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pedrospatch · 1 year ago

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a safe haven l seven

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist

summary: Yours and Joel’s romantic relationship progresses; Ellie confronts you about Joel in stables and encourages you to make a choice; when Joel gets injured while out on patrol, it leads to a confession.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. SMUT. unprotected p in v sex (as always, wrap it before you tap it), oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation (if you squint), Joel and his big cock can go multiple rounds because i said so, creampie (these two really are just going at it without a care in the world), Joel gets injured (gunshot wound) mentions of blood, MEDICAL INACCURACIES (per my research, the way gunshots wound are treated depends on a number of different factors, but we are going full hollywood here). Luke and Joel have an interaction (that is a warning in itself).

word count: 8.4k

September, 2024

“Oh fuck Joel, please don’t stop. Please don’t fucking st—”

You stop short and bury your face into the blanket underneath you in an effort to muffle the loud moans and cries of pleasure spilling from your lips.

Although the chances of a single soul being out of bed and outside near the barn at this godforsaken hour in the middle of the night are slim, it’s better to be safe than sorry. But keeping the noise to a minimum is a challenging feat when Joel Miller is positioned behind you, fucking you into oblivion.

You can’t hold back, not when his long, thick, calloused fingers are gripping your hips like a vice, digging deeply into the soft flesh as he brings them back, slamming you against him with each thrust of his own. Not when every inch of his throbbing cock is stretching your cunt, filling you up and satiating your unbridled need for it. Your need for Joel.

Over the last few weeks, he’d shown you what real pleasure could—and should—be. Sex isn’t an obligation a wife has to her husband, and a woman deserves to enjoy it as much as a man does. Joel made making you feel good his goal, his priority, and there’s no coming back from it. He is the only man you want to touch you, to satisfy you, now, and for the rest of your life.

You lift yourself off the blanket, your teeth sinking hard into your quivering bottom lip as you desperately drive your hips backwards and meet his thrusts halfway out of your own burning desire to feel more and more of him. Arching your back, you squeeze your eyes shut and relish in the sweet, heavenly sound the backs of your sweat slicked thighs make as they slap roughly against the front of Joel’s over and over and over again.

Joel's grasp on your hips tightens. “Yeah, that’s it baby. Fuck, that’s my good girl,” he pants from behind you. He picks up his pace, delivering smooth strokes that gradually become harder, sloppier as that sweet release draws closer for both of you. But somehow, he’s still careful. Even when he’s lost in the heat of the moment and his mind is in a cloudy haze, he keeps himself grounded, at least enough to make sure he isn’t being too rough. He can’t bear the thought of crossing the line between pleasure and pain, not with the woman he’s grown to care about more than anything. But you make being careful difficult. Pleading and begging for him to fuck you harder, faster, you bring out the primal in him and he can’t say no to you, much less when he’s buried balls deep in your cunt. “What a good fuckin’ girl. Y’take my cock so fuckin’ well, sweetheart—s’good for me, baby. So, so fuckin’ good.”

“Joel,” you moan his name, forgetting all about staying quiet. You drag one of your hands down the length of your body and dip it between your thighs, rubbing quick, firm circles around your clit as your desperation to come mounts. Luke didn’t like it when you would touch yourself, he never allowed you to explore your sexuality or your own body, nor did he allow you to chase your high when you were together—but Joel?

He encourages it. Adores it.

He fucking adores you. And he always he makes sure to show you just how much he adores you.

“Oh fuck, that’s it baby, fuckin’ touch yourself—touch yourself while I fuck you.”

You swirl your fingers around the sensitive bud harder, the tension building in your core.

“Fuckin’ Christ, peach,” Joel groans behind you. “S’like this sweet little pussy was made for me. She was made just for me, y’know that?”

It’s hard to decide what does you in more when it comes to intimacy with Joel—is it when he’s soft and gentle, whispering beautiful, sweet nothings into the hollow of your neck while you’re underneath him, hands locked together and fingers interwined as he slowly slides in and out of your heat?

Or is it when he puts you on your hands and knees, obscene filth rolling off his tongue as he takes what belongs to him from behind?

He knows how to make love, but god, he also knows how to fuck and you can’t decide which side of him you prefer because they’re both perfect.

Unbelievably, devastatingly perfect.

“So fuckin’ tight, you feel s’good—” Joel grunts, driving himself deeper and deeper, hitting that spot inside of you that drives him just as wild as it does you. One of his hands abandons your hips and he glides it down the softness of your lower belly. What has to be one of your least favorite parts of yourself is one of his favorites and every night, Joel makes it his mission to prove to you just how flawless he thinks every inch of your body is. Lovingly, he caresses your tummy with his palm, and then trails his hand further down, slipping it between your thighs where his fingers join yours. Together, they circle your swollen clit and you hear the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears.

“Joel, fuck, I’m so close—I’m gonna—” Your own gasp cuts off the end of your sentence. You try to warn him again, but your words are washed away by the wave of pleasure that crashes over you as one final stroke tips you both over the edge you’ve been teetering and you both come in tandem. Fisting handfuls of his blanket, you mewl out his name as your orgasm tears through your body, making it shudder.

Behind you, Joel releases a low, guttural groan, his chest heaving as his balls tighten. He spills into you and his eyes pinch shut when he feels you convulse around his cock, your cunt milking him for all he’s worth. “Fuck,” he chokes as he leans forward and drapes his body over yours, his length twitching and filling you until it leaks out of you, dripping onto the blanket. His breaths are ragged and labored, but eventually steady. Instead of pulling out of you, he gingerly pushes his hips into you once more. Feeling your walls clench around him, Joel drops his head and snickers, his warm breath tickling the damp skin on your back. He opens his eyes. “Feels like you’re ready for more, sweetheart,” he mutters, planting a tender kiss between your shoulder blades. “Jesus. Didn’t know I had me such a greedy girl, peach. Guess that innocent little angel face of yours had me fooled.”

You’re about to retort but when he bucks, all you can do is exhale sharply. Your pussy involuntarily flutters around him and though you can’t see it, you can picture the smug little grin on his face—he knows he’ll have your body begging for more if he keeps it up and so do you. He’s been insatiable tonight, wanting more and more and more, and you’re not all too sure if you have it in you for another round.

“We’ve still got some time left for one more,” Joel says. He peels himself off of you and palms the curve of your ass, kneading at the perfect mound with his fingers.

“Joel, I’m not sure I can handle it,” you mumble tiredly, shaking your head. “I think I’m all fucked out.”

He laughs softly and pulls out of you.

You breathe out an audible sigh of relief welcoming the emptiness for once. Just as you’re about to get off of your hands and knees, Joel slides his index finger up your puffy, swollen slit and the arousal pools itself in your lower belly all over again. “God, no, please don’t,” you whine. “I can’t take anymore, Joel. I really fucking can’t.”

“Y’sure ‘bout that, darlin’?”

“Yes, I’m sure—”

The lustful moan that echoes throughout the barn as he pushes his finger inside you says otherwise and you silently curse your own body for its cruel betrayal.

Joel hums. “Hm, doesn’t sound like you’re sure,” he teases, slipping a second finger into your pussy. He leans down and trails a line of hot, open mouthed kisses down the curve of your spine. He stops at the small of your back and murmurs against your skin, “I just fuckin’ know my sweet girl has one more left in her. I can fuckin’ feel it.” He curls his digits, eliciting another gasp from you. “Tell me, peach. Y’think you can be a real good girl and give me just one more?”

It takes less than a minute before you’re whimpering in defeat.

Of course you can give Joel one more—you can give him as many as he wants you to give him, as many as he can possibly coax out of you.

“Yes,” you breathe out in reply. “I’ll give you one more. But I just hope you know that I’m probably going to need you to carry me back across town after this.”

“Hm, I reckon I can handle that,” Joel muses with a small chuckle. He withdraws his fingers from you, his hands spreading your ass and revealing your needy, dribbling cunt. Glancing over your shoulder, you see his lips part slightly as he stares at you in complete awe.

Your face floods with heat, and though he can’t see your insecurity, but he feels it.

“She’s too fuckin’ pretty,” he remarks, admiring the way your folds glisten with your own wetness and his come. Licking his lips, he meets your gaze. “You’re s’goddamn fuckin’ beautiful, baby. Promise I ain’t ever gonna let you forget it.”

Your heart flutters wildly.

Before you have the chance to respond, he shifts his position, moving off the large bale of hay you two have been using as a makeshift bed for the last several nights. He lowers himself down onto his knees behind you. Joel looks at you and smirks when he sees the expression that crosses your features—it’s one of utter disbelief. He’s devoured you plenty of times before, but not in this position, and certainly not when you’re dripping, leaking with his come. His smirk widens. “Somethin’ the matter, darlin’?”

“Joel, I—I’m a mess right now,” you stammer out, nervously. “Are you sure you want to—?”

Joel flashes you an amused grin. “That a serious question, peach?” He chuckles when you nod in reply. “Well then, here’s my answer.” He buries his face into your cunt and swipes his tongue over your seam, flattening it out as slowly begins to drag it up and then down again. Joel groans into you, savoring the taste of you and your sweet muskiness combined with him and his slight saltiness. His tongue slips between your folds, eager, hungry for more.

“Joel,” his name tears from the back of your throat in a strangled cry. “Oh, fuck.”

He’d left you so sensitive. Your body involuntary jerks forward, squirming to get away from him—but Joel is having none of it. You can feel him grinning into your pussy as he wraps his hands around your thighs, curling his fingers as far as they can go around them.

“C’mere,” he says, his voice muffled between your legs. He tugs you back towards him and tightens his grip on you, holding you firmly in place, right where he needs you. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue around it before engulfing the bud.

He might have teased you about being greedy, but truth be told, he’s the greedy one. Knowing his time with you is so limited only makes him even greedier.

Joel feasts on you, his desire to have you fall apart on his tongue again driving him to ravage you as if his very fucking life depends on making you come. The sounds of your whimpers, which are on the verge of turning into full blown sobs of pleasure, only spur him on. It’s more than just sending you home satisfied—he wants to make certain that, even when you’re apart from one another, you’ll still feel him. His tongue on your cunt, his cock buried inside of you, his lips and hands all over your body.

He can’t leave his physical mark on you to remind you of him when you’re not together, but he can, at the very least, leave you with a yearning for more of him.

You raise a tightly curled fist to your mouth, biting into it to keep from screaming out.

It’s too much for you to handle.

But somehow, it’s still not enough.

You want him to stop.

And yet you need him to keep going.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Joel, please! Please!”

You beg him out of desperation, although you’re not really sure what you’re begging him for at this point—for him to make you come or for him to stop before you dissolve into nothing but a pathetic, whimpering mess. One of his hands abandons your thigh and without warning, he pushes two fingers into you, pumping them in and out of you all the while his tongue laps at your clit. The muscles in your stomach contract and you explode, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as you come undone all over again. There isn’t a single part of you that isn’t shaking, trembling—it takes you a minute to even realize Joel’s on his feet, helping you turn around to lie on your back.

“S’alright. I got you. I’ve got you, sweet girl.” Joel climbs onto the bale of hay and nudges your thighs apart with his knee, settling himself between them. Planting his hands on either side of your shoulders, he dips his head and peppers gentle kisses all over your neck and chest, giving you the chance to ride out your last high before it’s time to get up and start getting dressed.

After a minute or two, you find your voice.

Or at least, a tiny, meek version of it.

“Joel?”

He hums, his nose skimming along your jawline. “Yeah, baby?”

“I think you really are going to have to carry me across town.”

Joel chuckles, gingerly nipping at your chin with his teeth. “Best cut that out, peach. S’gonna start gettin’ to my head real fast.”

You giggle. “Yeah, you’re right. Don’t want you getting too cocky, Miller.”

You bring a hand up to his face, cupping it in your palm. Gazes meet in the moonlight and you give him a soft, contented smile. You sweep your thumb across his bottom lip.

Joel’s breath catches in his throat.

Those eyes. That smile. Oh, that fucking smile. He wonders if you've figured out by now just how effortlessly you do him in.

Joel’s throat bobs. “Peach?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates, then admits, “There’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to tell you.”

Your body stiffens underneath him, your eyes widening slightly.

“What is it, Joel?”

Again, he hesitates.

Joel’s been trying for some time now to say it—to tell you that he loves you.

But whenever he thought he’d finally mustered up enough courage to spit it out, he loses it the second those three words are about to fall from his lips. He can’t figure out for the life of him what he’s so afraid of. It’s obvious, to both of you, that he loves you, and he has no doubt in his mind that you love him too. But neither of you seem to have the guts to say it.

“Joel?” you say his name quietly, interrupting his train of thought. “Are you okay?”

Letting out a small, frustrated sigh, Joel shakes his head. “M’sorry, darlin’. S’just that—”

He stops short and shakes his head again, cursing himself for being such a coward.

You understand him, though. “It’s okay, Joel. I know how hard it is to say it. It’s really not as simple as one would think.” You laugh in spite of yourself. Grazing his beard lightly with your fingertips, you manage to give him another small smile. “Please don’t worry about it. It doesn’t have to be right now. It doesn’t have to be tomorrow or the day after that. I’m not going to pressure either of us into saying something if we aren’t quite ready to say it. It should wait until you are good and ready—until the both of us are good and ready.”

“You’ve gotta know how much you mean to me—”

“I already do, Joel.” You drop your hand away from his face and place it on his bare chest. His heart thrums steadily against your fingers. “And I feel the same way about you. You do know that, don’t you, honey?”

His heart skips a beat at the pet name. You feel it.

Joel leans down, brushing his lips softly against your forehead. “‘Course I do,” he murmurs. He then pulls back slightly, assuring you, “Couldn’t be any fuckin’ clearer to me.”

You press a delicate kiss to the tip of his nose and the little token of affection prompts his dark eyes to flutter closed. “Good.” You start to drag your fingernails and scrape them lightly down the length of his chest. They move lower, gliding over his soft belly and the coarse hair below his navel. With a tiny, innocent smirk, you wrap your hand around his cock, stroking it until he begins to harden in your palm. “Oh? What’s this?”

His eyes snap open and he groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “Christ, baby,” he gruffs. “What happened to not havin’ it in you for more?”

“Mm, I lied.” You run the head of his cock between your folds, moaning as you tease your sopping entrance with it. “I’ve got one more in me. Do you think we have enough time?”

Joel bucks his hips into yours and slides into you in one swift, smooth motion. Moaning, your back arches off the blanket, your breasts pushing up against his chest when he bottoms out. “Oh, I reckon we can make it happen, my sweet girl.”

“If you smile any fucking harder, your face might actually fall off,” Ellie quips.

You look up from the clipboard you’re holding in your hands and glimpse over Duke’s back, only to see Ellie smirking to herself as she runs a brush across the brown and white spotted Appaloosa’s side, its stiff bristles clearing his stunning coat of dirt and debris.

Clearing your throat lightly, you try, but fail, to wipe the stupid grin off of your face. Not that it would make a difference, because it’s been plastered on your lips all morning long. You raise an eyebrow at her, questioning, “I’m sorry, is there something wrong with me being in a good mood today, missy?”

“Of course not.” Ellie briefly pauses and her gaze meets yours. She shrugs. “It’s actually really nice to see you so happy.” Her attention shifts back to the task at hand. As she continues to brush the horse, her smirk widens. “So I’m guessing last night with Joel went pretty well then, didn’t it?”

You don’t even flinch. Thanks to the warning Joel had given you a few weeks back, she hadn’t caught you too off guard. More than anything, what surprises you most was the fact that it’s taken the teenager this long to confront you about it.

“Ellie—”

She snorts. “Don’t bother trying to hide it. Look, I know you two have been meeting up in the middle of the fucking night for the last couple of months,” she states in a blunt, matter of fact tone. “And I also know that the two of you know that I know. So let’s not beat around the fucking bush here, sweet cheeks. Are you two like in a relationship or something? Or are you just—what do the kids call it these days? Hooking up? What exactly is the deal with you and Joel?”

Gasping, you’re quick to shush her. “Ellie!”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, relax princess. It’s close to lunchtime, there’s no one in here but the two of us. So fucking spill it. What’s up with you and my old man?”

You sigh. Setting your clipboard down on top of the mounting block beside you, you step around Duke and approach Ellie. Even though you know everyone else in the stables had taken off to the mess hall for lunch hour, you keep your voice low and hushed. “Yes, okay. We’ve been meeting up at night and seeing each other.” You’d tried your best to prepare yourself for this, made a list of things you could say to her to make the fact that you were having a full blown secret affair with the man who’s essentially her father seem a bit less shameful. But it was useless. No matter which way you could try to spin it for her, the bottom line was that you are a married woman who is cheating on her husband.

