one else knew and he thought that robin was the one person he could trust but that seems not real anymore but it's robin and that is the only person who has stuck around but now there's eddie in the back of his mind grinning and that bleeds into him laughing which bleeds into him laughing at steve, turning on a song to let him know he's laughing at him for being like freddie, for being wrong, being wrong, being wrong-

"steve..."

"-it's not even true, anyone can like queen without being a fucking queer, you know? plenty of people like them and are happily married with their 2.5 kids and a goddamn picket fence-"

steve's still ranting when eddie pulls to the side of the road, gravel crunching under the tires, eyes soft and careful as they look over steve. his face feels hot and pinched with his vision blurred from unshed tears that he'll be damned to let fall. his hands are flying around aimlessly in the air as he spits out lie after lie, watching eddie sit and take it unflinchingly.

"steve," he says after a minute of listening, a gentle hand on his knee that steve wants to throw off of him, eager for something tangible to destroy. "stop for a second, please."

he wishes he could but his brain won't let him, so he pauses for a second and catches his breath before starting again and ignoring the way eddie rolls his eyes in disappointment. he rants and he vents and hurls harsh word after word until he can see that eddie's had enough. he wants to keep going, yelling until his throat is as raw as his heart feels, but there are arms wrapping around him and holding him intact so he doesn't fall apart all over the floormats.

"you're okay," steve registers what eddie's saying after a beat or two. he's whispering low into his ear in a repetitive mantra, over and over and over. "you're okay, it's okay. breathe."

it's only after they're both breathing normally that he pulls away.

"what was that about," eddie asks, and it's not accusatory but steve can't help but shy away from the easy way he's looking at him. the tears he had been so good about holding back fall down his cheeks, disloyal soldiers admitting defeat.

"i just-," he breathes out as he keeps his eyes trained to the gear shift. "i thought you knew something about... me."

he hears eddie sigh and steve latches onto it like it's a ray of sun in and of itself. "i know a lot of things about you, steve."

"yeah, but you can't know this one. not yet"

there's fingers tangling into his own and they feel nothing like nancy's or robin's or tracy's or melissa's or heather's and he relishes the calluses that bump into his own. steve doesn't want to look up, he can't look up, but he's a vine and eddie's the sun and he has to face him like it's his life's purpose to do so.

the halo is back around eddie's head again when he finally looks.

"i can wait, if you want me to."

#surprise i'm back from my vacay with angsty steve even though i most definitely should be catching up on my work #i can't be blamed or this it's solely because i listened to somebody to love yesterday #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie ficlet #steddie drabble #steddie headcanon #my writing #steddie angst #internalized queerphobia

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ghost-proofbaby · 9 months

Note

SPARKS FLY💜✨ - STEVE HARRINGTON PLEASE

sparks fly (steve's version)

warnings: mentions of issues at home for steve, talk of fear in the future

wc: 2k+

a/n: i need steve harrington to just show up to my house and kiss me please please please

Steve Harrington was tired of pretending.

He was tired of pretending his parents weren’t goddamn strangers on their worst days and roommates on their best ones, he was tired of pretending that it didn’t affect him that everyone seemed to believe he had peaked in high school of all times, he was tired of pretending like he wanted the picket fence life set out for him by the adults that had groomed him into their own vision since his youth. But most of all, he was tired of pretending he wasn’t head over heels in love with you.

It was a fight with his parents that triggered it. Another rejection letter had come through from another college, and his dad had resorted to only kicking him while he was down. The one time he had the misfortune of both parents being home, and it was only being used for them to express all their disappointment in him. His father’s tasteless yelling, his mother’s crocodile tears, everything he tried to say back being ignored – he couldn’t fucking take it. He’d left the house with no destination in mind, just jumping into his driver’s seat and knowing he needed to get as far from that godforsaken house as he could.

Distance. He needed distance. And apparently, in his mind, the one place that could take him farther from a house that would never be a home was you.

His tires had squealed during several of the turns taken until he was flying down your street. It’s storming, a nasty and unforgiving rain coming down in sheets. He should really be driving more carefully, but he can’t. His head and heart alike are racing, and every single nerve ending is just screaming for you.

