#the old way Trailer 1 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

604to647 · 28 days ago

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Brandy by the Fireplace

7.8K / Frankie Morales x City Girl!reader

Summary: When your best friend's boyfriend invites her up to the cabin he owns with his Delta Force buddies, she asks you to come along.

Warnings: None! Fluff! Insecurity and anxiety on reader's part, but Frankie makes it better (anxiety/comfort. My anxious girlies (gn) who think everyone hates them when they definitely don't? This one's for you 🥹). Nicknames because it's me. Oh, and Tom's alive?

A/N 1: Written and very late for @auteurdelabre's Trope Off Challenge - the trope here is Fish out of water because, well you know🤭🤭 Can be considered a Triple Frontier AU, or set before the events of the movie. Though I'm not sure I'm 100% satisfied with this and the word count got away from me, I still think it's cute and very seasonal - I hope others do too!

A/N 2: As I understand it, the cottage v. cabin lexiconic difference is a Canadian thing. When people think of cottage country, it's primarily the luxury getaway experience in the Muskokas. Super fancy! Celebrities cottage there (the Beckhams, Cindy Crawford) and the properties are huge lakefront estates. While in Western Canada, people primarily have cabins - they're more rugged, remote. In no way am I saying that cottages are better than cabins! They are just different - both enjoyable and picturesque in their own way. But you gotta know what you're in for, cause of packing and stuff... 😅😅

Trailer / CABIN dividers by @saradika-graphics 😘😘

This was such an effing mistake.

You sniffle as you sit cross-legged on the simple threadbare sheets covering the thin mattress that you’ve called bed for the last two nights. You’re holding your favourite fleece sweater in your hands, looking at the scorch marks where flareups from tonight’s bonfire had jumped from the pit and burned multiple holes - the black charred spots on the fabric blurring as your tears finally spill over.

I shouldn’t have come.

A ruined sweater in and of itself wasn’t the end of world. But a ruined sweater here? Tonight? It’s just the freaking cherry on top of the already disastrous sundae that was this weeklong vacation so far.

And you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself.

When your best friend Jenny begged you to come with her to her boyfriend’s cabin for a week, you had readily agreed. You love Benny and he and Jenny are so adorable, if not a bit too overly mushy and cheesy (“We’re the better Bennifer! Woo - Benny and Jenny!!”). He and his old army buddies had gone in together on a cabin on a lake about seven hours out of the city at the suggestion of their Veterans Affairs therapist – something about working the land and finding serenity in nature to help them overcome some of the harder things they’ve seen over their time in service.

It apparently did wonders for them. Both Benny and his older brother, Will, who you had met a few times, were easy going and kind men - maybe a little rough and tumble with each other sometimes, but you didn’t see it as anything more than filial comradery and brotherly love. Jenny assured you that Benny’s other friends, Santi, Tom and Frankie were all cut from the same cloth.

Benny had invited Jenny up to the cabin for the boys’ annual Autumn weeklong trip – taking advantage of any remaining mild weather from the end of summer to clean and close up the cabin for the Fall and Winter. All the boys would be there and Tom’s sisters had been invited as well – Jenny begged you to come for support and of course you had said yes.

Sure, you’re a city girl through and through, but this wouldn’t be your first cottaging experience. You fondly recall the summers and Thanksgivings you had been invited to your college roommate’s family cottage in the Muskokas: crystalline waters and lush greenery bordered the beautifully landscaped acreage upon which your still close friend’s family’s 9 bedroom-9 bath modern estate resided. Summer days were wiled away on the built-in dock lounging and reading, and the cooler temperature evenings were spent inside by one of the several contemporary fireplaces, sipping on cocktails and nibbling on charcuterie. It was always such a treat to go - you haven’t visited in ages, but a similar getaway right now sounds like heaven.

Your first clue that perhaps this might not be the Muskoka cottage country experience you imagined, is when the last leg of your seven-hour journey in Benny’s truck was over a 30-minute dirt road so twisty and uneven that you started to feel a little nauseous.