And you’re cheating with Joel.

“Listen, what we’re doing, it’s not right—”

Ellie lifts her hand and interrupts you.

“You guys make each other happy, don’t you?”

“I can’t speak for Joel,” you reply tentatively, shifting your weight from one muck caked boot to the other. “But he definitely makes me happy. He makes me the happiest I have been in a long, long time.”

She chortles. “Oh, come the fuck on, you know you make his crabby ass happy too,” she tells you. She grins and continues to say, “Seriously dude, if only you could see him in the mornings after he’s been with you. Picture it, he’s getting ready to head out for patrol and he’s going about the kitchen smiling like a fucking idiot as he makes his coffee.”'

“Really?”

“Really,” Ellie confirms. “It’s fucking sickening.”

You can't help but chuckle at her remark.

There’s a brief bout of silence, but Ellie’s quick to cut through it. “Can I ask you something?”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Figured,” you sigh. “Alright kid, go ahead. Ask away.”

“Do you love Joel?”

Anxiously, you nibble on your bottom lip. “Yes,” you admit softly after a minute. “I do.”

Ellie glances down at the brush in her hands. She fiddles with it, running her fingers over the coarse, stiff bristles. “Wow,” she murmurs, quietly. Any trace of humor had completely vanished. “It must really fucking suck having to hide being with the person that you love, huh?”

“Yeah, it does. It really, really fucking does.”

Ellie opens her mouth to speak, but then hesitates.

Frowning, you take a step closer to her. “What is it, Ellie?”

“You could leave him, you know. Luke.”

“What?” Your mouth dries. “What are you talking about?”

“You could leave him,” Ellie repeats. Pausing, she chews the inside of her cheek. She seems nervous as she shuffles from foot to foot, something you find strange considering how brazen the girl can be. “You could move in with us into our house, you know?” For as tough as she could be, it tugs at your heart strings whenever her innocence peeks through, much like it is now. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

You smile wistfully at the thought.

A life where you can openly be in a relationship with Joel—take your place by his side and live a life of peace with him and Ellie?

Of course you do.

But it’s a dream that’s too far out of reach.

“I would love that,” you murmur, reaching up to tuck a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. You let your finger graze the softness of her cheek before dropping your hand back down to your side. “You honestly have no idea how happy that would make me, Ellie. But it’s not all that simple—it’s much too complicated for me to leave Luke.”

“How the fuck is it complicated? You aren’t happy with a man you aren’t even really married to. The world fucking ended, it’s not a real marriage. Just take off the ring, pack up your shit, and it’s done. I don’t see what’s so fucking complicated about it.”

You sigh. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Because you’re not even giving me the chance to fucking understand,” Ellie shoots back at you, anger and frustration glazing over her brown eyes as she tries to make sense of it all. “You could actually be happy with Joel—and with me. We could be a family, a real fucking family.”

Caught off guard, you stare at her in complete shock. It’s not like you aren’t aware of how close she’s grown to you since you’d met, but you never expected her to see you as family.

“Ellie, please. You have to believe me. Nothing would make me happier,” you choke out in reply. You furiously blink back the hot, stubborn tears that threaten to fall and hold it together for her sake rather than for yours. “Being together with Joel—being with the two of you and living life together as a family would be incredible.”

“Then why won’t you just fucking leave him?” she demands, growing more irate. “Why miss out on the chance to be fucking happy for once?”

Her questions are met with silence.

How do you even begin to explain it to her?

How do you tell a teenager that you’re trapped with no way out? How afraid you were of your husband?

You don’t. You can’t.

“Well?” Ellie impatiently prompts you after a minute. “Come on man, just tell me the fucking truth already. Why can’t you leave Luke?” Her gaze finds yours and her eyes widen when the realization suddenly starts to sink in for her. “Oh shit.”

You quickly shake your head. “Ellie, wait—”

“It’s because he won’t let you leave, isn’t it?”

Fuck.

For a second, you feel like you’re going to be sick all over her sneakers.

Before you can even think of how to respond to the accusation, the sound of Tommy Miller’s voice echoes through the stables. “Ellie!” he shouts. “Ellie! You in here?”

Relieved, you call out to him. “Hey, Tommy! Yeah, she’s here—she’s with me in Duke’s stall!”

Scowling, Ellie points a menacing finger at you. “This conversation isn’t over,” she mutters. “Far fucking from it, princess.”

Tommy rushes into the stall, his chest heaving. He’s out of breath and sweating profusely, his curls plastered to his forehead. His light blue denim shirt is stained with crimson and so are his hands—he’s covered in blood.

“Tommy!” you gasp out his name and run up to him, grabbing onto his arms. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m alright! Blood ain’t mine,” he says, giving you a reassuring nod as he wraps his hands around your forearms, smearing your skin red. He then looks over your shoulder at Ellie. “It’s Joel. He’s been shot.”

Your nails dig into his arms, a chill running down your spinal cord.

“What?” Ellie cries, running up to the two of you in a panic. “Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck happened? How did he—is he okay? Is he alive?”

“He’s alive,” Tommy tells her, eliciting a breath of relief from her, as well as from you. “He got hit in the shoulder. I had to come find you and tell you right away,” he explains to her. “Needed you to hear it from me and not from anybody else.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s down at the clinic. I can take you there now—”

Ellie drops the brush in her hand. “What are we waiting for? Let’s fucking go!”

Tommy nods and lets go of you. He whirls around on the heel of his boot and leads her out of Duke’s stall.

You start to follow behind them, but freeze.

What business do you have seeing Joel?

As far as Tommy’s concerned, you’re nothing to his brother. Just a neighbor, maybe an acquaintance. The veterinarian his kid works for, if anything, but certainly nothing more.

“Wait.” Ellie halts in her tracks and turns back to you, beckoning with her hand. When you don’t move a muscle, she rolls her eyes and hurries over to you, taking your hand in hers. “Come on!”

Tommy shoots her a confused look.

“Ellie, what are you—?”

Ellie’s head whips around and she glares at you, as if telling you to be quiet. “I need you to come with me,” she says. “I’m going to need you for uh—you know, for emotional support and shit.”

It suddenly clicks. You know what she’s doing.

She’s giving you the excuse to see Joel.

Squeezing Ellie’s hand in a silent thank you, both of you follow Tommy out of the stables and across the commune towards the clinic.

“Tommy, what happened out there?” you ask him.

“Raiders,” Tommy answers over his shoulder. His long strides are difficult to keep up with, and you and Ellie are forced to break out into a jog just to keep up with him. “Motherfuckers came outta nowhere and ambushed us. They got Joel in the shoulder, hit Carl in the stomach. Peter got shot in the chest—he’s in real bad shape. We don’t think he’s gonna fuckin’ make it.”

Your stomach churns. Peter. Marther’s husband.

“Anyone else wounded?”

He shakes his head. “No, but we did lose two of our horses. Daisy and Cash.”

“How could this fucking happen?” Ellie demands furiously.

“We think it was that same group we were trackin’ back a few weeks ago.” Tommy’s voice is strained. He tightly shakes his head, his hands curled into angry fists at his sides. “They must have realized we stopped with double patrol. Those fuckers caught us with our guard down. I fuckin’ knew we shouldn’t have eased up with patrol duties, I should’ve had every able bodied patrolman man out there day and night—”

You frown at the back of his head. “Tommy, please. You can’t blame yourself for this. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known they were still out there after all this time.”

“Tell that to Martha,” he replies bitterly. “Tell that to Carl’s wife and to his daughters.”

Knowing there isn’t anything you could say to console Tommy or ease the guilt he’s feeling, you clamp your mouth shut.

Now isn’t the time to even try.

The three of you arrive at Jackson’s clinic.

Before the outbreak, the building had served as an urgent care facility for the town.

Abandoned and picked clean over the years, it had taken a lot of time and effort for the community to restore what was left of it into a safe, reliable place that could be used for healthcare services. It still wasn’t much even after the fact, but the clinic boasted three examination rooms for patients, and its shelves, once bare, were now decently stocked with precious medical supplies such as bandages, vials of penicillin, and clean syringes.

Tommy leads you and Ellie inside and the first thing the both of you notice are the trails of splattered blood on the speckled linoleum floors. You pray none of it is Joel’s.

In the first exam room, you can hear Carl, a man who used to work in the stables with you before he’d be assigned to be a patrolman. He’s sobbing, screaming out in agony as he begs for someone to help him. In the second exam room that’s just across the hall from the first, you can hear Luke. He’s speaking to someone, presumably one of the nurses, instructing them to hand him more gauze, along with a scalpel.

“Joel’s in here.” Tommy walks to the last door at the end of the brightly lit hallway and opens it, stepping aside to allow you and Ellie into the room. “Hey, big brother. Got someone here who wants to see you.”

Your stomach churns, breath hitching in your throat when you see him perched on the examination table without his shirt on, firmly holding a bloodied cloth to his left shoulder to conceal his wound.

“Shit,” Ellie breathes out, dropping your hand. She hurries over to his side. “Joel, are you okay?”

Joel glares at his brother. “Thought I told you not to fuckin’ bring her here, Tommy.”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause she’s your—” Tommy pauses, searching for the right word. “She’s your Ellie. She should be here with you, Joel.”

“She doesn’t need to fuckin’ see me like this—” He stops abruptly when he finally sees you standing there at the door looking like you’d just seen a ghost.

Noticing that he’s about to question what you’re doing there, Ellie cuts him off and pins him with a stern look as if to tell him to shut the fuck up. “I asked her to come down here with me,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him and hoping he’ll get the hint. “Hope that’s okay?”

His eyes flit back over to you and he gives a single, subtle nod of approval. “You can come in,” he tells you. His gaze meets your own, but he’s careful not to let it linger for too long. “S’alright. Come on in.”

You stand there frozen. It’s not until Tommy puts his hand on the small of your back and nudges you forward that you you finally move. “Hey,” you say to Joel, your voice small and feeble. Cautiously, you approach him, your mouth and throat dry. Resisting the overwhelming urge to throw your arms around him, you fall into step beside Ellie. She reaches for your hand again, holding it in hers as she gives your fingers a comforting squeeze.

“M’okay.” Joel looks from you to Ellie, nodding his head in reassurance. “M’gonna be okay. Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me.”

“Anyone been in here to see you yet?” Tommy asks.

“It look like anyone’s been in to see me yet?” Joel deadpans.

Ellie frowns. “When is someone gonna take a look at him? He’s been fucking shot!”

“We’ve only got one doctor and two nurses,” Tommy reminds her gently, placing his hands on his hips. “They do what they can, kiddo.”

Letting go of Ellie’s hand, you stand in front of Joel and gesture to his shoulder. “Mind if I take a look at it?”

Reluctant, Joel’s lips purse together. “Y’sure you wanna do that?”

You nod.

“Go ahead then,” he murmurs.

Carefully, you peel back the blood soaked cloth from his shoulder to inspect his wound.

“It’s right there—the bullet. I can see it. It looks like it’s still intact as well. The good news about that is that it’s going to make extraction a lot easier since the bullet didn’t break off into fragments.” You manage to keep a calm, cool and collected demeanor. On the inside, you’re anything but. Words could not even begin to explain how fucking terrifying it is to see Joel injured, covered in his own blood. Still, with Tommy in the room standing just feet behind you, there’s no choice but to stay composed to avoid raising any kind of suspicion.

“And the bad news?” Ellie prompts worriedly.

“Well, he could get a serious infection if that bullet doesn’t come out of his shoulder. It needs to be removed and his wound needs to be flushed out and cleaned. It also looks like something we can stitch up. He will be fine but he needs to be tended to sooner rather than later.” You glance back at Tommy. “He can’t just sit here like this for much longer.”

“Luke’s still workin’ on Peter. Carl’s next in line since he got hit in the stomach. Luke said he needed to tend to the injuries in order based on how bad the injury is. Said it was called triage or somethin’ like that—”

“Well, what about Donna? Or Rose?” You refer to the two nurses who work in the clinic alongside your husband. Every nerve in your entire body is on edge. All you want is someone, anyone—even if that fucking means Luke—to tend to Joel. It’s quite selfish on your part considering the severe nature of the other two men’s injuries, but you can’t help yourself. You need Joel to be okay or you won’t be okay. “We can have one of them do it. I’m sure they’re capable of an extraction.”

Tommy runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I know Donna is helpin’ Luke with Peter. Rose is in the room next door tryin’ to stop Carl’s bleedin’—”

Your emotions boil over and finally, you snap. Turning to the younger man, you nearly shout at him in frustration. “He can’t just sit here with a fucking bullet lodged in his shoulder, Tommy!”

Taken aback by the outburst, Tommy raises his eyebrows but he says nothing.

“Wait a minute.” Ellie grabs your arm, garnering your attention. “Didn’t you take a bullet out of one of the horses once?”

“Yeah. She did,” Tommy realizes. “My horse, Ranger. He got in the shoulder durin’ an attack a couple years ago. She took the bullet right out and had him all patched up within an hour.”

Your eyes bounce between them in absolute disbelief. “Ranger’s a horse.”

“How different could it be?” Tommy wonders out loud, raking his hand through his black curls once more.

Furiously, you shake your head. “I’ve never treated a human wound before, at least not one like this. Cuts and scrapes, sure. But this is a gunshot wound, guys. I can’t—”

Ellie’s fingers dig anxiously into your arm. “Please do it,” she whispers, her eyes looking up into yours pleadingly. “You’ve got to help him. Please.”

Slowly, you turn to Joel, who hasn’t uttered a single word. “Would be kinda nice to get this fuckin’ thing outta my shoulder,” he remarks after a minute. He brings his gaze to meet yours and holds, forgetting all about subtlety. “I trust you.”

“Joel, I can’t. I’m not capable—”

“Oh fuck that, you are capable,” Ellie insists, shaking her head at you.

Helplessly, you turn to Tommy for backup.

“I’m gonna have to agree with with the kid, little lady. You’re capable. I just know it.”

“Please,” Ellie begs you. “It could be fucking hours before Luke gets to him. You said it yourself just a minute ago, Joel can’t just sit here with a fucking bullet in his shoulder. He could get an infection. Please, you have to do it. Do it for me.” Do it for him, she wants to say. But she knows she can’t.

Hearing the desperation in her voice, you don’t have much choice but to reluctantly agree to it. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do it,” you relent, exhaling a sigh of defeat. “But if I’m going to do this, I would rather do it without an audience watching me.”

“Say no more.” Tommy gently takes Ellie’s arm and starts tugging her towards the door. “C’mon. Let’s wait out in the hallway, kiddo.”

“But—” She begins to protest.

“Ellie.” Joel grits out her name. “Listen to Tommy.”

Annoyed, she huffs, “Jesus, okay. Fine.”

As soon as they disappear and close the door behind them, you turn back to Joel, your heart slamming against your ribcage.

“I trust you,” he repeats, firmly. “Alright?”

Swallowing harshly, you nod. “Alright.”

Walking over to the opposite side of the room, you begin digging around through various cabinets and in drawers, searching for the supplies that you would need—a bottle of saline solution, a pair of surgical forceps, and a clean needle for the stitches. You toss them onto a small silver tray along with plenty of gauze and a packet of nylon sutures that had expired well over fifteen years ago. The only thing you can’t find are gloves, and while you were sure there had to be a box somewhere in the clinic, you don’t have the spare time to search for them. You wash your hands as thoroughly as possible with warm water and a bit of natural, handmade antibacterial soap one of the women in the commune makes and sells in her apothecary shop on Main Street along with her healing ointments and salves.

Your mind spins as you dry off your hands and pick up the tray, slowly making your way over to Joel. You set it down on the exam table and stand in front of him, inhaling a long, deep breath through your nose. Exhaling it slowly and steadily through your mouth, you ask, “Are you ready?”

Joel places his hand on your hip, his fingers brushing the skin that peeks between the waistband of your jeans and the lace hem of your yellow camisole. “Think I should be the one askin’ you that question, darlin’.”

You could have laughed. “Of course I’m not.”

“You can do this, baby. I know you can.”

“How can you be so sure about that, Joel?”

“‘Cause. I know my girl,” Joel murmurs, softly. He makes certain to keep his voice low, just in case Tommy and Ellie happen to be standing too close to the door. “And I know she’s capable of a hell of a lot more than she thinks she is. I believe in you, peach,” he asserts, giving your hip a gentle squeeze. “I trust you with my fuckin’ life.”

Your eyes glaze over with tears and you exhale a shaky breath. It’s not just his words, it’s the sincerity behind them—he means it when he says he trusts you with his life. If it ever came down to it, he would put it right in your hands.

“It’s going to hurt like hell,” you warn him. “I don’t have any anesthetic to numb the area.”