You, with kind and nonjudgmental eyes, who had always supported him. You, who had never paid much mind to all that he once was when he bore the title of King Steve. You, who had somehow captivated him and had been filling this hole within his chest, one shovel-full at a time. With your laughter, with soft bumps of your shoulder when his mind took him too far from you, with patient ears during every single one of his raging rants about his parents.

He wasn’t parking in your driveway this late at night to trouble you with another rant.

His knuckles turn ghostly white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. This is a bad idea. A terrible one, his worst one to date, but he can’t. He doesn’t have any choice in all the other pretending; he could never get through to his parents, to anyone who had these preconceived notions and expectations of him. Tonight had proven that much. But with you…. With you, a change was possible. He didn’t have to keep biting his tongue when it came to you. Every time he’d look at you when you two hung out during dusk and the golden hour painted your every feature the prettiest shades he’d ever been witness to, he didn’t have to choke back down that pathetic confession of adoration. Every time your hand brushed his while walking to the local diner, he didn’t have to pull it away rather than weave your fingers together. He didn’t have to keep denying himself all these simple pleasures – interrupting kisses he’d fantasized about and holding each other on stormy nights just like this one that he had only dreamt of.

But if he tells you, if he fucks it all up, he loses you. And Steve Harrington doesn’t know if he could handle that.

“Just do it,” he mumbles, trying to privately hype himself up, “Just get out of the car, just go knock on the front door, just-”

He’s nearly hyperventilating. There’s only two endings to his night. He either returns back to his house, crawls into bed and licks at the wounds left by your rejection, or he doesn’t. Either he kisses you, and you pull him in from the storm raging on or you don’t.

Two options. It’s only two options, two possible paths. The world doesn’t end, regardless of which one he’s forced to take tonight.

Were all of his longing glances not returned? Had he not caught you staring in his direction more times than he could count on one hand?

His fists drop from the wheel, landing on the door handle and throwing it open before he could freeze up again.

Had you not whispered to him how he was your best friend, your favorite person, even more times than he had caught you staring? Over phone lines, in private corners of busy parties, sitting on his bed and doing nothing more than enjoying each other’s presence while his parents were out of town.

The rain soaks him immediately. Down to the bone, he’s drenched, the unforgiving winds whipping around him only making him shiver. He can’t even feel the discomfort of his jeans turning to plaster as he takes the long strides up to your front door.

Had he imagined that time you’d kissed his cheek at the county fair? When he’d won you that obnoxiously large teddy bear, almost too big for you to carry and adorning the most ridiculous sailor’s outfit either of you had ever seen, and you’d so affectionately nicknamed it after Steve’s place of employment – Scoops the Bear, Captain of Flavor. And had you not called the sailor’s outfit cute the moment Steve made the comparison to his own uniform?

He knocks hard enough that his knuckles sting, and he doesn’t care. The sting doesn’t reach him, his mind only flashing over a reel of memories with you. All he can feel is that ghost of an ache that always haunts his cheeks when he’s around you, the way his chest feels just a little bit lighter and he feels a little more himself when in your presence. You bring out the best in him – you make him want to be a better man, all while never making him feel as if he isn’t good enough. All he ever feels around you is wanted.

Had your eyes not shined as you looked up at him, all the colorful carnival lights and stars reflected in them as Steve tried to (and failed) to hide his vibrant blush? Had you not smiled soft enough to send sparks flying through his chest, threatening to catch fire at any given moment?

He hadn’t imagined it all – he couldn’t have imagined it all. You’d looked at him like he was the only boy in the world. You’d looked at him as if you could have spent the rest of your night there, feet planted in the grass and a bear nicknamed after him being crushed in your arms. It had been as if you could have stood by his side for the rest of your days, the rest of the world continuing to move on and the two of you left there to decay hand in hand, and it would have been a life well wasted. For both of you.

“Steve?”

Your front door swings open, and there you are. Still looking adorable while dressed in your most comfortable pajamas for the night. Even beneath the confused and worried first glance, that look from the fair is still there. Your eyes still shine without the lights.

“What’s wron-”

You can’t finish your question – before either of you can process what’s happening, Steve’s lips are on yours. He’s overeager and nowhere near graceful with it, his nose nearly taking out your eye as he throws himself against you at full force. Everything from the night, the last few months, poured into that kiss. You nearly fall backwards from the force, and his hands are quick to catch onto your hips and tug you back into his orbit. But it only changes the trajectory of your stumble; both of you are suddenly outside your door, the rain now soaking you as well as Steve.