When you got out of the truck, you realized the true folly of your assumptions about where you were going to be staying this week. The property could best be described as rustic and very "nature forward", the only evidence of landscaping being the dirt worn paths that led to the different cabins. Instead of one main house, there is a Main Cabin – consisting of a living room area, place to eat, kitchen and the compound’s one bathroom. All guests stay in individual cabins, isolated and spaced out at various points on the large property. Each so far apart and separated by the lush, dense forest, you don't even know where they all are: Upper Cabin (Benny and Jenny), Delta Cabin (Santi), Bunk Cabin (Frankie), Screened-In Veranda Cabin (You), New Cabin (Tom’s Sisters), Outhouse Cabin (no one), Grizzly Cabin (Will and Tom).

You’re not opposed to roughing it a little, but by the error of your own expectations, you’ve come thoroughly unprepared for your week’s stay. For one thing, your cabin (as the name would suggest), along with all the others, has no windows - only screens. Perfect for the hot summers, but with Fall coming early this year, the clothes you packed aren’t warm enough to shield you against the chill that blows over your bed each night. For another, you find yourself sharing space with more critters that you were expecting, and not the adorable furry types either.

The frog that came out of the one toilet made you almost consider using the outhouse up by the parking lot (almost). And when you were washing your face that first night, the realization that the running tap was the only thing that was keeping the cricket from jumping out of the sink, forced you to stifle a scream that left your throat hoarse. There are all together more bugs indoors than you had expected (since you had expected windows).

It's definitely more rustic that you’re used to, but you really do try to make the best of it. The last thing you want is to appear rude or snobbish about the decidedly non-luxurious state of your accommodations. Sure, it isn’t the glamourous cottage experience you had expected, but it’s still incredibly beautiful and serene here. Moreover, you know that every cabin and amenity on the property was built by Benny and his friends and has served incredible therapeutic purpose for each of them. You would never want to diminish that by somehow implying that the cottage isn’t… cottaging; this place serves a much more important purpose than impressing the likes of city girls guests like you.

You also don’t forget that the entire reason you’re here is to support Jenny. Make sure she and Benny have fun. And they are! Inseparable, giddy, googly-eyed fun. No way are you going to ruin her perfectly good time by letting her worry about you, not when this is the first healthy relationship she’s had in years.

And honestly, everyone is so, so nice. Benny and Will’s Delta Force teammates are as good humoured and sweet as they are. There’s Santiago (or Santi), the unofficial leader of the crew – his hooded brown eyes look like they could tell a hundred stories, but he keeps your group entertained with the loudest and most fantastic ones, always framing his stories so that they rib at least one of his buddies. Tom, the eldest of the friends, is more serious – the type who might exude an intimidating gravitas if you were to meet him alone, but next to the verbose energy of Benny and Santi and under the watchful eye of his sisters, he seems to relax, smiling pleasantly and genuinely while in the comforting presence of his friends. Will, who is just as boyishly handsome as his brother, you already know to be as easy going and funny - though maybe a little less goofy than Benny. Despite what Jenny had slyly insinuated to you before you left, you don’t think Will has any interest in you – and with Tom’s gorgeous and outgoing sisters both vying for his attention, the circumstances aren't right to try and see if there’s anything to Jenny's (and possibly Benny’s?) matchmaking.

The last member of the friend group is Frankie, who the guys sometimes inexplicably call ‘Catfish’ – he was noticeably reserved at first, though you soon realize that he’s just as funny and generous as the others. Frankie's steely and calm countenance seems borne out of necessity, likely from the many years of service where his competence and levelheadedness were needed to keep the other four in check, alive. You notice that he often sits a little further back from the group, most likely out of habit, literally watching their backs; he’s quieter and less rowdy, but never fails to join in his friends’ laughter – it’s obvious to you that he loves his brothers in arms. Once or twice, you think you feel Franke's deep, soulful eyes pointed in your direction, but when you try to meet his gaze, those same eyes disappear beneath the brim of his worn Standard Oil cap that never seems to leave his head. You think you probably imagine it.

Everyone is so much fun to be around, super nice and completely welcoming of you.

They just… don’t really need you here. Well, that seems presumptuous! Rather, there doesn’t seem to be a place for you here the same way there is for everyone else.