His hand falls away from you and he curls it into a loose fist on his thigh. “Trust me, I’ve had a whole lot worse, sweetheart.”

Reaching for the cloth on his shoulder, your hands threaten to tremble but you will them to stay as steady as possible as you remove it, setting side before picking up the bottle of saline and a piece of gauze. The bleeding had ceased. You clean the area well and give yourself a clear view of the thumb sized projectile. “It’s pretty superficial,” you observe, wiping at the wound and causing him to wince. “It doesn’t look like it caused any kind of severe damage, either.” Throwing the used gauze aside, you take the pair of forceps and show them to him. “Ready?”

“Ain’t got much of a choice, do I now?”

“Nope.” You flash him a tiny, wry smile. “Okay, I’m going to count to three and begin the extraction. I need you to stay as still as possible, alright?”

Joel nods grimly, his jaw clenched and lips pressed in a tight line.

“One, two, three—take a big, deep breath in and let it out slowly through your nose.”

He does as you instruct him, his fist tightening on his leg as he braces himself.

Firmly holding the forceps, you carefully insert the jaws of the instrument into his wound. Although you want to get the painful procedure over with as quickly as possible, you have to be careful not to cause any kind of further damage to his shoulder. “Fuck,” Joel hisses through gritted teeth, his eyes pinching closed. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Didn’t think it’d hurt this fuckin’ bad.”

You manage to get a good grip on the bullet with the forceps. “Almost done,” you assure him. “I’m going to pull it out now. Take another deep breath in for me and hold it.”

He nods and inhales, his chest expanding.

“On three, let it out—one, two, three.”

Joel exhales sharply as you swiftly pull the bullet from his shoulder. “Fuck!” he curses again, shaking his head. Even though his shoulder feels like it’s on fire, he does feel a huge sense of relief as soon as the round comes out.

“Got it,” you say, lifting the forceps. You show Joel the projectile clamped in the instrument’s jaws. It makes you sick to your stomach to think that there was even a slight possibility that the bullet you’re holding in your hand could have hit him somewhere else—it could have been a fatal shot. Shoving the nauseating thought out of your mind, you set it down on the tray and pick up the bottle of saline and a couple pieces of clean gauze. After flushing the wound and cleaning it a second time, you take a closer look at it just to be sure there’s no serious damage to the tissues in his shoulder. “Everything looks alright from what I can see. I cleaned it as best I could, but there’s always a risk for infection so you’ll have to take a round of antibiotics. You’ll also have to wear a sling for about four to six weeks. Doctor’s orders,” you add with a tiny, jeering smile when you clock the disdain on his face.

“Shit. That mean’s Tommy’s gonna pull me off of patrol,” he realizes, miserably. “What the hell am I gonna do for four to six weeks?”

Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him. “Recover from being shot?”

“Yeah I s’ppose I am,” he mutters with an eye roll.

Calm, tranquil silence falls over you as you prepare the suture, looping it through the needle. The moment you start stitching him up, an emotional lump rises in the back of your throat and you’re not sure why. Joel is fine. He’s alive. He’s going to be okay, and yet, all you can do is think about how frightened you’d been when Tommy ran into the stables covered in blood and said that Joel had been shot. How terrifying it was to think he was dead.

He says your name softly.

When you don’t acknowledge him, he reverts to his nickname for you. “Peach.”

You hum, trying to stay focused on finishing the task of closing up his wound. “Hm?”

“Look at me, baby.”

“Joel, I’m kind of in the middle of someth—”

“I love you.”

Stopping mid stitch, you look at him with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

“Darlin’, I can’t count the number of times I almost fuckin’ said, but couldn’t. How many times those words have been right there on the tip of my tongue and just when I’m ‘bout to say them, I lose the nerve. After what happened today, m’gonna stop bein’ such a fuckin’ fool. M’gonna tell you every chance I get,” Joel vows, his gaze piercing into yours. “You had my heart from day fuckin’ one and you’re gonna have it for the rest of my life, sweet girl. I love you.”

His declaration knocks all of the wind out of your lungs and leaves you breathless. Speechless.

“AIn’t gotta say it back to me until you’re ready,” Joel reassures you. “Y’know how I feel ‘bout you—but I think it was time you finally heard it.”

You choke down your emotions—now isn’t the time to break down, not when you have a needling poking through his flesh. It’s not exactly how you pictured you professing your love for each other, but it feels right. “I love you too, Joel,” you whisper back to him. “I’ve been wanting to say it to you too, but I’ve just been afraid.” You pause and realize, “I’m not afraid anymore.”

Joel tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Do me a real big favor darlin’ and finish stitchin’ me up quick ‘cause I’m fuckin’ dyin’ for a kiss.”

Letting out a tearful little laugh, you carefully finish pitching him up. As soon as you finish with the last stitch, Joel wraps his uninjured arm around your waist. “C’mere baby,” he murmurs. He tugs you forward so you’re standing between his legs and tilts his head up towards yours.

You smile at him before leaning in, molding your mouth to his in a sweet kiss.

As you do, Luke’s voice echoes loudly out in the hallway. “What the hell do you mean she’s—”

Jerking away from Joel, you jump back just as the door swings open.

Luke bursts into the examination room with Tommy and Ellie behind him. His dark green eyes flit from you to Joel and then back to you again.

“Joel!” Ellie shoves past him. “You okay?”

“M’alright,” he replies stiffly, his eyes carefully trained on your husband.

“Tommy told me you were treating Joel’s wound.” Luke approaches you, and while he is keeping a collected composure for the sake of not causing a scene in front of the other people in the room, you know him better than that. He’s furious, but he’s masking it well.

Nervously, you nod. “Yes. I extracted the bullet from his shoulder, flushed and cleaned the wound, and stitched him up.” You notice the blood on his light blue medical scrubs and glance around him at Tommy. “How is Peter?”

His expression is grim. “Didn’t make it.”

“God,” you mutter, your heart clenching in your chest as you think of Martha. She’s just lost her husband.

Luke walks over to Joel, whose hands are curled into fists in his lap. He inspects his shoulder, observing the work you’d done. He then looks over his shoulder at you and frowns. “You shouldn’t have done this,” your husband chastises you, shaking his head tightly. “You aren’t a trained medical professional. Do you even realize—”

“Your wife did a good fuckin’ job,” Joel cuts him off. “She knew what she was doin’.”

Luke’s head whips back around and the two men’s eyes meet in a tense exchange.

“Give her some more fuckin’ credit than that. She’s amazin’,” the older man states, his nostrils flaring.

“Yeah,” Ellie chimes in agreement, crossing her arms over her chest. She narrows her eyes at Luke. “She’s fucking amazing.”

Luke turns to her and arches an eyebrow. Before he can say anything, the sound of Donna’s voice comes from the room next door.

“Luke! I need a little help in here!”

Lips pursed together, Luke takes a step back from Joel and turns on his heel to leave. As he passes you, he stops briefly, long enough to whisper to you quietly, “We’ll talk about this at home.”

A chill runs down your spine.

You know exactly what he means by that.

Luke tosses you a subtle glare and stalks out of the room.

“I should go and find Maria,” Tommy states with a sad sigh. “We’re gonna have to break the news to Martha about Peter.” He gives you a nod. “Thank you, little lady. For takin’ such good care of my big brother.” He disappears, closing the door behind him and leaving the three of you alone.

Ellie comes up to you, curling her arms around your waist. “Thank you. We fucking owe you one.”

You say nothing as you hug her back, holding onto her tightly.

You try not to think about what’s in store for you later that evening at home.

#joel miller #joel miller story #joel miller series #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x oc #joel miller hbo #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #pedro pascal characters #joel miller pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #fic: ash #fic: a safe haven

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elliesbelle · 10 months ago

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yes, the global strike for palestine is over. HOWEVER, there is another one taking place from february 18 to 25.

for what to do for the second strike, here’s a reminder:

if you didn’t hear about the first strike? okay. that’s fine. not everyone is always online. i hope that you’re still doing something in your own way to rectify that.

but this time? there really should be no excuse. you have weeks to prepare.

you have time to figure out how to get out of work or school (if you can).

you have time to prepare prior so you don’t buy anything while it’s going on and can help disrupt the economy.

you have time to spread the word and raise awareness to your friends, family, co-workers, etc.

and if, for some reason, you can’t do any of the things above? you’re at least aware that from february 18-25, it is a total media BLACKOUT unless it is about palestine (exceptions are obviously other global atrocities like what’s happening in congo and sudan and pakistan and etc.)

no “harmless” selfies you took in the bathroom. no vacation photos. no posting of stupid little memes. no retweeting about some insignificant. irrelevant hollywood feud. no reblogging of cutesy animal pictures. no fun little inside jokes on your finsta.

don’t care if your account is small or private or “unpopular.”

instagram, tumblr, twitter, facebook, all of social media.

if you aren’t even capable of that?

hell is hot and i hope you burn.

#i cut off a whole bunch of people over this tbh #i’ve been cutting off people showing their zionist colours or people being ‘neutral’ about it #i’m seething over how little people had done during the strike #no humanity at all #belle speaks

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thinkingaboutbetterdays · 5 months ago

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matchmaking. ( beck oliver x reader )

gif belongs to me

Your friendship with Tori stood the test of time despite her moving schools to Hollywood Arts. It was through Tori that you were introduced to Beck Oliver after you had come over to her house while the two were rehearsing lines. Tori knew from your expression which was calm and collected on the outside, you were immediately enamored with Beck who joked about your school taking Tori back.

You laughed lightly. "All deals are final."

Beck chuckled, glancing at your hands, quickly letting go when he realized he hadn't stopped shaking your hand. He ran his fingers through his hair, sending you a smile that made your cheeks burn.

"Hello? You came to see me? Best friend?"

You turned to Tori who held her hand up and you returned the sweater you had borrowed. "Thank you."

"It's fine." She smiled. "So how did the interview go?"

"I start Monday." You told her, glancing at Beck. "Well, I should let you two get back to rehearsing."

"You could stay?" Tori offered.

You shook your head, backing away to the door, almost tripping over the sofa, laughing it off. "No, you two be creative. I'm gonna go - somewhere. Not here." You sent Beck a smile, "It was nice meeting you. I finally have a face to put to the name."

Beck stared as you left, "Uh, you too!" He called out but it was too late the door was closed and when he looked at Tori the brunette was smiling. "What?"

"You think she's cute." Tori mimicked his awkward goodbye, and Beck took a seat on the sofa dismissing her claims. "Oh, come on." She mimicked the way you both stared at each other while shaking hands and Beck laughed off her assumptions.

"I just met her."

"So, you can still think she's cute which you totally do." She grinned.

"Doesn't she have a boyfriend?" Beck asked, picking up his script in an attempt not to sound too interested.

"They broke up yesterday." Tori joined him on the sofa. "She called last night to tell me about it."

Beck looked at the brunette who was excited at the possibility of two of her friends dating. "Don't you think it's a little soon to be asking her out on a date?"

Unable to argue with this logic, Tori relented and the two continued with their rehearsal for a few more hours. However, Tori's hopes that you and Beck would start dating never ended. Now and then you realized she was dropping hints about Beck and while you were interested you tried to appear as if you weren't too interested.

"He goes to a fancy school. I doubt he wants me hanging around. He seems really cool." You commented as you studied together one evening.

"He is really cool. And he says you are too." You looked at the brunette who sighed, "Too much?"

You nodded, smiling softly. "I appreciate it, really. I just don't want to jump into something right now."

While Tori never mentioned the subject to you again, you noticed that Beck just happened to stop by when you were at her house or she invited you to spend time with her friends from Hollywood Arts and you always ended up sitting next to Beck who you quickly realized was cool, but thoughtful and caring. And you knew Tori was seeing cupids flying around you both as you spoke, forgetting about the others. You could make Beck laugh like Tori had never seen and he could make you smile wider than she ever thought possible.

Tori knew that you would never make the first move. So she had to convince Beck to do it.

Beck was in his trailer when she entered and he turned when she closed the door, chewing his apple. "Come on in."

"Thank you." She replied with equal sarcasm. "I need to talk to you."

Beck, sensing the atmosphere changing, approached her, listening intently.

"It's about Y/N."

Beck went to walk away but Tori stopped him. "I know you like her." She began. "And I know she likes you too. She's just afraid of making the first move."

"You want me to ask her out?"

"Do you like her?" Tori asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Beck had shrugged this question off many times and replied with, "Yeah, she's pretty cool." But this time he sighed, and nodded. "Fine, alright, yes." Tori grinned. "I like her. But I'm not asking her out."

"What? Why not?"

"She said she doesn't know if she's ready to start dating yet." He explained.

"Because she wants to know if you feel the same way!" Tori exclaimed. She took out her cell phone and selected your contact, holding the phone out for Beck to see. "Now or never."

Beck thought for a moment before taking her phone and Tori grinned when he dialled your number. His eyes glanced around as he waited for you to answer, his nervousness showing until you picked up.

"Tori?"

"Hi, no it's Beck." He replied.

"Oh, hi!" You smiled.

"I have two tickets for a movie that's probably gonna be terrible. Do you want to go with me?"

You bit your lower lip, pausing for a moment as you understood that this was the moment you had waited for. "Yeah, sure. I love bad movies."

Beck grinned, and Tori held his arm as she jumped up and down. "Great! I'll pick you up on Friday at seven."

"See you then." You smiled as you hung up and Beck turned to Tori, chuckling when she squealed.

He held out her cell phone, and she took it. "Now, will you stop playing matchmaker?"

She nodded. "This is amazing!" She hugged him and he chuckled as he let her jump around, shaking his head.

He would later thank her for her interference after your date ended successfully and your presence in their group became more common, standing side by side with Beck who had never looked happier. And Tori knew from the way you looked at your boyfriend, you had never felt as happy as you did with him.

#beck oliver #beck oliver x reader #victorious

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speirslore · 11 months ago

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band of brothers officers: dating hcs

a/n: hello! this is my first post but ive been lurking in the bob fandom for a while & i'm soooo excited to finally join... i have a bunch of other ideas and drafts i want to post soon :) this includes the officers: winters, nixon, speirs, lipton, + buck, please lmk if anyone would be interested in more of the boys! i made it vague but the reader is implied to be a part of easy company in some capacity

[dick winters]

he is a very private person and shy... like his ears go bright red at the mere mention of your name which easy company takes full advantage of

you think it's incredibly sweet

it takes a while for him to have confidence when interacting with you in the beginning... he feels inexperienced and that you couldn’t possibly be interested in him

it's a slow burn for sureee

like men getting out of the hospital that come back to the company are immediately like "so are they finally together??"

there are bets on when and where it will finally happen

luz's theory is one of you has to confess when you all jump into berlin at the end of the war... the perfect hollywood ending

it ofc doesn't happen like that; it's a slow process of building trust, it's a mix of quality time and acts of service

the quality time can be hard to come by during the war but dick is determined to check in with you: small, reassuring smiles and touches, finding each other in crowded rooms

it's very private, he doesn't want to jeopardize either of your careers or reputations, but ofc lew knows the details (but the entire company basically knows?)

and lew is good at keeping secrets.. he's the intelligence officer ofc (as he constantly reminds the two of you)

a lot of wrapping his arms around you pulling your back to his chest, resting his chin on your head or shoulder

maybe even a quick smooch

kisses as rewards for him finishing all the action reports he has to do

omg then in austria... things definitely change... and it's easier to label what you have.. dick can finally relax (to some extent), and it starts to feel like more of a normal relationship

all the men are so happy for you like he's had 20+ wingmen this entire time <3

[lewis nixon]

another one that i think is definitely slow burn... but once he finds out he's getting divorced...