When he pulls back from the kiss, he can’t breathe. He did it. The taste of your lips are still burning his, and he can’t open his eyes to wager your reaction. He doesn’t think you kissed back, it wasn’t much of a kiss beyond him just needing his lips on yours right that second, but he’s not sure. He isn’t fucking sure. He can’t open his eyes – he can’t risk watching himself lose you in real time.

“Steve,” your palm is warm on his frigid cheek. He jumps at the sudden contact, eyes pinching shut harsher, “Please look at me.”

When you ask him in that soft voice, please with that gentle tone that wraps him up in such comfort, he can’t deny you.

He opens his eyes. He can’t read your face.

It’s surprised, surely. Mouth still slightly parted and drops of water running down your cheeks. Your lashes flutter as your eyes dart down to his lips, and he swears to every God that has ever existed that you are the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Something so precious, so warm, so home.

“What-” you start, but Steve is on a roll of interrupting you tonight.

This time, it’s his voice and not his lips as he sputters out, “Everything’s wrong. Every fucking thing is just wrong – my parents, my life, my decisions. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing with myself. I’m lost, I-I’m so goddamn lost. Because everything is… wrong and bad and… and just… it’s wrong. Except you,” he takes his first big breath since the ramble began, eyes stinging and he tells himself it’s just from the rain leaking into them, “You are the only right thing in my life right now. You’re… Fuck. I’m in love with you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, because I know I’m fucking it all up right now. I’m finally letting the one right thing in my life go wrong, because I just can’t do it anymore. I am so fucking in love with you, and I’m tired of pretending I’m no-”

Your turn to interrupt. You surge forward, wrap your hands around the back of his neck and kiss him even more forcefully than he had you. The taste of the rain and your toothpaste mingle as your body collides with him. He almost forgets to react, so caught up in the fire finally erupting so freely in his chest.

And then you bite at his bottom lip, and he feels that beautiful smile, and he finally remembers to do something. His hands find purchase on your lower back and he tries not to laugh in glee as he hungrily kisses you back, lips moving in tangent and perfect synchronicity.

“We’re gonna drown out here,” you laugh against his lips, finally breaking off and resting your forehead against his.

“No, we’re not,” he insists with a cheesy grin, “I used to be a swimmer, remember?”

Another kiss and more laughter, and Steve can’t even hear the thunder in the distance anymore. It becomes clear which path he will be taking tonight.

“Let’s go inside and dry off, yeah?” you offer, taking a step back out of the torrential downpour, “I’m getting cold.”

He’s still starstruck as he looks down at you, nodding dumbly, still all consumed by those embers. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

You take his hands in yours, intertwining your fingers with his just as he has yearned for. You pull shyly, continuing to walk backwards until you step back into the threshold of your house before stopping. The rain no longer pelts down on Steve’s shoulders, the ones infinitely lighter now as your grin is directed at him and he knows he’s home.

“Oh, and Steve?” you question, and he hums, eager to hear whatever it is you have to say. He’ll always want to listen to you. For the rest of tonight, for the rest of the week, for the rest of his life, “In case it wasn’t obvious, I’m in love with you, you idiot.”

He can’t help it – he pulls you in for another kiss, kicking the front door shut behind him. Steve supposes he should have seen that one coming. He’s never really had to pretend with you, anyways.

"kiss me on the sidewalk, take away the pain."

#speak now (ghost's version)#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington blurb #stranger things

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lihhelsing · 9 months

Text

Hate That I Loved You

Now complete on AO3!

On the first day of shoot, Eddie is a nervous wreck. He can't handle it. He won't make it. He stays hidden in his dressing room until Chrissy is pounding at the door and threatening to tear it down if he doesn't come out immediately.

Eddie doesn't doubt her.

"It was your idea," Chrissy says as she eyes Eddie and how pale he looks. "Roll a joint, take a fucking shot. I don't care. Just get your ass into the studio because we're filming this today."

Eddie nods but Chrissy is too busy walking away from him to see it. She knows it, though. Eddie wouldn't ignore an order like that.

The first sequence is with Sean. Sean is taller than him and he used to drive a red convertible that Eddie thought was just the coolest. So that's why he's setting a fucking car on fire for the clip.