It was evident from the first day when the boys pulled a small catamaran out of the boathouse and attempted to try (again, from what you’re told) to put it together and get it out on the water. Every person was asked to help pull on the trampoline netting – when it was evident that your limited strength and poor (manicured) grip on the netting wasn’t actually doing anything except making you an extra body in the way, you were relegated to standing on the side, holding a spray can of lubricant and waiting to spray it on the track if someone needed. No one ever did. The trampoline never got installed, and you can’t help but think it was partially because you hadn’t been able to provide the additional muscle needed.

During the day, everyone seems to engage in some type of cabin maintenance work from an unseen to-do list: painting screens, sanding down the canoe, pulling up old raspberry bushes, fixing doors and hinges in various cabins, retiling the one shower and installing a new sliding glass door, replacing the hot water pump’s aging parts, reinforcing the mesh around the young fruit trees to deter deer, repairing the older slats on the dock, removing the beaver dam under the dock, and so on and so forth.

All things you have absolutely no qualifications to help with and would likely hinder someone who did if you tried.

Jenny wasn’t terribly handy either, but she tagged along with Benny on all his chores and he didn’t mind patiently explaining and helping her help him with his tasks - the two of them giggling and in love as they winterized the boat shed.

Everyone else seems to know their daily assignments and go about their hard and dirty labour, leaving you alone to… do nothing? It felt rude to sit out on the lawn and relax while others did work around you. And even inside there's not much you can do; Tom’s sisters had brought up food for the first few meals and when you asked them if you could help, they insisted that they had it in hand and told you to “go have fun”. You chastise yourself for having not asked more questions about what you and Jenny could have brought and if you and her could have signed up to cook your share of meals.

You hide out in the Main Cabin or in your own for most of the day, reading and feeling guilty - coming down periodically to chat with people but feeling like you’re distracting them from their duties.

Even after dinner when you volunteered to help do the dishes and clean-up, you were cheerfully shooed away by Santi after you couldn’t find where to put back the cutlery, then the glasses, then the lids to the pots (which were inexplicably kept separate from the pots themselves) – you’re sure there’s a system, you just don’t know what it is.

Maybe it would be different if you knew everyone better, but this is the first time you’re meeting everyone except Benny and Will. You don’t know any of the guys particularly well but you do know that this cabin is their special place – you don’t want be a bother or ruin anyone’s good time.

To you, it's clear that you’re not carrying your weight here - the last thing you want to be is a nuisance as well. You don’t fit in and you definitely don’t belong.

Tonight has finally felt a little more comfortable. After a full day of work for everyone (else) and a belly bursting dinner, the boys set up a bonfire and everyone got together to roast marshmallows and make s'mores. In addition to looking forward to the melty treats, you were secretly glad for the warmth of the fire in the chilly evening air. Beers were cracked, marshmallows burnt, and the stories the boys told had your sides aching from so much laughter you’re sure you’ll still feel it in the morning. But as the fire was dying, the conversation turned to what everyone’s up to tomorrow, you once again have nothing to say that's comparable to the tasks and chores listed by the others. When Tom comments that there are still so many things to do in order to properly winterize the cabins and that it’ll be a wonder if it all gets done, you look down at your feet - face burning from the guilt and shame of being unable to contribute when help is indeed needed. You’re sure everyone is thinking that you’re just a freeloader from the city, or worse, lazy and unwilling to put in some work. Suddenly the last few bites of the s'more in your hand don’t look as appetizing anymore.

You excuse yourself from the group and quickly get ready for bed before heading up to your cabin for the night. Once settled in, that’s when you discover that your sweater is full of newly burnt holes and you lose it.

Luckily, the cabins are all fairly far apart so no one can hear your crying, but your gratitude for the isolation and quiet of the cabins is short-lived; as it's been every night, the silence of the woods in the dark is deafening. So used to the ambient noise of the city, you find that every snap of a branch or hoot of an owl slices through the night and rings out as loud as a gunshot. You lay in bed like each night before, unable to get comfortable or calm and falling asleep only when exhaustion overtakes you.

The next morning, you wake to the sound of chirping birds and the brightness of the morning sun punctuated by the shouts and loud chatter from down near the water where people are already starting their daily chores. Another wave of guilt and anxiety sets in as you feel like you’ve had an undeserved lie-in - resting while everyone else got up early to do work.