even before that, lew's humor always made you feel more comfortable and at ease

he has always gravitated towards you

definitely gets clingy

lovessss sleeping with you like insists that sleep is extremely important for a solider and he sleeps sooo well with you

it's literally impossible to escape his arms when you're sleeping... leg thrown over you, arms wrapped around you

the most comfortable you've ever been fr

the ungodly amount of sexual tension before you get together... oh god.. one time the officers are all playing poker; welsh and lipton just look at each other when lew's leg kicks yours under the table or you lean against his shoulder

like oh god... not again... they're telepathically planning their escape

all the tension, stares, touches, long talks you've had reach a boiling point as lew becomes more jaded by the war and he finds out abt the divorce

you instinctively want to take care of him and you're definitely worried about him... you have a lot of convos with dick trying to figure out the best way to approach and help lew

words of affirmation are very important to him... i think his initial instinct is gift giving but that's difficult with the war.. and he doesn't feel connected to that, it's just what he's always known

if he gets too drunk, you stay up monitoring him and you really don't mind and just knowing you're there for him makes him v emotional:

like you make him feel like there's hope and a future after the war... and he's been thinking that for a long time but finally says it laying on your chest with your hand running through his hair

you help him shave which eventually ends in making out (a lot of things you guys do devolve into that)

he's your poor little meow meow but in the best possible way

[ron speirs]

ngl the attraction was strong from the start and it didn't take long for you to fall for him... by england before your first drop you both already fell hard

everyone is in disbelief that the rumor is it's YOU that he's seeing

everyone thinks you're a total angel and then... speirs.. it's just tht absolutely none of the men can imagine him being soft or romantic

wants you all to himself... is very good about making free time to be with you

unintentionally hovers

and very subconsciously touchy

has to fight himself from grabbing your hand instinctively

like he can know where your platoon is, where you're dug in but still will make rounds just to have peace of mind and know you're okay

just like all the other rumors, ron doesn't really care about clarifying his relationship with you

oh but if he ever heard a man talking disparagingly about you... just one silent stare and the soldier wouldn't even look at you again

omg def the type to carry around a collection pictures.... those are his prized possessions fr

like a pocket in his uniform just full of very pretty (and private) pictures <3

there's a few wholesome ones too.. like when the two of you had a 48 hour pass to scotland... but others (most of them) not so much

and ofc if you ever need anything... like you need a new watch? he has one for you in a few hours

he truly does love gift giving...

i also think physical touch is a huge love language for him

+ i think like pillow talk, just late night talking with you letting him rant and get everything off of his mind is so cathartic for him

and he really appreciates feeling like you understand him and you want and are willing to listen

[carwood lipton]

definitely the wholesome mom and dad couple

usually, most definitely, attached at the hip

always has a hand on the small of your back, or shoulder, arm, etc, he likes the reassurance of small touches and knowing definitively that you're next to him

i have a very self indulgent headcanon that he likes whenever you kiss and thumb over the scar on his cheek <3 makes him feel less self conscious

okay so lip takes care of everyone else but who's taking care of him?!

guys will come to you bc they know carwood will listen to you if you're the one who tells him he has to rest and take it easy

omg.. and if you're married... he's always twisting and playing with his ring just to remind him of you

has multiple letters from you stuffed in one of his uniform's pocket

he has all of the words memorized by now but just physically holding them is so comforting

quality time and acts of service are HUGE for him

and alone time can be so hard to come by... but anything he can do to make your job and tasks easier... he will do

and vice versa ofc

everyone else watching like wow .. relationship goals fr

anytime he leaves and you're split up for a few days... you always have a dramatic reunion jumping into his arms

a lot of fantasizing about your future together... because it feels so close.. but also so far away

[buck compton]

fraternization rules?? what rules?

has absolutely no shame to be at the bar playing darts, hands all over your waist

and showing you off, dancinggg

just feeling a little silly and goofy... making out at the bar

and everyone is hyping you up

i think at the beginning of the war, your relationship is newer and fun... neither of you are really thinking about something serious

i think physical touch and words of affirmation are huge for him

as the war progresses, the thought and fear of losing you grows, especially after he saw so many of his men suffer/die

and he realizes how much he cares about you...

you comfort him after bastogne... a lot and even though it can be extremely melancholy, hearing you talking about your life pre war, and your life together in the future keeps him going

insisting to him that he'll have to show you california and ucla

writing to him constantly after he's taken off the line.. giving him updates on all the men

in austria, when he returns, watching him play baseball with the boys feels absolutely perfect

#band of brothers x reader #band of brothers imagine #dick winters x reader #lewis nixon x reader #ron speirs x reader #buck compton x reader #carwood lipton x reader #hbowar imagine #band of brothers headcanon

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ceridescent · 2 years ago

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leviathan of light: martini shot

➛ actress!wanda maximoff x female!reader

summary: wrapping up the film shooting on a heart's day wouldn’t be your ideal course of action if you have plans with your loved ones. and so is a bullet vibrator in you when you're the star of the show. but as long as it's inconspicuous, it's no problem.

tags: bottom!wanda, top!reader, use of sex toy, semi-public, mommy kink, cunninglingus, hair pulling, & brief thigh riding.

word count: 2, 218

author’s note: here it goes!! first part of the series! i hope it's not hot enough you'd burn. :-)

part i of lush ministrations | series masterlist | main masterlist

the paintings adorning the vaulted ceiling, proof of faith and wars, encapsulating the sacrosanct space. the divinity of the cosmic beings, the galvanic echo of every worshiper who ever knelt before the cross, a prayer for every miracle.

the whole crew of leviathan of light have gathered for the final shooting, excited spirits witnesses of the flamboyant setting, and none other than the two main stars — two goddesses molded into human forms, brazening each other accompanied by swords belted at their hips, prepared to swing with one mistake — fulfilling their roles as the camera rolls.

you know a mistake occurs when the director scratches the front of his neck, a blush forming there.

“do you really want me? or is this your way of getting back at my brother..?”

“CUT!”

no one notices the curl of your lip when the director yells the magic word, each and everyone filling the cathedral fixated over the two actors who are now having a small talk — one who provides encouragement, whilst the other spurting genuine apologies. “maximoff! what was that all about…”

“i’m so sorry, william. too much going in my head at-right now. can i take a 10? 15?”

you intently listen to the hollywood star who simultaneously stammers and sighs, bringing her best doe-eyed face; the one that brings her everywhere. you try your best to mask a smirk.

“of course, wanda.” an exchange of an understanding nod with a squeezed shoulder and you’re gritting your teeth, unable to take your sight off wanda’s exhale. pressing the circled button, you hear her faint yelp at the crawling pressure in her, each passing second sending her to hell. no one is supposed to touch her like that.

wanda shuts her eyes tight whilst biting her lower lip, crouching as she grips her sides, causing the clingy man to help her stand, putting his hold around her hips to support her, touching her in places only you could.

an uneasy groan erupts from your throat as you approach both co-workers, veiling your fume with a faux smile. “you okay?” placing your hands above where the director’s are, you tighten your grip around wanda’s waist to pull her over to your side. there’s nothing subtle with how you pushed his body away from her to stray, finalizing the interaction with, “i got her, thanks, william.”

“do you want to rest for a moment?”

miss hollywood nods her head, “yes but, maybe in the dressing room instead? i need-“

“say less, wanda. i’ll take care of you,” mumbling the last part is essential, shielding the exchange to the public eye. you escort wanda into the designated room, your arm possessively clutching her waist as she makes an effort to walk as normally as she does, declining the possible speculation that it’s like there’s something in between her thighs.

“please baby!” wanda maximoff moans the moment you lock the door, pushing you against the nearest wall and latching her lips onto yours. she opens your mouth wide with her fingers, snatching them open, aiming to suck at your upper lip and catching your tongue with hers.

it is rushing and sloppy, wanda pulling everything out of you because she needs you, because you’re the only one who could offer it to her. you’re smug about that, the provocation of wanda’s desperation to have you. with muffling moans and ragged breathing, you wrap your arms around wanda’s neck caressing the back of her hair as she grabs your sides, pulling your body towards her to grind on.

a wanton whine escapes her throat, nipping at your lower lip, “please,” shock overwhelming her she bites your lip hard it bleeds. she licks it clean, and then swirls her tongue with yours, tasting the copper-metal of your blood. “plea-mmm!” a vibrating hum replaces wanda’s begging, her body quaking at the stimulation, falling over you. her grip tightens as another pulls at your hair. “let mommy come, baby-“

“hush, stay quiet. come here,” you prod sharply as you guide her face with your free hand and lock her lips with yours, an encompassing tender kiss. you allow wanda to hump her clothed pussy against your thigh, the firm grip on your sides never ending. a squeak escapes her when you flip places, pinning her against the wall.

the actress shakes her head and pulls her face towards yours to capture the taste of your swelling lips but you are quick to pull away. you chuckle, “easy tiger,” pushing her shoulder blades to rest against the brick wall. wanda nods her head in defeat, “please, princess…” batting her doe-eyes. you chuckle, shaking your head. “that’s not gonna work with me.”

you breath hotly against her left cheek, “we have to be quick,” licking a stripe of her slender neck as you descend down towards the floor. “yes, baby. please me. please mommy,” wanda whimpers and tilts her head upwards, unbelievably enjoying how you handle her. she shivers as the shift of your hands deals with the buckle of the belt, undoing the zipper of her sponsored leather pants, the constricting clothes liberating her.

you let out a teasing noise, “hmmm,” rubbing your thumb on her clitoris, grinning up at her as it sloshes. “you hear that?” you husk and lick your lips, imitating her desperate nods, batting your eyes innocently. “yeah?”

the actress clamps her teeth to her lower lip to suppress a loud moan threatening to spill your dirty little secret as you insert two fingers in her occupied pussy hole to release the bullet wedged in her ever since 7 in the morning. it’s half past 3 in the afternoon now, and there’s nothing more sensual than a domineering woman having all the patience in the world.

you gasp, fake surprise coating your vicious, addicting face. “look what you were hiding in there, mommy!”

certainly drenched with wanda’s hot cum.

your frolic concludes as the hollywood star pushes your face against her pussy, your reflexes kicking in to lick her clean with your tongue.

“yes!” wanda hisses, grinding herself over to you. forcing her hips to plant themselves against the brick wall, “impatient twat,” you mumble, the vibration reminding the hollywood actress who’s barely keeping it together — hand against her mouth — of the toy nestled inside her warmth on set the whole time. you pocket the toy, bringing both of your hands to focus holding her thighs in place.

you refuse to tease wanda any longer, aware of her sensitive body caused by your amusement. watching the renowned wonder actress (derived from wonder woman) struggle reciting the most basic lines, and then enacting them in awe-striking emotions whilst you play with the remote control’s buttons, purposely pressing the highest setting when she was to do something elaborate. thus why miss hollywood deserves her awaiting release before the whole crew comes knocking down the dressing room.

“all the things i want to do to you…” she heaves as she alternates between caresses on your crown and pulling at your mane. you could only hum, lapping at her juices, drinking her in for your own pleasure. wanda’s hot cum drips straight through your welcoming mouth, the scent of butter and almond filling your nostrils.

flicking the tip of your tongue against the actress’ sensitive nub, you press your thumbs on her fleshy inner thigh, digging your nails into it to form red crescent marks. wanda’s legs quiver at the pain, a loud moan echoing inside the dressing room.

“mommy can’t take it anymore, prin-!” a high-pitched keen comes out and no matter how still she makes herself to be you know she can’t prolong it any longer. “do it for me then.”

being stared at by someone above you — beneath you — is a privilege so thrilling you’d be nailed at the cross for it. notably by the most gorgeous actress of the nation, wanda maximoff desperate to rut into your mouth. a moan can’t be helped, the brief cherished moment of having the biggest star — revered by many, applauded by the entirety of the land — her sweet and tangy, her slick and leaking cum.

your scalp burns from wanda’s fingernails scraping you as you fulfill your duty of satiating her, the warmth of her pussy slipping off your lips. you protest with a cry, latching your mouth back in her pussy, throbbing she is, sucking her clitoris getting to the pulse, quicker and quicker coming undone.

“mommy, mmm”

“come on, come on princess,” wanda encourages you, sucking her hard and wanton, the thought of her coming in your mouth is so intense the need becomes primal. “fuck, mommy, fuckkk,” your muffled curses sends wanda over the edge—

she’s riding your face now, your head bobbing up and down at the movement, every sip and slurp messing your face. incoherent promises and assurances coaxes out of her awful, dirty mouth, coming apart onto you.

wanda maximoff, professional as she is, typically an expert in keeping herself hushed in public spaces, especially on set in the middle of the day, howls blatantly like a wolf; hitting her head against the brick wall when she lolled it back, the clutch on your head so airtight you had to pull away from her pussy and bite her thigh. “what the fuck!”

you keep your hands holding her legs because sooner or later she’ll collapse, and you don’t want to be trapped under her.

“we’re never doing this again.”

a breathless chuckle flows out of you, catching your breath as you laid on the floor on your back. you glance across the actress and find her ass sitting on the floor with her back slumped against the naughty brick wall, her pants untucked.

“agreed,” you start now that you’re recovering your breath. “i would’ve teased you more if this wasn’t a quickie.” you stand up with your supporting palms, copying wanda’s position although without the wall.

“you’re dead when i get you home,” she barks, giving you the eye. you tilt your head and give her an eye smile, amused at her habits.

so you do what you know best.

you get on all fours, crawling onto the space in between her spread legs. you get close enough to feel the hitch of her stuttering breath, “i’m not coming into your humble abode then,” biting your lip as you stare at her blown out green obs, down to her lipstick-smudged lips, and back again at her siren eyes.

giggling as you get on your feet by wanda’s desperation to capture your lips again, “how long it’s been?” you leave her hanging, pacing around the dressing room until you find your half-empty apple juice box. you take a long sip, replenishing your system, lounging on the leather chair’s arm closest to the star. “seven.”

“good,” wanda lolls her neck to the side, momentarily closing her eyes. “then i have eight minutes left to ‘take a break’ before i get back on set, empty-handed.”

“that’s funny,” sarcastically, you reply, “i thought it was your pussy that was full.”

“y/n…don’t get started,” she warns, exhaustion and titillation coating her sweet face.

you huff and surrender, putting your arms in the air for great measure, “okay, alright, i’ll stop,” hopping off the leather chair and going over to the vanity mirror. “then we should get you touched up so they wouldn’t notice-“

“y/n?” wanda coughs, the sounds of shifting movement indicate she’s fixing her costume.

“yeah, wanda?” you pick the bobbi brown full coverage face brush and look at her from the far end of the dressing room.

“do you have a date tonight?”

“what,” you chuckle, “you asking me out?”

“o-of course not, cocksure. i was just curious,” her voice drifts and for a moment there’s silence, until wanda rises up from the floor.

“well i’m-“

“never mind i asked. could you send that blue-haired girl here? i have to ask her about the method she uses when she does her foundation trick…”

“let’s get you a touch up first, yeah? there’s no rush.”

“i- of course, just that the time-“

“don’t worry about it, miss hollywood,” you reassure with a tease, squeezing her stiff shoulders as she sits down in front of the vanity mirror. “you’re so flushed, they’d think you’ve ran a marathon,” you chuckle, dabbing the brush onto the finishing powder.

wanda grins, her lust-filled gaze focused on you. “it’s scientifically proven that you burn as many calories when you go to the gym.”

“you dork,” you shake your head, reapplying makeup to return to her fresh, doll-like appearance. “it’s alright,” she whispers, “i’ll just tell them i’ve done 100 push-ups.”