Sean thinks it's hilarious.

The idea is for them to film the whole song with every one of the exes, so they have options. Because Sean, Pedro and David are all from Los Angeles, they go first. Eddie kept waiting for Lou to show up, but he should know better. Lou always liked to be different, to stand out. He and Steve are pushed to day 2, and for the looks of it, it might be day 3, if they can't speed up David's shoot. Eddie's is breaking a stone wall for him. It's metaphorical and it makes him feel good, actually.

On day 2, Pedro is the only one around before lunch and Eddie actually have a good time with him. He's funny and sweet, just like Eddie remembered, and he keep calling Eddie 'mi amor' which is endearing in a totally platonic way. For a second, Eddie can't remember why they broke up, but then Pedro gets a call from his mom and everything comes rushing back.

Pedro was already thinking about marriage and building a family and Eddie wasn't really ready. They are in a backyard with a pretty white picket fence and Eddie throws paint all around. Everything gets stained with black, the color Pedro saw as Eddie's heart color.

It doesn't hurt as much, but it's harder than the two before him. When Pedro goes back to the dressing rooms to wipe the black paint from him, Eddie's mood had soured considerably.

It gets even worse as Lou walks in, looking like a rockstar. Looking exactly like what he is.

Lou was Eddie's only famous boyfriend and their relationship had crashed and burned in front of everyone. Eddie feels the tug in his chest as he looks at the scene that's getting built for them.

It's a stage. The Grammy stage.

The worst part of it all is that Lou doesn't seem fazed by any of it. It's like he barely remembers breaking Eddie's heart at the Grammy's that year. It's like that was just a day, completely forgotten.

But Eddie hasn't forgotten about it. He hasn't forgotten how bad he felt that day. How heartbroken. How Lou was trying to make everything be Eddie's fault when he was the one flirting shamelessly with other people in front of him.

Eddie needs a minute.

In fact, he feels like he needs a whole year to even be able to do that. What a great fucking idea, put himself through the most traumatic thing in his life for the cameras. No wonder people say he has no self-preservation reflex.

He just walks away. He knows Chrissy saw him freaking out and he knows she will give him a moment to collect himself so he just keeps on walking past props and music equipment and finally the front door.

Eddie is out. The cold air hits his face and with trembling hands he reaches inside his pocket just to remeber he doesn't have his joint with him since he's already wearing the outfit for the clip.

A tux just like the one he wore on the fucking Grammy's. His hands fly to his neck as he pull at the bowtie, trying to get some air into his lungs. His vision gets a little blurry as if there's not enough oxygen in the world for him right now.

Then big strong hands are pushing his hands aside, circling his neck and unclipping the bow tie. It's a fake one, so Eddie could keep pulling at it and he would get nowhere.

"Take a deep breath," the voice says and it gives him chills because he knows that voice. He dreams about that voice.

He does as he's being told because Steve always knew what was best for Eddie.

"You're ok," Steve says under his breath. His hands fall from Eddie's neck and Eddie wishes they were still there, touching him, grounding him. "Just keep breathing."

Eddie does and things start going back to normal, except there's not a normal scenario where Steve Harrington is just standing there in front of Eddie, looking better than ever, with a frown between his brows because he's worried about Eddie.

No. That should be impossible with how hard Eddie had fucked things up and still, Steve is really there.

"I, uh, thought you were only coming in tomorrow," Eddie says when he stops feeling like he's going to die.

Steve shrugs. "Landed a few hours ago, Chrissy said I could check things out."

After that, Eddie has no clue what to say so he just stares at Steve, dumbly. Much to his relief, Chrissy saves him from looking even more like an idiot by opening the door and calling him back.

"Uh, thanks for doing that. It really means a lot to me," Eddie says, trying not to sound as pathetic as he feel. Steve smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Eddie wants to say more, he wants to keep talking to Steve. Forget the music video and forget the fact that Lou is standing inside, probably pissed at Eddie, he instantly wants to throw everything away as beg Steve for a second chance.

By the look on Steve's eyes it's like he can see Eddie's intentions clearly, but then Chrissy is pulling him in and waving at Steve like this is normal. Nothing about this is fucking normal and now Eddie needs to survive Lou if he wants to have a shot at talking to Steve.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #rockstar AU #second chance romance #steddie fic #to be honest I have no idea what I'm doing #so we're just hoping for the best #part 3 will be here soon!