On your way down to the Main Cabin, you see and wave good morning to Frankie who’s transporting relatively heavy chunks of wood tucked under his beefy arms. You don’t ask if you can help – how could you? Each stump he carries looks like it could topple you over even if you managed to lift one.

When you get down to the lawn, you catch Will and Tom’s sisters as they head up to one of the cabins with paint cans and brushes and Will cheerily calls to you, “Saved you some breakfast!” His completely innocent and kind pronouncement sends your already tightly strung heart into another spiral and you try not to tear up as you call back your thanks.

You eat by yourself from the plates left out for you and feel a little better when you can at least wash them and leave them in the drying rack. Pouring yourself the coffee that’s left in the cannister, you grimace at it’s lukewarmness, but you don’t know where the grounds are kept or even how to operate the ancient stovetop coffee maker to make more, so you make do and drink it sort of sadly as you return to the dining table and open your book.

It's here where Frankie finds you a few hours after you saw him last.

He asks kindly after your book before saying he’s going to make a fresh pot of coffee and offers to top you off; when you get up to help – he tells you he’s got it before disappearing into the kitchen. Slightly discouraged, you sit back down; unless you spy on Frankie, there’s no way for you to learn how to make the coffee here - and you’re just debating if you should do just that when he pokes his head back in, “Do you want me to show you how to make the coffee?”

Eagerly, you nod and hurry to join him in the kitchen, making note of where the fresh coffee grounds are stored and listening attentively as Frankie patiently shows you how to work the vintage contraption that Santi rescued from a yard sale. He smiles at your willing face, wondering why you’re so fascinated by something as mundane as their overly complicated coffee maker, but when you thank him, voice almost quivering with overly emotional gratitude, Frankie’s sure there’s more to it than he’s understanding.

He's been watching you, Benny’s girlfriend pretty friend, over the last two days and can't quite figure you out. It’s clear that you’re not used to roughing it in these types of conditions, but you don’t complain or make fun – though there is a tinge of melancholy and anxiety to the gentleness of your expressions that he does understand all too well. You seem sweet and friendly, and Benny certainly speaks warmly of you – but for some reason, you don’t seem entirely comfortable and Frankie wouldn’t be the Army strategist he is if he didn’t notice. Or a very good host.

“Do you want to go for a row while the coffee drips?”

“A row?” You look up, confused.

“Yeah, in the row boat. Come on – this old thing takes forever. We could probably get a good way to the middle of the lake and head back before it’s done,” nods Frankie, encouragingly.

This is the first time since the disastrous catamaran trampoline that anyone has asked you to do anything with them during the day, and you’re surprised by how touched you are by the simple gesture. Unable to find the words to express how appreciative you feel, you simply nod.

Frankie pushes the old tin boat that you saw him sealing and painting on the beach yesterday partway into the water, helping you in first before pushing the boat all the way in then jumping in himself, two big wooden oars under his arm. He sits across from you, locks the oars into the oarlocks and starts rowing; his powerful arms rotating the paddles with ease, slicing them through the clear, calm water and gently gliding the boat across the lake.

The two of you sit in silence for a bit, and you look over the side of the boat in wonder as the sand bed below slowly disappears and the water gets darker and deeper. Sighing, you contently breathe in the fresh, crisp Fall air and enjoy the picturesque view of the far off shores and mountains before settling your gaze on the handsome man in front of you. The ripples and flex of Frankie’s bulging muscles under his shirt as he expertly rows are near mesmerizing, every hypnotic stroke powerful and purposeful.

“You’re not having fun, are you?”

You look up, ashamed. You've been trying so hard to hide that you're not 100% comfortable being here, it's embarrassing to get confirmation that you've failed in this regard. Even if the others could tell you weren’t having fun, you hope you haven’t come off as an ungrateful guest or made any of your hosts feel bad. You’re about to say so and apologize, but something about the way Frankie’s looking at you, kind and soft and not at all judgmental or accusatory, gives you pause. It’s like he’s genuinely extending an opportunity for you to let go of what you’ve been bottling up since you got here – maybe that’s why he brought you out to the middle of the lake? Frankie's sincere eyes bore into your own and his gentle demeanor invites you to let down your guard; deflating, you burst into tears, “I’m not!! I’m so sorry, Frankie!!”