“vouch for me?”

a thick pause allows you to stare at wanda’s still green eyes, her pupils far from dwindling any time soon. it was always like that, anyway. you don’t miss the slight tilt of her head, a signal for her curiosity.

you grin, subtly sultry, mostly taunting. “of course, miss maximoff. you were doing a hundred push ups, while i watched sipping my apple juice, fantasizing on slurping you up instead.”

she slaps your shoulder playfully, “you’re coming home with me! whether you like it or not!”

you wonder whether she’s playing or not by the smile on her face. after sex glow has never looked good on her.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff series #marvel smut #wanda x reader #bottom!wanda

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buddierecs · 5 months ago

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long (40k+ words) buddie fics

all mature rating!!! make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

leave the light on (i'll be coming home) by: HMSLusitania "an accident on a call leaves buck with custody of chris after eddie is... missing presumed. while they navigate their new family circumstances -- and fight to stay together, despite eddie's parents' best efforts -- a john doe wakes up in a coma ward with no memory of his own life beyond the knowledge he has a son named christopher and, somehow, he needs to get home." word count: 44k important tags: presumed dead, grief, mourning, angst, amnesia, getting together across our great divide (a glorious sunrise) by: catchingpapermoons "eddie gets buck to come to couples therapy with him." word count: 53k important tags: therapy, getting together, ptsd, angst with a happy ending, medding, idiots in love

little lies by: david3096 "chris tells a lie at school and now eddie and buck must give a talk about love and work pretending to be fiances." word count: 62k important tags: fake dating, idiots in love, mutual pining, miscommunication, fluff, christopher diaz has two dads tomorrow will always and forever now be today (tomorrow is our always and forever) by: withmeornotatall "eddie gets trapped in a time loop on the day buck marries natalia" word count: 43k important tags: time loop, minor buck/natalia, heavy angst, eventual happy ending, weddings, love confessions i'll feel you forget me like i used to feel you breathe by: turningthepages "just another hollywood amnesia story the fandom probably didn't need but lived in my head rent free for too long." word count: 128k important tags: married!buddie, amnesia, car accidents, hurt!eddie diaz, angst, hurt/comfort, future fic (they have 3 kids) tell me about despair by: hattalove "the entity often affectionately referred to as the unrepression fic." word count: 148k important tags: therapy, ptsd, heavy angst, communication, feelings realisation, friends to lovers, slow burn

ripples all the way down by: iriswests "christopher partakes in some parent trapping" word count: 57k important tags: jealous!evan buckley, jealous!eddie diaz, slow burn, miscommunication, happy ending peace in austin by: angalwithwingsoffire "the story of evan buckley, losing all hope in la after the lawsuit and moving to texas to join the 126." word count: 156k important tags: post-lawsuit, 911 lone star characters, angst, evan buckely leaves the 118, depression, ptsd, emotional hurt hold steady, hold steady by: thetalee "after eddie's bombshell announcement on christmas, buck runs away and finds himself back on his first day on the job. a time-travel fix-it fic of sorts, ft. a stranger that totally just wants to help, honest." word count: 172k important tags: time travel, time loops, supernatural elements au, slow burn, shannon diaz lives, hurt!evan buckley, temporary character death

the persistence of memory by: withmeornotatall "buck gets shot, eddie has to keep reliving the day until he can figure out what the universe is trying to tell him" word count: 58k important tags: time loop, eddie diaz pov, angst, hurt/comfort, temporary character death, gay disaster!eddie diaz, make outs, gun violence heart of flowers/heart of gold by elvensorceress "after nearly losing each other, buck and eddie find their way to each other and their family’s happily ever after." word count: 144k important tags: season 4, friends to lovers, mutual pining, evan buckley takes care of eddie diaz, demisexual!eddie diaz, gun shot wounds you can tell everybody this is your song (series) by: woodchoc_magnum "it's not a date if chris is here with us." at that, buck's eyebrows flew up, and his face went pale. "a… date?" eddie nodded, a little nervously. "yeah. this is a date." word count: 640k important tags: romance fluff, boys in love, getting together, developing relationship, falling in love

boys of summer by: woodchoc_magnum "in which buck takes eddie on a summer road trip through the sierra nevada mountains, and they fall head over heels in love with each other" word count: 47k important tags: road trips, falling in love, boys falling in love, soft!buddie, family feels, team as family cause we belong together now by: smilingbuckley "on a call, buck and eddie meet an adorable little girl that they fall in love with and want to adopt. the only problem? they're not together romantically..." word count: 68k important tags: marriage of convenience, parenthood, adoption, slow burn, miscommunication, family fluff, pining, oblivious!evan buckley, soft!buddie, friends to lovers

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buck x eddie #buck x eddie fic #911 abc #911 show #buddie fic #911 fandom #buddie fics #911 fic rec #evan buck buckley #buddie fic rec #buddie fanfics #buddie recommendations #buddie recs #buck x eddie fanfics

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pasta-in-the-pudding · 1 year ago

Note

Hi sorry if this seems annoying!😭 can you do Ben and Jeff and masky with a newbie scared child reader like when they first saw them they where shaking in there boots? And just very scared of everyone😭 I hope you have an amazing day remember your worth it and im proud of youu!<3

Don't worry, you aren't annoying! Also, thank you for your kind words <33

Thank you so much for requesting!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BEN

The first time BEN saw you was to bring you your uniform, as per his job as the supplier and technology manager

You were with sally, she was helping you get set up

When sally sees ben, she rushes over to him and asks if he wants to do a tea party with her and her new friend

He shakes his head "another time, sal"

Sally pouts while he walks over to put your uniform on your bed

"These are your uniform clothes. You wear them when you're working, especially if you're out on a mission. You're young, so you shouldn't have much work outside of the manor. Just keep them clean and ironed and you'll be good"

You stand there, looking up at him, shaking and furrowing your brows worriedly

He raises a brow and puts a hand on his hip "can you even manage a yes sir or a thank you? What a dope" he mutters before turning and leaving your room

After that he doesn't talk to you too often unless you talk to him

Which happens around 3 days later

"Mr. Ben can you help me...?"

"With what" he asks, not even pausing his game

"I don't know how to wash my clothes...im sorry" you whisper in a meek voice

He lets out a biiiiig sigh and stands up "alright, come on. Ask Tim for help with your clothes from now on. He's taller so he can actually reach the detergent. And he's also better at taking care of kids" he says as he walks downstairs to the laundry room

You follow behind him "im sorry.... mr. ben?"

"Hm?"

"Whos tim?"

Another biiiiig sigh

Jeff

Pretty much all of the kids were scared first time they saw jeff 💀

So no one was shocked when you reacted that way

After getting fairly acquainted with some other children, brian and liu, you mostly hung around them

One night however, there was a small party at the manor

Jeff, being the chronic hollywood undead listener of the house, of course is there

The party is being kept to the second level of the manor, in one of the living room areas, and is more so just a loud hangout than a party

The creeps partaking are listening to loud rock music, drinking beer and playing cards

You had gotten lost trying to find your room and eventually wandered into the area the get together was happening in

"Dude what's that little kid doing here" one of the creeps asks

This makes jeff turn the music down and look over at you

He is still in his work uniform, his hair is a mess and he looks obviously annoyed that he's getting interrupted

"You're that new kid, aren't ya? What are you doing up isn't it bed time for you worms?" He asks, standing and putting his beer on the table

Seeing how much taller he is than you only adds to the already intense fear "im sorry..." you whimper

"Yeah, yeah, run off to your room, kid" he says, waving his hand in a dismissing tone

"I-i don't know where it is" you whisper

He groans and bends down to your height "ok kid, do you have a caretaker around here somewhere?"

You shake your head and back away from him nervously. His breath reeks of nicotine and alcohol, and it makes your nose burn

"Alright, come on" he says, standing and grabbing your hand, leading you all the way down to Slender's office

There, slender is able to help you get back to your room safely while jeff goes back to drinking and playing cards upstairs

Masky

He is someone that a lot of kids turn to when they're unsure

He's one of the designated caretakers of the manor, basically meaning he helps the little kids with whatever they need

He doesn't mind this, because he likes to keep busy

So you coming to him was something he was pretty used to

However what he wasn't exactly used to was how timid you were

There are a lot of anxious kids in the manor, but to get a new kid in the manor is rare so it's been a while since he's had to deal with a kid this anxious

You knock on his door, to which he answers

"Um are you Tim?" You ask, fidgeting with your fingers

"Yeah, what's wrong, kiddo?" He asks, trying to make himself seem less threatning

Your face lights up a little bit at seeing you got the room number right "ok, uh i was told that you could help me reach the food? Im sorry, i just need the goldfish and I'll be out of your way"

He raises a brow "goldfish? Kid, it's only nine a.m. Don't you want some breakfast instead?"

"No that's ok i just need the goldfish..." you whisper

He steps out of his room and beckons you to follow "come on, I'll make you some actual food. How do you feel about pancakes? Or do you want something else?"

You scramble to follow after him, as he takes really big steps "no, pancakes is ok"

You sit at the table while he cooks your pancakes, and when he is done he sets the plate down in front of you and goes to pour you some juice

"Thank you" you whisper, beginning to eat

"Don't be afraid to come get me if you need anything else" he says, heading back up to his room

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chalkrevelations · 2 years ago

Text

Further to this :

I’m posting one more time on this, and then I’m hoping I’m done. But I continue to see bad-faith takes on the settlement statements that were released this week, and I’m so done with the double standard from so many people in Kinnporsche fandom who have spent the past three+ months engaged in hypocritical bullying and victim-blaming and/or remaining damningly silent in the face of actual, public and visible abuse of Build Jakapan.

This wasn’t even a he-said, she-said situation. This was a months-long campaign of cyber-bullying, harassment and abuse – verbal, emotional and psychological – that Poi carried out against Build online, in the open, with no attempts to hide it. We saw her abuse him, repeatedly. We saw her be homophobic toward him, and not only did everyone who was ready to rush into battle against Build for supposedly being homophobic while making money off the queer community now stay silent about it, Poi got almost 10K retweets of it, so all those people who’ve wanted to cancel Build since last summer? We can see how much their allyship is actually worth. We saw the release of the VP novel with his bruised, bloody and battered face on the cover like some kind of disgusting revenge fantasy splayed out in public. We saw her release messages about sexual matters that were insinuated to be his private messages – which, like everything she’s ever posted, have not been verified as real and correct, in the setting of her admission of lying and faking and making false accusations with other material she released. But if they were real, the release of those messages would be on the same spectrum as revenge porn. We watched her commit outright theft of his belongings, and we watched her lie about his words and actions in an attempt to drive a wedge between him and his fans, we watched her punch down at those fans by invading their privacy as surely as she invaded his, we watched her make it all as filthy and gross and mercenary as she could in order to besmirch it as much as she could, watched her laugh about how much fans cared about him like he doesn’t deserve any kind of care or concern, like he’s a dog she can kick around without repercussion.

And antis joined in that abuse, plenty of people in the fandom were complicit in it – lies were collected and reblogged and spread around as supposed receipts of what a terrible person he was, by people who repeatedly represented themselves as “neutral,” without the least bit of concern for the provenance of those rumors, which were already in unbelievable supervillain territory and sure enough, turned out to be actual legal slander. People posted things like “burn in hell,” or made and spread vile memes when he left BOC like the whole thing was something funny, to laugh about, rather than a serious issue like accusations of intimate partner violence. He was called trash, garbage, an incel – at the same time people were vilifying him for supposedly cheating on Poi, so which is it? Is he an incel or was he fucking half of Bangkok? In one of the most breathtaking instances of victim-blaming I’ve seen in a long time, people amplified and spread the lie that he slept with Poi to get his role like it was some kind of gotcha, as if – had it been true – that wouldn’t have been evidence of Poi’s harassment and sexual abuse of him. The casting couch isn’t any less abusive when a man is subject to it than when a woman is subject to it. If it's gross and abusive for Harvey Weinstein to do it, then it would be gross and abusive for Poi to do it, and the way some people acted like it would somehow be Build’s fault? I’m sure every actress in Hollywood would love to hear that. Or would it be OK because he’s a man? Because that sounds awfully close to those creeps who say that teenaged boys should think they’re lucky when their female teachers molest them. (Or maybe when women in power over them on the filming set coerce them into giving massages?)

And as we saw all this happen – even as people patted themselves on the back and reassured each other that this wasn’t a witch-hunt, that it wasn’t an online mob working itself into a frenzy - 99.5 percent of the people who had been so very concerned with compiling and spreading everything and the kitchen sink during the initial feeding frenzy on Build went aggressively silent in the face of Build’s legal claims, including defamation, coercion and other abusive behavior by Poi. Suddenly, we started getting calls for circumspection and civility - aka silence - now that Build and his reputation and his career already had been savaged. Now that it was becoming evident that these same people were complicit in her abuse of him and had helped create the very scenario he said that she had threatened and kept him under control with. Now that they had helped an abuser get their satisfaction during what is traditionally the most dangerous time for abuse victims – when they try to leave.

Suddenly people were just done with all of this, just so very tired of it - now that the damage was done, and what was left was clean-up of the havoc they had helped wreak.

This fandom has done nothing to change my opinion that this whole debacle was never actually about genuine concern over intimate partner violence, but was rooted in shipwars - going all the way back to last summer, when someone went digging back through Build’s socials to find comments eight years old that could be blown up by Twitter cancel culture just as the Vegaspete storyline kicked off, VP was increasingly pulling attention, and BBB’s facetime was increasing. Not a single thing I’ve seen since then – since Build was identified as the soft target of the VP ship and discourse around him was poisoned by purity cancel culture – has convinced me otherwise.

People in this fandom took a deadly serious issue like intimate partner violence, and they used it as a tool for their petty shipwars, and they used it to get a little hit of self-righteousness, as a little “moral” crusade that allowed them to get their Two-Minute Hate on in a way that was deemed socially acceptable and gave them a taste of blood because it was wildly successful in the real world in a way keyboard slacktivism rarely is. It’s very telling, though, how much concern they actually seem to have for abuse survivors when they won’t even call out abusive behavior happening publicly, right in front of their faces. I guess some abuse victims do have to be perfect, or maybe it’s that some people do deserve to be abused, despite the claims when people were simping for Poi?

It’s very telling when their biggest concern appears to be using abuse claims as a cudgel to make themselves feel righteous - because it appears that’s all Poi ever really was, a tool for some people in KP fandom to beat Build with. If they actually, honestly gave a shit about her, someone would have shown concern about her mental health and whether she has any kind of support network at all, rather than egging her on, encouraging and amplifying her abusive and out-of-control behavior online. I’m not going to deny that I dislike Poi, that I’ve found her distasteful and incredibly off-putting since watching her behind-the-scenes behavior with the KP cast, including trying to yank Build to the edge of a balcony on a high-rise building as he tried to resist and laughing about being called out by Jeff for sexual harassment of a minor. But one of the things that I also found disturbing about this whole debacle was the way people encouraged and enjoyed - relished - behavior that ought to be concerning for her mental health.

And even now, I’ve seen people act as if the behavior that Poi and Build have admitted to in their statements was equally bad. Sorry, no, him secretly recording a conversation that was evidence of her abusive behavior is not equivalent to her faking pregnancy claims against him and insinuating that he was the reason she got an abortion or miscarried. I’m sure all abusers would love it if conversations in which they talk about their abusive behavior were kept private and secret, but I'm extremely suspicious of anyone who wants to act like that recording shouldn't be released - they should ask themselves why they're ok with abuse being covered up.

Would they call a woman who secretly recorded evidence of being abused a liar?

(ETA 5/15, 1630 - Several people have messaged me to let me know this post has breached containment and is loose on Twitter. I would respectfully request that everyone follow Build’s own expressed wishes - and mine - and do not engage with antis. This includes @ing specific people with links to this. I could have attached individual names to many of the bad-faith behaviors I talk about in the post, but there are reasons I didn’t. People have already spent three months punching down at Build’s fans, as well as at him. The behavior of his fans reflects on him - however unfair that may be - and must remain above reproach. That includes not picking individual fights. If someone is encouraging this, consider that they are likely a plant, a fake fan trying to goad others into bad behavior to try to make Build look bad. If I find out anyone has done this, I will block you. Thanks.)

#build jakapan #kinnporsche cast

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cherrycolored-punk · 1 month ago

Text

WADWSH - Chapter Two: The Date

Masterlist

author's note: surprise, surprise! it's here! This took a lot longer than I anticipated. I’d write and leave it alone until inspiration struck. While this is based on the movie, there’s still so many elements I want to change to hopefully make it true to how Eddie and Steve are. At least in my eyes. I feel pretty proud of this chapter and just hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it. Please comment or reblog if you did, support is always appreciated!

Also, here is the dress I'm describing.

w/c: 11.2k

warnings: just angst really

“You really chose some girl from Hawkins?” Steve rolls his eyes, face etched with vexation as he sips the whiskey Tad poured him.

He sits across from Jenkins, swirling the glass of brown liquor and picking absently at the fluff of the striped sweater he was still wearing from the shoot.

He had no idea his manager would have a hand in picking the finalist, assuming it was a blind drawing, and had to school his face into neutrality during his People Magazine interview when the news was revealed.

Frankly, he didn’t care to know much about the date and was looking forward to the night being over long before it even began.

“Nothing screams all American boy like a Midwest girl,” Tad states matter-of-factly, “and that’s what Hewitz wants for his next film.

“She’s perfect for the rehabilitation of your image. From a small town, works at a video store, an orphan…It is the best case if we’re trying to make you look charitable.”

Something twists inside Steve’s chest as he looks at the older man lounging behind a wide oak desk, attempting to light a cigar.

He shifts uncomfortably in the leather armchair he occupies, unable to discern the emotion that stirs in him hearing how his manager describes you.

And why did he care? He didn’t even know you.

“Yeah,” Harrington shrugs, “I guess you’re right.”

The older man grumbles and looks at him with a hardness set in his steel blue eyes.

“You guess?” He takes a drag of the cigar, coughing as the smoke fills his lungs.

“Steve, I’m going to be frank. If not for me, you couldn’t set foot onto another set.”

“What’s that sup-”

Tad cuts him off, pointing his cigar in Steve’s direction.

“You have burned nearly every damn bridge this town has to offer. With your drinking, partying, being late, going off script, the flings with your co-stars. No one has wanted to hire you, but with my help, we’ve managed to keep the door open—just a crack. We can blow it wide with this charity date and the magazine interviews. Call it Hollywood’s greatest redemption arc, which means more money for you and, most importantly, me.”

“Guess I can’t argue with that logic,” Steve shrugs and sips his drink.

“And you’d be smart not to,” Tad leans forward onto his elbows to look at his client.

“Steve, I’ve been in this business a long time. People don’t care if you are charitable, just that you look charitable. Despite the hoopla around him, Hewitz is no different. We just have to play his game.”

Harrington nods and gulps down the rest of his drink.