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fandomnerd9602 · 7 months

Text

Dating Wonder Woman

Diana Prince x Reader Headcanons

Dating the one and only Wonder Woman has been the greatest honor of your life

Her smiles and gentle touches always send a shiver down your spine.

Dates: Diana will settle for any and all little moments she can take with you. Coffee dates, lunch dates, dancing while listening to the same song even if you’re thousands of miles away from each other.

She’ll fly home at a moment’s notice just to be back in your arms.

Diana’s love language is physical touch. You are more than happy to oblige it. She’ll take any sort of physical touch. A hug, a touch on the shoulder, cuddling, a gentle caress of your hand across her cheek.

Diana loves being the big spoon when you cuddle but she loves being the small if you and her are sleeping, together.

Something about being in your arms, just makes everything feel alright in Diana’s mind.

Diana loves to straddle your lap and run her fingers through your hair as she kisses you. And she loves it when you rub her back and legs reassuringly.

Diana’s a warrior on the streets and a goddess in the…well you know. She loves taking it slow, staring into your eyes and worshipping every bit of you.

Of course you love to worship her equally back.

Secret: Diana loves using her lasso behind closed doors ;)

Diana dreams of a life outside of the Justice League with you. A life with a picket fence, a nice house and a little baby or two.

What Diana didn’t know was that was exactly the life you wanted to.

#dceu #dc comics #dc wonder woman #dc comics fluff #dc comics imagine #diana prince #diana prince x reader #Diana prince headcanon #wonder woman #gal gadot #wonder woman x reader #wonder woman headcanon #headcanons #headcanon

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saekkas · 7 months

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𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀 𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖

summary: in which suguru geto helps brush your hair after a ride around town.

notes: my first time writing for sugu <333 forgive me if he's ooc here (。>︿<)_θ constructive feedback is always welcomed!

the apartment satoru parks in front of is nothing compared to the picket white fence, three story house you just visited.

in all honesty, the apartment is fine. it’s located in the middle of the city, only a ten-minute walk to where you work, the lift runs smoothly, security personnel are always on stand-by at the lobby, and you have an amazing view from the tenth floor.

even then, everything just seems to be lacking in one way or the other– the door to your apartment always creaks when you push it open, the neighbors are a tad too noisy, and every morning, the sound of honking horns never fail to wake you from your well-deserved sleep.

human nature is such a fickle thing– always so greedy, wanting more, more, and more. you pride yourself in how much you’ve accomplished, yet at the same time, it feels as if you’re still somehow behind every other person there is.

“i’m glad my pretty’s still alive and in one piece.”

the drawl of suguru’s voice is always a welcomed distraction– the sound just a little bit breathless when he calls your name. he waves from the lobby’s entrance before heading towards where you’re perched on satoru’s bike, hands still wrapped around the latter’s midsection.

hold onto him tight. i don’t care if you break his ribs, just get home safe, okay? suguru’s words still echo in your mind, along with satoru’s indignant shouts of hey! i’ll have you know, i passed my driver’s exam with flying colors!

the sight of your lover’s face is slightly obscured by your helmet’s visor– only half his face is visible to your eyes, and you giggle when he taps the top of the protective headgear. “sugu!”

“let me get that off for you,” he hums. his hands make quick work, unlatching the helmet’s buckle before gently lifting the visor, giving you a clear view of his eyes.

you’ve seen suguru’s eyes time and time again, whether in the morning or night. they’re pools of chocolate you melt into every day after coming home from work, amber-gold whenever he tilts his head as he laughs, the sun highlighting the colors even more–they’re a gentle reminder of how kindness and warmth can still persevere even in the midst of chaos.