Hurriedly, you try to compensate, “Goodness, please don’t think I’m complaining – it’s so beautiful and peaceful here, and Benny told me how much effort you guys have put into this place! Honestly, your care and hard work really shows – everything is so nice. It’s just really, really different from the one other cottage experience I’ve had – so I didn’t even pack right. And I thought there would be a lot more relaxing and lazing around – I really don't know what to do with myself here.”

“Where did you cottage before?”

“The Muskokas?”

Frankie lets out such a loud, belly-shaking laugh that shakes the whole boat; you actually hold onto the sides afraid you might tip over, but find yourself beaming at having drawn out this melodic sound from the normally stoic man.

“Well, City Girl, no wonder this place was a shock to you! The Muskokas is a very particular cottaging experience – real pretty and real glamourous. But the rest of us? What we have aren’t even cottages. They’re cabins. This is cabin country,” he laughs good naturedly.

“Right - cabins!” you grin.

“Sorry to disappoint you, City Girl.”

“No, no! Please don’t think that - I’m not disappointed at all! I just came in with the wrong expectations, that’s all. That’s all on me, Frankie. Really, the cabin is lovely – I was just expecting a more… cashmere sweaters and brandy snifters around the fireplace kind of a vibe.” You hope Frankie won’t take your joke the wrong way.

Luckily, Frankie gives you another easy smile, one that reveals an adorable dimple in his right cheek you haven’t had a chance to notice before, “Yeah, we’re more of a bats in the ceiling, on-going maintenance kind of vibe.”

At this, your face falls and your own shortcomings to contribute when everyone else is working so hard claws at your chest painfully.

Frankie immediately clocks the change in your demeanor, “Hey, pretty girl, it’s okay.”

You look up at him with tears in your eyes, too distressed to notice the new nickname, “No it’s not, Frankie. You’re right – everyone is chipping in, helping out to keep this place beautiful and running smoothly, except me. I’m not used to this kind work, so I don’t really know what needs to get done… and even if I did… I mean you saw with the catamaran? I’m not strong or skilled enough to do any of it. I thought I could help out with some of the indoor stuff, like cooking and cleaning up, but I don’t know where anything is and everyone is so busy, I feel like such a nuisance bothering them even more in order to show me. So… I don’t know what I’m doing here – it doesn’t feel right to be sitting around and reading like I’m some kind of pampered houseguest while everyone around me is working, but I also don’t think I can add value anywhere. I just don’t think I belong out here with you guys. And I thought I was at least hiding it well, but it's obviously noticeable how much I don’t fit in because you rowed me out here to confront me about it. I’m sorry to be so much trouble, Frankie.”

You take a deep breath after your long speech and look down at your lap, more embarrassed than ever.

Frankie leans over from his seat, causing the boat to rock slightly and tilts your face up to his with two of his thick fingers, “You’re no trouble at all, pretty girl. It’s okay if this place is too rustic for ya. It’s really rustic… and that’s by design.” He smiles reassuringly, keen to comfort you, “I know Benny told you that this cabin is sort of therapy for us guys? We saw some... less-than-ideal things on a lot of our missions. All our missions, actually. The VA counsellors suggested that we try and work through having seen so much that’s been broken, and maybe even having done some of the breaking ourselves, by getting a project where we come together as a team to focus on improving and building. It’s meant to need constant ongoing maintenance and have a never-ending list of chores so we can put our energy into building up instead of what we used to do… tearing down. For the most part, the cabin has been good for us – working with our hands, being responsible for something that isn’t life or death, working towards a common goal where we can be together and enjoy each other’s company in a setting that’s not… exploding.”

Frankie chuckles at his little joke so not to scare you off with the intensity of the topic. He’s relieved to see that your expression is one of sympathy and understanding, your eyes warm and gentle. He thinks your eyes are beautiful, deep, kind – he might easily get lost in them if he didn’t remember that he’s supposed to be comforting you, “It really is meant for the five of us to be putting in the work, but I know what you’re saying, it’s not a great feeling to be left out, even if you know no one’s doing it on purpose. I’m sorry – we should be better hosts. You’re our guest.”