“I trust you.”

“You’d be stupid not to,” Jenkins laughs, the sound strangled by the wheeze that ripples through his chest as he tries to clear his throat of phlegm.

“And you’re not stupid, right kid?”

Steve’s face twists as he watches the older man cough and blubber over his words. The words he spoke mirroring what he’d always heard from his father.

Stupid.

Disappointment.

Let-down.

He stands and places his glass on top of Jenkins’ desk.

“Nope, not stupid,” he says simply, “Let me know when and where to pick my date up and pick somewhere nice to eat…maybe somewhere with entertainment so we don’t have to talk.”

He waves his hand flippantly, turning to leaving before Jenkins can reply. Fighting the urge to go to his favorite bar with his favorite Victoria’s Secret model to chase away the negative memories that had resurfaced.

Everything happened so fast.

The interview with the news was followed by a call from Steve’s personal assistant and a follow-up email containing your ticket information, making it all the more real.

You, a mega-fan, had a date with the actor whose poster was still on the walls of your childhood bedroom. The one from his younger acting days on Boy Meets World. It felt unreal, and you could not comprehend how the stars had aligned or how luck was actually on your side for once.

It made you nervous, antsy. Anticipating when the other shoe would drop.

Now you stood in the airport, palms sweaty and stomach in knots. Worried about the flight, the date, and what you would even talk about?

What would you even have in common?

TSA is backed up, and the Indianapolis airport is crowded. Throngs of people are lined up behind the metal detectors, taking turns going through security.

The mass of people makes you more uneasy, and you look at your watch. There’s only an hour left until your flight.

You glance around, your heart thrumming wildly in your chest. You grip the ticket in your hand and finally release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you turn to your friends.

Eddie and Beth had insisted on bringing you to the airport.

Well, more so Eddie - he had been adamant about packing your things into Uncle Wayne’s truck and driving the distance to the nearest airport in Indianapolis despite your protests. He was pretty sure your beat-up Honda wouldn’t make it, and who were you to argue with the best mechanic you knew?

“Well,” you begin with an unsteady grin, “I guess I’ll be going.”

You point an absent thumb over your shoulder to the crowd, gaze dancing between your two friends.

Beth squeals excitedly and throws her arms around you, gripping you tightly to the point that you can’t lift your arms to embrace her in return.

“You’re going to tell me everything,” she insists.

“The smell of his shampoo, his cologne, and if you hug him - you better tell me if his chest is as hard as it looks,” she sighs deeply, “promise?”

You roll your eyes affectionately and shake your head, but deep down, you know that if the roles were reversed, you’d also have a list for her. What does his laugh sound like? Is his smile just as dazzling in person, or is it better?

“I promise,” you chuckle.

“Good,” she squeezes you one last time before stepping back and allowing Eddie a moment with you.

He looks at you, a gleam of something you can’t identify lit in his chestnut brown eyes.

“Come here, you,” he grumbles and pulls you into a bear hug. It was signature Eddie; long, strong arms wrapped around your back and holding you close.

Instinctively, your arms clutch around his center, and you bury your nose into his shirt, taking a deep breath. The smell of his body soap lingers and makes your heart stutter in a way that worries you. In a way that reminds you of the crush that had been creeping up steadily since his concert.

“Be careful,” he mumbles as he presses a kiss against your head, and for a moment, you think he can hear your thoughts - a warning against your resurfacing feelings.

Eddie pulls away to look at you but keeps his hands on your shoulders. From the arch of his eyebrows, you understand what he means, and you know that he’s serious.

“It’s a charity date,” you remind him.

“Yeah, with a known Hollywood douche,” he huffs, “who knows what he’s up to, a-and don’t let him touch you with his slimy hands.” He lifts his own in a dramatic wave to emphasize his words.

“Eddie,” you press your lips together, trying to fight the smile that threatens to pull at your lips as you watch him.

“I mean it, Sunshine. He’s going to take one look at you and try something. I just know it.” He’s not even looking at you, his expression darting around the airport as he imagines the scene unfolding.

“Eddie,” you repeat, “It is a charity date,” you enunciate each syllable.

“Nothing is going to happen, and he’s definitely not going to be interested in me. The only thing I’m in danger of is saying something stupid.”

He shrugs his shoulder and nods his head slightly in agreement, his eyes meeting your gaze again with a hint of mischief. Your foot-in-mouth disease was very well known.

You gasp dramatically, and he chuckles, already bracing for the playful slap you would grant him.

“Hate to interrupt you two dweebs, but Sunshine here is going to miss her plane if you keep distracting her,” Beth interjects.

You look at the time on your watch again and back to the line, shit.

“She’s right,” you tell Eddie and give him one last hug.

“I’ll see you both in two days,” you point at them, and they nod, waving you off.

You join the line, already shrugging off your backpack to load it onto the conveyor belt leading to the x-ray machine. Despite how busy it is, the queue moves quickly, and you’re nearly halfway to the entrance when you lose sight of your friends.

They watch the back of your head, hands still waving like you can see them.

“You are so fucking whipped,” Beth whispers between her teeth, her mouth still set in a smile.

“Shut the fuck up, or you’re walking home,” Eddie threatens, his expression mirroring hers.

She slaps his stomach and turns towards the exit, power-walking in case he makes good on his threat to abandon her over seventy miles from home.

The four-hour flight in first class was everything you’d seen in the movies.

Flight attendants served you orange juice in small glasses and brought you breakfast on glass plates. You’d turned around, curious if everyone was getting the same treatment or if it was exclusive to the competition. All the first-class passengers were served the same, although they didn’t share the same look of surprise or excitement that you had.

You relished in its luxury, the experience of your first plane ride and trip out of Indiana. The realization that it was real and you weren’t dreaming slowly creeping in.

Once you land, you collect your bag from the carry-on bin above your head and follow the signs that lead you outside. You aren’t sure how you are meant to get to the hotel, but surely there are cabs here, just like back home. Los Angeles couldn’t be that different.

You freeze as you near the exit doors and pass a line of drivers dressed in suits. Slowly, you take two steps back and look down at the sign one of them held in their hand.

A sign that had your last name.

“That’s me!” You point with a wide grin and look up at the man. He’s tall, with a long beard combed and manicured, its length meeting the top of his black tie.

He repeats your name to confirm, and you nod once again.

“I’m Smith. I’ll be your driver,” he states as he folds the sign in half before pointing his palm toward the exit.

Your mouth falls open at his words, surprised that your prize includes a driver.

“Follow me, ma’am,” he instructs, leading you through the exit.

You follow him happily and nearly bump into him when he stops before a black stretch limo to open the door for you.

“T-this is for me?” You stammer, pressing a hand at your chest as you gaze around in shock, and he nods.

“I can take your bags,” he points to the one clutched in your grasp.

“Oh! Okay, yes. Thank you!”

You slide into the limo as he loads your bags into the trunk, eyes wandering over the interior, mouth still agape. On your right side is a fully stocked bar, and there’s a television playing E! News to your left.

Your mouth hangs open as Smith closes the door and walks to the driver’s side. He slides into his seat, adjusts the seatbelt, and checks the rear-view mirror.

His clear blue gaze settles on you, and you meet it with a wide, uncertain grin.

“So I heard you’re the lucky winner of that one contest,” he waves his hand flippantly before looking over his shoulder to ensure the street is clear enough to pull the limo onto it.

“Oh yeah,” you nod, “that’s me.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever been called lucky.

“Are you excited?”

You move your head back and forth, every muscle tense with nerves.

“Probably more nervous,” you chuckle and reach for one of the bottles of water stocked in the bar.

“Those Hollywood types can be a lot,” he agrees, his gaze trained on the road.

“You meet a few?” You ask and turn towards the window, gazing out onto the streets lined with palm trees.

It is so different from home; the lush green foliage replaced by sparse shrubs and a landscape of glass skyscrapers. The road is filled with cars, nicer than any you had seen in town, and every person you glance at has a cell phone pressed to their ear. A technology that has barely made its way into your small town.

It all felt alien, like you were a visitor from Mars and didn’t belong.

“Just a handful,” he shrugs, “but no one as big as Steve Harrington,” he chortles and glances back at you.

“It’s so intimidating,” your words have an edge of worry, speaking both of your surroundings and your impending date.

“If it’s a bad date, at least you got the experience?” He shrugs, his voice lifting at the end as though it were a question. As though he wasn’t sure if the experience itself would make up for a potentially disappointing evening.

“Yeah,” you whisper, words less than confident as the nerves claw into your throat.

You sink into your seat, the two of you falling into an easy silence.

The streets become more crowded the closer you get to the city, and the traffic becomes denser until the car slows down to crawl. You watch as tourists crowd Hollywood Boulevard, taking pictures along the Walk of Fame with disposable cameras in front of their favorite star's name. It all looks exciting and claustrophobic. More people were on this street alone than those who lived within Hawkin’s city limits.

Smith pulls away and further down the street, parking the limo along a curb outside a row of luxury clothing stores.

Versace. Prada. Marc Jacobs. Chanel.

They’re all here, but one of them stands out.

Dior.

You remember all the nights you and Beth stayed up circling red carpet looks and admiring the pictures that adorned magazines. The designer and the gowns always stood out to you. Their lines and silhouettes were beautiful, flattering everyone who wore them. You’d always longed for one, and now the store was within feet of you.

“Instructions are to let you shop,” Smith states suddenly, his hand gesturing towards the stores. “They are all aware you’ll be coming in; all you have to do is give them your name, and they know whose tab to put it on.”

“All of them?” You nearly choke as the words rush from your mouth and turn to him.

The man reaches into his suit, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. You watch as his eyes skim the page, and he nods.

“All of them,” he confirms, and you turn back toward the stores. Their signs alone intimidate you, keeping you inside the limo and unable to step outside the door.

“I’ll just be waiting here until you’re done,” he encourages, turning his body to look at you.

You grab the water bottle you’d been sipping from and begin chugging its contents. The most you’d ever spent shopping was fifty dollars at Hollister and you’d felt guilty for weeks. Now, you were expected to pick whatever you wanted from clothing stores whose cheapest items were in the thousands. You continue to chug until the bottle is empty, and you crush its empty plastic between your hands.

“Right,” you nod, “I’ll be back.”

Slowly, you pull the door handle with hesitant fingers.

Sunshine pours through the door, and you step out, looking back and forth. The sidewalk is less crowded than the ones down the road, with only a few shoppers passing you as you approach the store.

A nervous hand reaches for the handle, sweaty fingers pulling it open. The cool, manufactured air and the soft smell of jasmine greet you. The low hum of a piano plays on the speakers overhead.

Inside are tall white-tiled walls that compliment the pale wood floors—a neutral color to make the vibrancy of the dresses and accessories pop. Your head slowly turns and takes it in, still gobsmacked that you’re standing inside, about to purchase a dress.

You aren’t sure where to start, and the uncertainty is written on your face as a clerk approaches you.

She looks you over with a small grin spread across her heart-shaped face.

“Can I help you?” Her voice is soft, just above a whisper, and you shift uncomfortably.

“I, uh,” you clear your throat, “I need a dress for tonight, just not sure where to start.”

You look over her shoulder and towards the different showrooms, at all the options you suddenly have.

“You must be the lucky winner,” she surmises with a small nod, and you glance back at her.

“That would be me,” you affirm, gritting your teeth together as you take a deep breath.

“Well, I’d be happy to show you some options. We’ve just received some older pieces that John Galliano did for the house of Dior a few years ago.”

Your eyes widen at her words, and she can’t help but chuckle at your animated enthusiasm.

“I’ll show you those first,” she tilts her head to the right and leads you further into the showroom. Your head whips around at every piece you see - the silk, the chiffon, the beautiful cuts, and the way the dresses flow even on the mannequin.

If you were honest, you’d be happy walking out of here with just a Dior paper bag to wear.

The clerk stops in front of a few mannequins displayed next to another small rack filled with dresses. Immediately, your gaze drifts to a red dress sitting in the center. She follows your gaze with an appreciative nod of her head.

“I see you have good taste,” she grins and moves towards the dress, “This is from the late nineties, created by John Galliano. It’s supposed to marry old Hollywood glam with the minimalist lines of the time.”

You approach the dress, reaching an uncertain hand toward the fabric.

“Go ahead,” she insists and holds a piece of the dress out for you, “it’s crafted from a red silk satin.”

Your hand runs along the fabric, and you appreciate how soft it feels beneath your fingertips.

The dress is stunning, the bias cut allowing it to drape effortlessly over the mannequin and flaring at the hips. The neckline has a deep plunge in the front and the back, a row of buttons running down its side, adding a sense of antiquity.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper and glance back at her.

“Would you like to try it on?” She questions, and you begin to shake your head.

“I couldn’t,” you start, but she nods.

“You can, and you should,” she insists, “I’ll show you to a dressing parlor.”

You don’t argue and follow her into a private room.

Inside sits a small gray loveseat with a floor-to-ceiling mirror behind it. In front of it is a glass coffee table with a small pile of previous catalogs stacked atop and a bouquet of fresh, soft pink roses next to them.

Across the room is a set of drapes dividing the changing room from the rest of the space.

“I’ll bring you the dress,” you turn to her, “and a few other options to try on if you’d like to wait behind the curtain and change out of your clothes.”

“Thank you,” you nod and follow the direction of her finger pointed towards the white curtains.

You close the curtain behind you and begin changing, folding your clothes, and placing them onto a nearby armchair. Moments pass as you look into the mirror, feeling more and more uncertain as the minutes tick by until she knocks at the door to announce her presence.

“Here we go,” you listen as she places a few options onto the nearby rack, “and I have the red dress you were eying.”

She slowly pushes open the curtain and steps through, her back to you as she places it on a hook near the mirror.

“I’ll wait just outside the parlor if you need anything.”

You watch her retreating frame as she closes the curtain behind her, listening for when the door slides shut.

The dress stares back at you, its vibrant hue a stark contrast against the white walls, and you carefully approach it as though one wrong move could make it fall apart.

Methodically, you remove the dress from the hanger and hold it in front of you as you stand in front of the mirror. The color compliments your skin, bringing a new warmth to its tone. You slide it over your head, allowing it to fall over your hips and down your thighs—a perfect fit.

Your reflection nearly takes your breath away, and you can’t help the wide smile that spreads across your face as you take in your appearance.

It was the dress you’d dreamed up on those late nights spent with Beth when you fed into each other's imaginations of red carpets and awards shows.

You didn’t need to try on another one to know.

The clerk knocks on the door, and you step out into the parlor to open it for her, needing someone else’s opinion.

Her green eyes widen when she sees you, gaze dancing over your form and how the dress fits.

“It’s perfect!” She beams, “You have to get it, and I know the perfect pair of shoes to match.”

You resist the urge to clap your hands together in excitement but nod enthusiastically, closing the curtain behind you to change back into your regular clothes.

She leads you around the store, pulling the shoes she mentioned and various accessories, making sure you have everything you need for the perfect night. It feels like a dream, a nineties makeover montage sans a dramatic reveal.

You leave the shop with a bundle of bags and a freshly steamed dress tucked inside a garment bag, excited for the night ahead.

Family Video is quiet, and Mrs. Floyd wanders the Western aisle looking for her usual fix as Beth scans in a pile of returns. Eddie sits at the front, stationed at another computer to check customers out as they sporadically lull into the rental shop.

There’s a stark contrast in how the day feels, how the store feels quieter and bleak without you around.

Or maybe it’s just Eddie who feels your absence so heavily.

Mrs. Floyd approaches, the acrid smell of mothballs clinging to her and filling the air. Eddie does his best to breathe through his mouth as she slides her selection towards him.

“The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, huh?” He tries to make light conversation, but she only gives him a slight nod, her mouth set in a straight line.

Eddie makes quick work of checking the video out, plopping it into a plastic bag before handing it back to her.

“Have a great day, Mrs. Floyd,” he says with forced enthusiasm, watching her walk through the double doors before turning to Beth.

He scratches his chin, debating whether to ask the question that’d been plaguing him since you’d left.

Beth can feel his eyes on her and she continues to scan the tapes, her back turned to him like a stone wall. She feels a hint of amusement at his nerves, letting him stew until she’s bored of it.

“Spit it out, Munson,” she prompts, voice disinterested.

He rolls his eyes, swiveling his chair towards the computer and pulling up his email. Needing something to fidget with as the words force themselves out.

“What do you think they’ll talk about?”

He scrolls aimlessly and clicks a random email that catches his eye—not really paying attention to what he reads as he waits for Beth to respond.

She smiles at his question, a devilish grin that paints her features, and turns to him with mischief in her eyes.

“Who?” She fakes confusion, and Eddie grumbles.