“hello, beautiful.” there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, one that resembles satoru’s a little too much for your liking. “what are you looking at, hm? need my help taking off the helmet?”

you shake your head, still a little too starstruck by his eyes and the smile that spreads on his lips. suguru’s nothing but a gentleman– he offers his hand, wrapping one arm around your waist when your feet touch solid ground after what felt like years. "i'm good. thank you, baby."

he doesn't say a word, eyes soft as he helps take your helmet off either way. he holds the headgear in one hand, and you giggle, giddy, when he lifts a hand to pat your hair down– smoothing down the wild strands that cover your eyes.

the lovestruck expression on his face pinches into one of confusion when you shake your head– the tresses on your head flying wildly and back into your eyes. suguru huffs out a laugh before smoothing his hand against your hair– pressing a kiss to your forehead, all the while keeping eye contact. "what are you doing?"

you grin, wide and bright enough to let anyone in the vicinity know how much you're in love. "nothing."

he leans in, whispering sweet nothings against your ear, and you laugh when satoru lets out a groan. “is this what i get for safely driving your girl around town?”

“it’s not our fault that you’re single,” you quip, poking your tongue out at the white-haired menace before suguru even has the chance to open his mouth.

said male laughs, patting satoru’s back before he has the chance to rebut and cause a scene. “thank you, satoru. i’ll treat you to mochi next time.”

you both watch with amused expressions as satoru grumbles out a response of i’ll make sure to empty your bank account before he revs the engines and disappears into the night.

“he’s rubbing off on you.”

“no, he’s rubbing off on you!” the gasp you let out is pure dramatics, more so the hand that you put on your chest– imitating what you’ve seen satoru do hundreds of times before. “you’re even starting to use cheesy nicknames like him.”

“cheesy?”

the security guard nods his head as you both head into the apartment, playful banter filling the air. you keep up with suguru’s strides, quickly slipping into the lift, standing right next to him before the doors close.

he lifts a hand– one so delicate that your cheeks warm under his touch. “i thought you liked it, pretty?”

he’s always this way with you; soft, sweet, and gentle as if you’re a fragile piece of glass in a museum’s exhibit. there are hints of fatigue etched across suguru’s features– the way his shoulders droop as he walks and the darkening bags under his eyes, but when he’s with you, it’s as if he’s found the strength to keep moving onward.

as if your presence is what keeps him going.

“see?” you mumble, pushing past him as the doors open to your floor. you can hear his laughter, hear the soft thudding of his footsteps against the carpet as he keeps up with you, practically wrapping around you when you unlock the apartment door. “absolutely insufferable.”

“so mean, love.” his words are muffled against the fabric of your sweater, his hands wrapped snugly around your waist– there’s something about him these days. how he’s turned clingy, melting into a mush anytime you let him close to you.

for a moment, everything is silent– only the touch of suguru’s fingers, running through your hair.

“want me to help?” he mumbles, the sound of his voice startling you out of the sleepy state his fingers have coaxed you into. “i know how it gets after you go riding.”

it’s a tradition between you– one you know he knows goes without saying. you plop down between his legs, leaning until your back meets his chest. suguru’s hands are gentle as they brush through every strand, smoothing his hairbrush against the tangled ends.

once he's satisfied, he presses a kiss to the top of your head– suguru loves to play with your hair, the same way you do his. it could take him hours to fix your hair because of what he claims to be a single naughty strand.

in all honesty, suguru just loves you– thrives on being able to touch any part of you. even the thinnest ones.

“thank you, sugu.” you press a kiss to his cheek before laying your head on his shoulder. the pitter patter of rain hits the apartment’s windows, and the sky turns dark, the perfect ambience for a nap. “love you.”

you fall asleep after hearing his sweet whisper of love you too, dreaming of a life where it’s just you and him– white picket fence and all.

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chadillacboseman · 2 years

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Pairing: Homelander x F!Reader Warnings: Well, it's Homelander. He's fucked up, he's irredeemable, etc etc. We fuck monsters here. Violence, a little bit of a praise kink and some rough fucking mentioned. Homelander is a bit of a creep.

"What's your name?"

You had dropped the documents you were carrying, sending papers and folders flying in the cramped hallway. A towering figure in dark blue had stopped to help you, had knelt down beside you and swept the documents into his hands before straightening.

Homelander.

You told him your name and he repeated it with a shark-like grin. His canines were just a little too sharp, his eyes just a little too blue.

"How have I never seen you before? You should be front and center here."

You worked for Vought, a low-level secretary and a glorified "gopher" as Stillwell had so often called you.

But suddenly, you were front and center. A promotion came the day after he had stopped to help you. A new desk that overlooked the city awaited you on the 18th floor. "Supe Coordinator" they called you- the person who arranged their press appearances and made sure they were prepared for the media.