“You know who,” he tells her, rereading the same sentence. His mind now split in two as he realizes what the email is about.

Beth approaches him, settling beside him and sitting on the counter. She swings her legs as she speaks, her voice singsong.

“I don’t think there’ll be much talking. Maybe kissing, groping. God, she’ll probably be wrapped in his huge biceps pressed against his-“

“Holy shit,” Eddie interrupts her, standing as the contents of the message finally hit him. His fingers press into his curls as he scratches his head, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

“C’mon, Eds, it’s not that surprising,” she chuckles, enjoying his display.

“Not that,” he waves dismissively at her and points to the screen, “that.”

She follows the direction of his finger and hops off the counter to read.

“No fucking way,” she breathes and turns to Eddie with excitement.

Beth grabs his arm, jumping for joy as though her legs have a mind of their own.

For a moment, they forget their rivalry as excitement bubbles around them. Eddie holds onto her, jumping along with her as adrenaline pulses through his veins.

“You have to do it,” she tells him, and he nods. He knew his answer before finishing the email, already knows that the other guys will be interested—more than interested. Eclipse Records was the best in heavy metal.

The two of them stop jumping, eyes trained on the flickering display of the ancient computer. Its white screen staring back at them.

All at once the realization hits him, truly hits him. He has a shot, Corroded Coffin has a shot, and the only person he wants to tell is you.

The limo sits outside the Waldorf Hotel, the engine idling as Steve debates whether to go inside or abandon the plan entirely. It’s five minutes past six, and he’s already late.

Would it matter if he didn’t show up at all?

He plays with a zippo lighter, flipping the metal repeatedly between his fingers as he stares at the building.

Too many things were already set in motion, and you were already here. The ramifications of standing you up weighed on him heavier than the dread he felt going on a date.

“Fuck,” he grumbles to himself, knocking on the window to let his driver know to open the door.

Steve steps onto the sidewalk, buttoning his suit closed and straightening his sleeves before walking towards the entrance. Two bodyguards trail behind him.

He ignores the people who watch him as he makes his way to the penthouse elevator. Eyes trail his every move, and voices drop lower in a whisper, but not a word is spoken directly to him.

Harrington taps his foot impatiently as the elevator climbs gradually to the top floor. Impatience grows within him, and he has to remind himself that it’s only dinner. One stupid meal, and he could dump you back off at the hotel, never to see you again.

The elevator dings, announcing his arrival, and he enters your room. It’s more of a small apartment than a hotel suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows cover the entire wall of the living room, a glimmer of the Hollywood sign in the distance. A long, white sofa faces a large plasma TV playing one of his movies. He can’t help but scoff, roll his eyes, and shake his head.

Of course, you were a mega-fan.

The sound of your heels pulls him from his thoughts, and he looks in your direction—his heart stutters when he sees you.

Steve’s hazel eyes trace over your frame, admiring how the dress you wear hugs your body and drapes over the flare of your hips. You aren’t what he’d expected.

At first, you don’t notice him. Smoothing your hands over your dress and fixing your cleavage.

Nervous and distracted.

“You must be my date,” he greets, startling you.

“Jesus tits,” you all but scream, hand pressing into your chest when you see him. Mind scrambling when you realize who is in your hotel room.

“Oh my Steve, you must be God,” you chuckle nervously as you enter the living room.

His face twists at your mix-up, amusement coloring his features.

“I mean,” you shake your head, “You’re Steve Harrington.”

“Were you expecting a different Steve?” He teases.

Your grin grows wider as heat creeps into your cheeks, and shake your head in response. Words fail you as the nerves settle into your throat and constrict your breathing.

“You are in for a treat tonight,” Steve starts as he leads you back to the elevator, “I got us seats at Nobu. You like sushi, right?”

You didn’t, but you nod anyway.

He’d already planned it. What could you say?

“Great! They have the best sushi in town.”

Both of you file into the elevator, the small space filling with the intoxicating scent of his cologne. Bergamot and amber.

Your thoughts catch up with you, the realization that you’re standing next to Steve finally hitting you.

He’s more handsome in person than on screen, his features matured from when you last saw him in middle school. More freckles line his nose and dot his neck disappearing into the color of his button-down shirt. He’s taller, and leaner, too—the soft swell of his muscles noticeable underneath his black dinner jacket.

The elevator dings, metal doors opening to a half dozen photographers crowding around the lift.

You cringe under the bright lights of their flashing bulbs, a hand reflexively coming out in front of you to guard your eyes.

Harrington’s bodyguards place themselves in front and on either side of you, creating a path through the reporters and to the car.

His driver opens the door allowing both of you to slide inside quickly, bulbs still flashing, trying to catch a glimpse of the actor.

“Is it always like that?” you question, eyes still trained on the men pressed against the vehicle—blotches of flashing bulbs staining your vision.

He follows your gaze and shakes his head.

“Sometimes it’s worse. Can’t even go grocery shopping if I wanted to,” and you can hear the resentment in his tone.

You couldn’t imagine it being worse or being hounded by a group of photographers hoping to catch you at your lowest moments, something that would make headlines or be talked about nonstop on gossip blogs.

“That must be awful,” you grimace, and he meets your gaze.

“Yeah,” he shakes his head, “you have no idea.”

Steve relaxes into his seat, eyes still trained on you curiously.

“So, you’re from Hawkins, too?”

Your smile grows slightly, and you nod.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, “I’m sure you don’t remember, but we actually went to middle school together.”

“Really?” He asks, eyes dancing across your face. You know he’s trying to place you, trying to remember where he’s seen you before.

“We had sixth-period English together,” you chuckle, “remember Mrs. Floyd?”

He snaps his fingers and points at you.

“That’s right! Mrs. Floyd,” he laughs, “Man, was she weird.”

“The weirdest,” you giggle.

“And she always smelled like moth balls,” he grimaces as if the smell lingered in the car.

“Still does.”

“No kidding,” he shakes his head in amusement.

“Yeah,” you press your lips together to fight the grin threatening to spread across your face and roll your eyes absently, “she comes into the video store at least twice a week to rent anything starring Clint Eastwood. The smell lingers for a bit after.”

He barks out a laugh at the mental image you conjure. Head tilting to the ceiling before he looks back at you. Your eyes drop from the intensity of his gaze but you can feel them searching your face, trailing down your body and back up again.

“Why don’t I remember you?”

You shift in the seat, body turning a fraction to face him.

“I don’t think I was on your radar, King Steve,” you chuckle, a quiet noise that barely fills the space.

“Oh God, I forgot they used to call me that,” he cringes.

“You used to rule the school,” you say teasingly, and he shakes his head.

“I did not,” he laughs, “I could dribble a ball and had a pool. The standards were low.”

The car stops and idles before you have a chance to respond, the outline of a restaurant seen through the heavy tint of the windows.

“Guess we’re here,” he gestures towards the gray brick building highlighted by the spotlights nestled between perfectly manicured shrubs.

His driver opens the door, and Steve slides out first, reaching a hand back in to guide you out. You stare at the opening, a worry growing as you notice the flashing bulbs and gathering people.

But Steve isn’t phased. He smiles at you with an outstretched hand, encouraging you to join him.

You slide across the seat, press your palm to his, and slide out of the car. His gaze locks with yours, and he leans close as you walk towards the entrance.

“Pretend they’re not even here. That’s what I try to do,” he whispers so only you can hear.

He keeps his hand pressed against yours as he walks you through the front doors of Nobu.

Paper lanterns hang haphazardly from the ceiling throughout the restaurant, creating a warm glow in the otherwise dimly lit space. The walls are sheets of dark chestnut, matching the planks outside, sitting vertically along the gray brick. Round tables are scattered about, filled with other restaurant goers.

Without prompting, a hostess leads the two of you through the eatery and to the back. Presumably to a private room. A few heads turn in your direction, various eyes going wide in recognition as you pass when they notice Steve but hardly pay you any mind, and for once, you’re glad to be invisible.

The hostess slides open a set of wooden doors to reveal a private table adorned with lit candles surrounding a centerpiece of red peonies. Behind the table are two chefs ready to prepare what you order, and the guilt stirs in your gut at the sight of them.

Steve pulls out a chair for you, gesturing for you to sit, and you oblige with a small grin. He scoots you in before situating himself on the other side.

“So, what��s your favorite roll?” He asks as he opens the menu, making light conversation as you decide what to eat.

“Um,” you open the menu and quickly scan it for a name, “Rainbow roll?”

“You like the raw stuff?” He asks, eyes still glued to his menu, and you gulp. Fuck.

“I was thinking of the rainbow roll back home,” you say flippantly and hope he buys it.

Steve can’t help but grin as he places the menu back down. He looks up and notices the concerned line forming between your brows.

“Where you getting sushi in Hawkins, by the way? They finally get something out there besides that rink-a-dink Arby's or Benny’s?”

You close your eyes and shake your head, knowing you’ve been caught, and place the menu back down.

“I’ve never had sushi a day in my life,” you admit nervously.

He nods with a knowing grin.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“And ruin the night?” You shake your head and rest your elbows on the table, leaning closer to him with a small smirk.

“Tell you a secret?” He asks, and you nod right away, intrigued at what secrets he could have.

He leans on the table, mirroring your posture, a tiny gleam of mischief in his eye.

“I don’t really care for sushi either. Not unless it’s got something cooked in it,” he chortles, “‘m not a huge fan of raw fish.”

“Then why’d you choose this place?” you whisper as you side-eye the chefs in the room only feet from your table.

“I didn’t,” he shakes his head, “my manager did. Something about fine dining for the winner,” he shrugs. His smile permanent, creating laugh lines around his eyes.

“I would’ve settled for a burger or pizza,” you tell him earnestly, your expression matching his.

The air feels loaded with an electricity that buzzes around the two of you, the rest of the world fading away as you share simple secrets over a bouquet of flowers—the scent of vanilla wafting from the burning candles adding another layer of sweetness to the moment.

“I haven’t had a burger in,” Steve’s head tilts to the ceiling as he thinks, “at least five years. Trainer won’t let me.”

He looks back at you, the glow of the candle highlighting the flecks of gold in his gaze.

“Well, I can keep a secret,” you encourage, and the mischief in his look intensifies.

“Make a run for it?” He questions.

“I won’t make it very far in these heels,” you laugh as the two of you conspire.

“Just got to make it to the limo, sweetheart,” he grins and stands, his hand reaching for yours.

“But we haven’t even eaten,” you look back to the chefs feeling bad.

“They’re getting paid whether they feed us or not,” he promises, “come on.”

Your fingers lace through his without a second thought.

He leads you back through the restaurant and out the doors, the limo still parked near the curb. Paparazzi caught off guard and not prepared for the abrupt re-emergence of Harrington.

He hurries you into the limo, sliding in right after you—thigh to thigh on the small leather seat.

“Step on it, Carson,” he motions with his fingers, eyeing the photographers as they begin to approach the car.

The driver is shocked but doesn’t question Steve’s sudden appearance, quickly putting the car into drive and leaving the restaurant.

Your laughs fill the back of the limo, each of you watching the photographers grow smaller the further you get.

It isn’t a quick getaway; the notorious L.A. traffic congests the streets, making it hard to maneuver at a rapid pace.

You settle back against the seat, and Steve reaches for the bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice at the bar.

“Want a glass?” He turns to you with a raised brow, and you nod.

He pops the cork and serves each of you, placing the champagne back in the bucket before resting against the seat. The two of you fall into an easy silence as Carson drives, seemingly aimlessly, through the streets of the city.

“Have you seen much outside of your hotel?” Steve questions suddenly around the rim of his glass, and you shake your head as you swallow down the bubbles.

“No, went straight from the airport to shop and then to the hotel.”

“Not interested in Hollywood Boulevard or the Hollywood sign?” He lists the stereotypical tourist spots with a roll of his eyes, but you grin and nod.

“Of course, but I’ve been dying to see the ocean. I’ve never been.”

“Really?”

“This is my first time out of Hawkins, actually,” you shrug your shoulder and take another sip of your drink. Leaving out the part that this was your first time out of Hawkins since your parents died.

“We’ve gotta fix that,” he moves further into the limo and taps on the glass divider that separates the space from the driver until the man rolls the partition down.

Steve leans in and whispers low enough so that you can’t hear despite your attempts to. He grins happily at you as he moves back from the partition and sits beside you.

“Just going to take a quick detour,” he tells you, and you raise a curious brow at him.

“Where?”

“That’s a secret,” he muses.

“I said I was good at keeping secrets,” you protest weakly, the champagne you sip going to your head and making you feel weightless. Giggly.

“Well, it won’t be a surprise if I tell you, will it?”

He smiles at you, a grin that makes your heart thrum wildly and causes butterflies to erupt from their cocoons in your chest—taking flight throughout your torso.

You can’t speak, shaking your head no in response with a small laugh. Unable to fight it from escaping your lips.

His hazel gaze is trained on you as the car winds through the roads and toward the coast.

“You’re cute,” he chuckles, bemused.

Heat floods your cheeks as you meet his gaze.

Did he just say that?

And when did you stop breathing?

You shake your head.

“Not even,” you say, and it isn’t self-deprecating. You just fail to believe that he sees you that way. That Steve Harrington thinks you’re cute.

He reaches a hand towards you, and suddenly Carson slams on his brakes sending Steve flying forward into you.

“Sorry, Boss,” the older man apologizes, but neither of you is paying attention.

Steve’s hand cups your face, an affectionate thumb rubbing against the apple of your cheek as his gaze dances between yours.

The moment feels like one you’ve seen before on the big screen. When the two leads finally kiss, the tension between them palpable.

Instead, Steve swallows hard and shakes his head, pushing off you and helping you sit up.

He clears his throat and looks toward the driver's seat at Carson.

“Are we almost there?” He questions and gulps down the rest of his drink.

“Pulling up now, Boss.”

Steve faces you again, reaching for your glass and setting it next to his on the bar.

“You’ll love this,” he muses, hand already on the handle as the car comes to a stop.

He doesn’t wait for Carson to open it, helping himself out before turning back to you with an open palm just like before.

You slide out of the car, greeted by the salty humid air. In the distance, you hear a soft roar, one you strain to hear.

“What is that?” You glance over at Steve.

“That,” he guides you further, “is the ocean.”

Excitement pulses through you, feet itching to run until land meets the sea. To feel the tide on your toes as it washes onto shore.

Steve can feel your elation, the happiness practically vibrating through your fingers and to his palm pressed against yours.

“Thinkin’ of making a run for it?” He questions, and you nod without a second thought, already reaching for the straps of your shoes.

“Going to join me, Harrington?” you ask, leaving your heels near your feet and lifting your dress slightly as you prepare to run.

“Are you trying to race me?” He loosens his tie and kicks off his dress shoes — leaving them beside yours.

“Are you ready to lose?” you counter, already running, trying to get a head start.

“Hey, cheater!” He calls after you, long legs picking up pace as the two of you run through the sand. It slows your steps, but you don’t stop, determined to make it to shore.

The ocean is in your sights, the sun long set, and the indigo sky glittered with stars. The moon hangs high, bright and illuminating the beach in a white glow. It’s mostly empty except for a few strangers far off in the distance.

You slow as you approach the water, wanting to take in the moment. To really feel the beach beneath your feet, how they sink as the sand becomes soft and wet from the water. The sound of the waves lapping on the shore grows louder.

Steve meets you where you stand, watching as you walk towards the ebbing waves and squeal when the cool water meets your ankles.

“Everything you imagined it to be?” He asks, voice low.

You’re already nodding, fingers grasping your dress as you look towards the vast ocean before turning to him.

“Better,” you insist, your words just above a whisper. Barely audible above the crash of the waves.

Steve chuckles, your excitement infectious. Reveling in the joy you exude.

The two of you stand there for a moment, your eyes on the ocean and his eyes on you. Each enjoying the view.

He moves closer until your shoulders touch, and you look up at him.

“This is perfect,” you beam.

“What do you think about a beach picnic?” He proposes, his thumb jutted over his shoulder and pointed towards a burger shack a few yards away.

“Beach picnic,” you dip your chin to your chest in agreement.

The two of you walk toward the stand nestled right on the edge of the beach. It’s a small, white wooden rectangular building just big enough for its equipment and supplies. Lights are strung around the canopy that hangs overhead, creating a warm orange glow.

There’s a small line, a middle-aged woman taking orders as a younger man flips burgers, and your stomach grumbles as the aroma of the chargrilled meat fills the air.

The others don’t seem to recognize Steve as they place their orders and wait near the other window for their number to be called.

“What looks good?” He whispers in your ear, noticing your eyes glued to the handwritten menu tacked above the order window.

“Everything,” you tell him, stomach growling again from the hours without sustenance.

“What can I get you?” The small woman asks before he can respond, pen already pressed to the order ticket.