Deep, you learned, had a fear of public speaking. Black Noir, despite his silence, loved a good joke.

And Homelander, oh, Homelander. He was every bit as charismatic to you as he appeared on TV. He doted on you, always telling you how wonderful you were, how much better you were than the others at Vought.

"I think he likes you."

A coworker gestures to the Supe in blue and giggles behind her hand like a schoolgirl.

"He looks at you- like a lot."

Oh, does he look. His eyes linger on your every move, watching as your hands touch the other Supes. He thinks of breaking Deep's neck when he makes a crude joke about you.

Homelander isn't used to feeling like this- humans are below him. But he aches for you, wants to make you his. He wants to parade you around like a trophy at his side.

He envisions a perfect life with you at his side- a kid, a dog, a fucking picket fence. The whole works.

A stroke of luck for him comes at your expense.

In the parking lot, a madman rants, holding a sign that decries supes, calls them evil. He's waving a knife. He's blocking your car.

Homelander hears your shriek from the top floor.

He bursts through the window, sending a spray of glass to the pavement below. In an instant, he has the man by the throat, shoving him into a nearby car.

Homelander looks like something from a horror movie, shark teeth bared, eyes glowing red. He snaps the man's neck and drops him to the ground without flinching.

You're shaking, trembling like the helpless, powerless human you are. He scoops you into his arms, holds you tightly against his broad chest and takes flight, delivering you home despite your protests at leaving your car behind.

You don't think to ask him how he knows where you live.

After the parking lot incident, Homelander keeps you close.

"Wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"I'll protect you."

An excuse to have you by his side- to fly you home every night and bring you to work in the mornings. He's insidious like that, isolating you from others before they can warn you about him.

One night as he flies you home, you finally ask the question that has been burning in your chest like a coalfire.

"Why do you do this?"

He makes a sound, like a rumble deep in his chest, before glancing down at you. In the darkness, his features are even more striking, his blue eyes boring into yours.

"I like you."

Your stomach does somersaults that have nothing to do with the flight.

After that, you're his before you even realize it.

Headlines abound-

"#1 Supe Settles Down"

"Homelander Finds Love in a Surprising Partner"

He brings you on press tours, keeps a protective gloved hand on your thigh as they ask you questions.

"What's it like being with the most powerful man in the world?"

The hand tightens. He's smiling but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"It's amazing."

The grip loosens once more.

"Say it. Say you're mine," Homelander's hips snap against you and you cry out, head lolling back as he fucks you.

"Say it," he commands between thrusts, his hand coming to your throat in a warning.

"I'm yours!" you wheeze as his hand tightens on your windpipe.

"Good girl," he croons, "Such a good, good girl."

He releases your neck from his grasp and focuses instead on your breasts, hands wandering over them like he's committing them to memory.

There's something about your fragility, something about the way he could so easily hurt you if he felt compelled. It drives him, makes him feel like an animal.

He cums inside you over and over until you're so sore you're almost begging for reprieve. He pulls back to examine his handiwork, eyes hungry as he drips from you.

He isn't always this rough.

There are times when he finds you in your apartment, defeated and longing. Times when all he can do is lie back while you ride him, begging for your praise.

And you give it to him.

You use his real name, run your fingers through his hair while you sink onto his cock.

"John," you whisper and he's putty in your hands, whimpering and burying his face in your chest, "My good boy. My Homelander."

And he is yours- so completely and totally that it frightens him.

You're a target now- a target for not just the media, but for his enemies too.

Billy Butcher smells blood in the water the first time he sees you at the Supe's side.

"We could use this. Use her."

Butcher threatens your life and Homelander sees red. He vows to go scorched earth, to kill him and his "Boys" if they ever lay a finger on you. He's ranting, pacing the floor of your apartment, his cape billowing in his wake.

"I'll crush his fucking skull-"

"John, please," you're pleading, wringing your hands in desperation.

"I'll rip his throat out!"

"John!"

He snaps back to reality and clutches your hands in his, kneeling before you in a stunningly human gesture.

"No one will ever hurt you," he promises, steely blue eyes never wavering from yours, "Ever."

You believe him.

#homelander x reader #ns/fw #homelander #the boys fic #this is all over the place sorry lol

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