You quickly eye the menu, glancing back and forth as you order.

“May I have a cheeseburger with no onions, fries, and a strawberry shake?” You ask her.

She nods, soft brown eyes glancing over your shoulder at Steve.

“And for you?”

“I’ll actually have the same, but can you add bacon to mine?”

It’s then that she looks at him with a tilt of her head, the question written on her face before she says the words aloud.

“Aren’t you Lieutenant Holden?” She points the pen in his direction, calling him by the name of one of his characters, and he chuckles, nodding his head.

“From Operation Petticoat,” he confirms.

“My mom and I love that movie,” she beams, and you can see the blush creeping into his cheeks as she goes on to praise his acting.

“Thank you, thank you,” he nods, “I really appreciate it, and I’m glad you like it. It was one of my favorites to make,” he tells her, and you stand to the side, enjoying their interaction. Watching as he signs a spare napkin for her, telling her secrets from the set and about the months he spent in Hawaii filming.

“Oh! How much do I owe you?” He asks, already reaching for his wallet, and she waves him off.

“No, no. It’s on the house.”

Steve shakes his head and pulls his wallet from his coat pocket, sliding a large bill out from the fold.

“Then you’ll accept a tip,” he reaches for her hand and presses the money to her palm.

“I couldn’t,” she begins.

“I insist,” he interjects, voice smooth and sweet like honey.

Her eyes dazzle with appreciation, and she finally nods.

“Thank you, we’ll have your order right out.”

“I appreciate you,” he glances down at her name tag and back at her, “Grace.”

The two of you move to the side near the pick-up window, and you can’t help but glance at him with a hint of affection.

“That was really nice,” you all but swoon.

“Yeah, she’s a sweet lady,” he agrees, not realizing you’re talking about him too.

“Is this a happy coincidence, or have you been here before?” You question, raising your hand towards the beach and back to the burger stand.

“This used to be my favorite spot. When I first moved to L.A., I’d come here every week. Made my parents bring me until I got my license. Being in a big city after living in Hawkins,” he pauses and shakes his head as he remembers, “it was a lot. It isn’t nearly as quiet as Lover’s Lake, but it was enough.”

You bob your head, looking past him and to the beach again.

“Do you miss it at all? Hawkins I mean.”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, “sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” you simper, “can’t imagine many people leaving Hawkins and ever wanting to go back. Not when there’s this.”

“This is nice, but it’s never felt like home, not like Hawkins did.”

“Well,” you shift your weight on the heels of your feet, “It’s not going anywhere. You can always pay a visit if you need to hit pause.”

Steve’s mouth opens to respond, just as your order number is called. He turns to the window and back to you before taking the short steps to grab the food from Grace.

“Come back whenever you want, Lieutenant Holden,” she grins and waves the two of you off.

You both leisurely walk through the sand until you reach a spot near the shore but far enough that the waves won’t meet you.

A comfortable silence drifts over you as you eat.

In the silence, your mind whirs with endless thoughts. You have so many questions, but there’s the fear that you’ll sound like a reporter trying to get the latest scoop. The thought restricts the words from tumbling out of your mouth.

The two of you sit and eat, not saying much except superficial niceties and commenting on how good the burgers are. Steve catches the way you keep it short, simple, polite, and it makes him grin. He can see the wheels turning in your head, the internal battle evident in the way your knee bounces as you take bites of your burger and glance around the length of the beach every so often.

“You know, you can ask me questions,” he teases, and you stop mid-chew, eyes wide as though you’d been caught.

“It’s not going to bother you?”

“Not a bit,” he promises.

You hold your burger in one hand and tap your chin with the other, pretending you have to debate what you want to ask him. As though you didn’t have a list of curiosities created long ago.

“Ok. Did you ever want to do anything besides acting?” You question, absently licking off the ketchup that dribbled onto your finger.

Steve swallows his bite and shrugs.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

He stops and thinks momentarily, and you watch him with amusement. The reality of your circumstances strikes you over and over again. Sitting on a beach with Steve Harrington, less of an enigma under the pale moonlight, his white button-down untucked and bow tie undone. Looking like the boy you knew many moons ago.

“I guess, if my dad had his way, I’d be some rising exec at his financial firm, but I’ve never really been book smart.”

You dismiss his self-deprecation with a shake of your head.

“Did it even interest you?”

He scoffs and takes a bite of his burger, quickly chewing to answer you.

“Not at all, it’s schmoozing and kissing ass. And I mean, I guess Hollywood can be like that too, but at least it’s something I want to do.”

You nod in agreement, knowing how easy it is to overlook the shitty aspects of a job when you enjoy it otherwise.

“What about you? Your parents ever pressure you to do something?”

“Uh,” you begin and laugh awkwardly around your burger, grimacing as you debate how to tell him the truth—hoping you don’t damper the mood.

“My parents died when I was eight,” you say plainly, “the last thing they pressured me about was finishing my multiplication tables.”

You chuckle, a little uncomfortable, and Steve slams his eyes shut. The memory of Tad telling him you were an orphan hitting him suddenly.

“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you shrug, “you didn’t know. I grew up with my Nan, and she never really pressured me about anything. Just soft reminders. Marry for love, live happy and true - whatever that means to me.”

“Smart woman,” he muses.

“She was,” you quickly agree, and he catches the past tense but doesn’t prod.

“So what does it mean to you?”

“My dreams are a little pedestrian,” you chuckle and place your half-eaten burger on the paper bag it came in.

“No such thing,” he encourages, admiring your profile. The slope of your nose, the apples of your cheeks, and how your lips spread when you smile. How your skin looks under the white glow of the moon.

You wipe your hands together and use them as you speak. More animated now.

“Well, I want a farm. Y’know, the land and all the animals. A ranch-style house on top of the hill. I always pictured a strawberry farm where people can come pick until their buckets are full and pay by the pound. Maybe even a tulip field. I just want something that’s mine.”

Steve hums in satisfaction at the image you conjure. He can practically smell the field of flowers, the sweet scent of strawberries mingling with the fragrance of the maple trees and the distant wheat fields. Memories of a past life in Hawkins coming to the forefront.

“Sounds perfect,”

“My own little slice of heaven or something like it,” you grin, intentionally drawing your accent out, and he chuckles.

“So what comes after acting, Mr. Hollywood?”

Steve rolls his eyes at the nickname, but the crooked grin on his lips says he doesn’t hate it. At least not when you say it.

“Honestly, I’ve never given much thought about settling down,” he reveals, “I’m always looking several months, years, ahead. What project will I do next, what brand will I collaborate with, what party will I go to…it’s nonstop.”

You nod, thinking of his life. Just what you see from the press, anyway. How he always has to be on for someone. A never-ending performance.

“Sounds…exhausting.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, and you glance at him, noticing how his shoulders have sagged as he looks towards the ocean.

“Have you ever thought about a…break?”

“God, what would that even look like?” He laughs, “I’ve been working since I was a kid. I don’t think I’d know what to do if I did take time off…When I could.”

“You have a big audition coming up or something?” You question curiously, taking a swig of your strawberry shake and looking at him over the tops of your lashes.

“Actually,” he begins, and you can tell it’s something he’s excited about, “I’m auditioning for Henry Hewitz’s latest film.”

“Hewitz?” You repeat, recognizing the name.

He’s a big-time director known for his artistic choices and his storytelling. His movies were always massive blockbusters.

But Steve takes your questioning as a glimmer of doubt.

“I know it’s far-fetched, like, what am I going to add to a Hewitz film? I’m just tired of being type-cast. I want to be taken seriously, to be in something I’m proud of.”

He looks away and out toward the waves. You watch the tension in his jaw and the stern line of his brow.

Maybe you’re crossing the line. Maybe this is too personal for the first night on some fake date, but you ask anyway.

“Are you not proud of what you’ve been in?”

Steve shifts and rubs his thumb against his chin, shaking his head.

“Can’t say that I am,” he huffs a laugh.

It takes you by surprise, his answer and the honesty of it.

“Can I ask why not?” Your brows push together, and you hug your knees, pulling them closer as you wait for his response.

“Well, definitely not going to win any awards being in one,” he shrugs, “and I just want someone to take me seriously. For something I make to mean something.”

“They already do,” you insist, voice just above a whisper. “Dramas, big epics, are great, but there’s a simple joy that comes from escaping in one of your movies-“

Steve begins to shake his head in disagreement, but you continue.

“Before you say it, I’m not just telling you that, and it’s not just the ones you’ve starred in. I know some people might think rom-coms are naive or not real cinema, but they’re idiots. Not everything has to be serious. It can just be sweet, safe…like a little alternate reality.

“I mean, some of us have already lived the heartbreak and just need an escape,” you grin at him, “so, of course, pursue what would make you happy. What you’re proud of, but…fuck anyone who says you haven’t already made something meaningful.”

Steve looks away from the ocean and back at you, an indiscernible emotion painting his features. You hold his gaze, your hand reaching out and squeezing his arm like a small hug.

“I don’t think anyone has ever told me that,” he reveals.

Your tongue clicks against your teeth.

“Sounds like you need better friends.”

He laughs at that, shaking his head.

“I would need to have friends in the first place to need better ones,” he jokes, but the words sink your stomach.

The more he reveals, the less glamorous celebrity seems. By his account, being a famous actor was…lonely.

“Well, I can be your friend. Even if just for tonight,” you offer.

“Just tonight?” He raises a brow at you, a small grin spreading on his plush lips at your proposal.

“Well, I’d say longer, but you’re a busy man, and I’m just a girl from a nowhere town. Not sure how we’d keep up with each other,” you laugh.

He nods and looks down at his feet in the sand.

“For tonight then,” he states, “it’ll be nice to have a friend.”

The two of you sit for a moment in shared silence, listening to the way the waves crash against the shore and the distant sounds of the city. The night has grown colder, the humid air nearly frigid and felt through your dress. Steve notices the way you shiver.

“Here,” he says, already removing his dinner jacket and draping it over your shoulders before you can protest.

His fingers linger on your shoulders, body leaning closer to you. Face inches from yours.

The material is warm from his body heat, the smell of his cologne stronger against the collar and you melt into it.

“Thank you,” you grin and face him, resting our chin on your shoulder.

Your eyes dance between the plush of his lips and the intensity of his gaze. Breath caught in your throat.

“You know,” he begins, voice gruff, “I can’t even remember the last night I had like this.”

“Burgers on the beach with a stranger?” you joke.

Steve’s smile is wide, genuine as he shakes his head.

“Just someone getting to know me. Most people, even in the business, like the idea of me or think they already know me. Either because of what the press says or the characters I play. When fans see me on the street, they want an autograph or a picture. Then they’re gone. To them, I’m Steve Harrington, movie star…I can’t remember the last time someone was genuinely interested in just talking to me.”

He pushes his hair back with one hand, the other still resting on your shoulder. Now that you’re this close, you can see the lighter freckles that dot his nose or the ones just under his eyes. Handsome in a traditional way, the kind of good-looking that landed him in magazines and on movie screens. The kind of pretty that made you a little speechless, unable to form an eloquent response.

You try to shake your reverie, gaze dropping to your lap and swallowing hard before looking back up at him.

“Well, that’s a shame, just Steve,” you nudge his shoulder with your own, trying to make light of how his proximity makes you feel, “you’re definitely more than just a pretty face and a high-profile career.”

Your words are teasing, but he likes the sound of them, the sound of being just Steve. No titles, no reputation, just him.

He leans closer, a hand reaching up to cup your chin. His thumb trailing across your cheek.

“You think so?” He asks, eyes trained on your lips, and you nod.

Steve closes the space between you, warm breath fanning your face—nose tracing against yours. Your eyes flutter closed, heart stuttering and slowing as the rest of the world ceases to exist.

The first press of his lips makes you gasp, your hand reaching out and clutching his shoulder for stability, but you don’t pull away. Your mouth following his lead. Soft and sweet, making you a little dizzy.

His tongue traces your bottom lip, and your mouth falls open, your tongue sliding over his. You pull him closer, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck. The intensity of the kiss rapidly increasing until it’s hungry and needy.

Steve swallows the soft moan that escapes from between your lips, one hand moving to your hip and pulling you closer until you’re practically in his lap. Fingertips digging into your soft flesh, their heat felt through the fabric of your dress.

You ignore the ache in your lungs, holding him close as you get lost in his taste. The heat of the kiss and how it makes you needy for more.

He pulls away, breathless, face still hovering above yours and watching you with hooded eyes. Pupils blown, the desire you feel reflected in his gaze.

“Want to go back to my place?” He asks and you nod without a second thought, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before he helps you up.

Steve’s white mid-century mansion comes into view as the limo pulls through the iron gate that separates it from the main street. Privacy hedges keep it hidden, away from prying eyes. Palm trees sit on either side of a perfectly manicured lawn, and landscape lights stream warm light against their trunks. A cherry-red BMW sits in front of the garage next to a black Porsche.

You can’t help how your jaw goes slack as you gaze up at it…his house. Carson pulls the car onto the circle driveway, and near the stairs that lead to the front door. Steve opens the car door, sliding off the leather seat and reaching his palm towards you like before. Your hand slides into his, and you hope to god your palm isn’t sweaty or that it isn’t shaking from the nerves that you feel.

His fingers slot between yours, leading you up the stairs to the front door. As he pushes the hard oak open, you freeze. Breath catching in your throat.

“You okay?” He turns to you, eyes bouncing around your face. Heat blooms beneath your cheeks, and you nod, stepping further into his home.

You glance around the open space. At the art that lines its wood-paneled walls, the grand piano near the staircase, and the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the backyard. Potted plants are scattered around: monstera and philodendron. It’s cozier than you expected, warm, and lived in. Smelling like vanilla and patchouli.

“You play?” You point to the piano and turn your head to him.

Steve stands in the kitchen, reaching into the wine cooler for a bottle and producing it with a smile.

“Just started learning, actually,” he reaches for the cork, popping the bottle before pouring each of you a glass.

“Is it for a role?”

You turn back to the piano and run your fingers along the keys, eying the music sheets. He comes from behind you, warmth radiating from his chest as it brushes your shoulder. Steve leans around you, placing the glasses onto it.

“Just for fun,” he whispers and turns you around until your chest is pressed to his.

You wonder if he can feel the violent thump of your heart as it crashes against your ribcage. Hear how your breath shakes as his fingers trace up your arms and back down to your waist.

He holds your hips, pressing your body against his.

“Man of many talents, I see,” you joke to calm your nerves.

His hazel eyes hold a warmth as he looks at you, amused.

One hand moves up to cup your jaw, his eyes affectionately dancing over your face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his words making heat erupt at your center.

Your mind wanders as he leans closer, lips tracing yours. Making your breath catch and get lodged into your throat.

He presses them to yours, kissing you fully. It’s sweet, less hesitant than the first, and you know, if given the chance, you’d never want to stop kissing him. Could spend hours memorizing the shape of them.

And you know that isn’t even in the realm of possibility.

The kiss grows hungrier. Needier. You follow the push and pull of his lips, just as desperate as he is. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as his teeth graze your bottom lip, pulling it between his in a soft suck. A breathy moan escapes you, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

But you’re not entirely present.

You could sleep with Steve, and there’s a large part of you who wants to. That can imagine spending the night next to him, tracing the lines of his abdomen as you fall asleep on his chest. But when you wake up, you know that’s all it would be—one night. And there’s a larger part of you that knows that wouldn’t be enough. The realization is like a cold bucket of water being splashed onto you.

Reluctantly, you pull away from him. He looks at you with a question on his brow, and you take a steady breath.

“I-I think I should go,” your voice is just above a whisper.

Steve swallows hard, rubbing an absent thumb across your cheek.

“Really?”

You clear your throat, clear your thoughts, and nod.

“Yeah.”

He nods with you, a moment passing before his hand leaves your hips. The absence of his warmth immediately noticeable as he puts space between you.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll have Carson take you back to the hotel.”

Steve holds his hand out to you, and you grin as you take it. His fingers automatically lace through yours as he guides you back out the door and to the car.

He stops next to the limo, running a thumb along your knuckles.

“Thanks for a great night,” you tell him, “it was…unforgettable.”

“Thank you,” and he says your name, your full name, with a hint of fondness that makes your smile grow wide.

He opens the car door for you, allowing you to slide in and get comfortable before he closes it behind you. You roll the window down, gazing up at him.

“Find me if you ever find yourself back in Hawkins,” you joke, knowing it’s highly unlikely.

“I will,” he promises, tapping the car's roof so Carson knows you’re ready to go.

You watch him grow smaller from the rear window as the car gets further away until he disappears entirely. You turn back in your seat and trace your lips with your fingertips, the ghost of his kiss still lingering.

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