You start to shake your head in protest at this, but Frankie stops you when he picks up the oars and dips them back in the water to start rowing again, “Tell you what, it’s my turn to make lunch today - why don’t you come and help me. I’ll show you where we keep everything so you’ll know in case you ever want to… help out in the kitchen again. I promise you can ask me any questions you want and it won’t bother me at all.”

Perking up at Frankie’s generous offer, you nod happily, “Okay! Thank you, Frankie – that’s really sweet of you.” It’s probably the first truly joyful smile you’ve smiled since you got here and Frankie thinks you look radiant.

The two of you glide slowly across the still lake in comfortable silence, Frankie purposefully not putting too much power into his oar strokes. Trying to discreetly wipe your cheeks, you feel their warmth as you spy on the handsome man across from you through your tear dotted lashes. You feel so safe and cared for - your heart grateful that Frankie noticed you were out of sorts despite having only met you a few days ago and was considerate enough to ask after you.

His teasing voice cuts through your thoughts, “Is there anything else, City Girl?”

“Hmmmmm?”

“Is there anything else that's been bothering you while you’re out here?”

You bite your lip and shake your head; Frankie has been so kind, you don’t want to push it and appear to complain.

“Come on, I know there is. Go on, pretty girl.”

Pretty girl – there’s that term of endearment again. This time when you hear it, your heart swells and your face flushes – and maybe your thighs press together a little, too. To try and cover up your reaction, you spill your last embarrassing grievance, “Ummmm… it’s kind of spooky at night.”

Frankie booms another side-splitting, deep rumble of a laugh and you instantly feel better, “It’s just sooooo quiet and everyone is so far from one another. I guess I’m used to background city noises and the feeling of people being around. It's been a bit unsettling laying in the dark in silence, hearing every little twig snap.” You cover your eyes, “Plus I packed so poorly for the trip because I thought it was going to be a… cottage. I definitely didn’t bring warm enough clothes. I brought a TON of self-care stuff though – maybe I should try layering some face masks.” It feels so good to be able to lightheartedly make fun of yourself again.

Frankie laughs with you, then looks thoughtful, “Ok, ok, the chilliness I think I can help you out with. The spookiness… got to circle back to that.”

“Thanks, Frankie.” You mean it sincerely. Even having been able to talk to him about your unease makes you dread the upcoming night a lot less.

Back at the beach, Frankie hops out of the boat and reaches in to help you out - when your fingers touch his, a little spark lingers and your heartbeat picks up a bit. Hand in hand, the two of you walk back to the Main Cabin together, not letting go until you enter the kitchen.

---

After Frankie patiently shows you the pantry, the freezers, and where all the kitchen items are, he makes sure you have a passing familiarity with everything before the two of you make wraps for everyone. You find him to be endearingly funny, terribly sweet, and a wonderful conversationalist – Frankie tells you about his work and adventures as a charter pilot, and listens intently as you answer his questions about your work and life in the city. You almost regret calling everyone in for lunch, but the feeling of being able to offer people something after their morning of hard work has brightened your spirits significantly - it feels like a tremendous weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

You don’t know that the obvious change in your countenance fills Frankie with pride and joy, nor do you see the way he gazes at you with fondness as you cheerfully hand out the wraps or when you jump up after lunch is over and hurry to clear the table.

The next day, you’re returning from a solo walk along the trail that runs behind the cabins on the bay, when you come upon an unfamiliar noise as you approach the boys’ property.

It sounds like a loud and sharp sudden crack accompanied by a low manly grunt, then followed by a couple of softer thuds. The echoing combination repeats it self at slightly varying intervals and gets progressively louder until you come upon its source.

From behind a large Spruce tree, you see that it’s Frankie chopping wood.

Frankie repeatedly brings his axe down on the log pieces he’s set up on the chopping block with precision and power. His sweat soaked shirt is stretched taut across his broad back, the damp fabric doing nothing but accentuate the thick muscles that flex and contract with every burly movement.

Though Frankie’s breathing is heavy, you can tell he isn’t even close to being winded - his strength and rugged athleticism evident by the way he relentlessly labours on, splitting log after log.

Every subsequent swing of the axe captivates you further; a wetness pools in your mouth that you have to force yourself to swallow, lest it spill over and you get caught drooling.

"Wanna give me a hand, City Girl?"

Shit.

Emerging from behind what you now realize looks like a hiding spot, you give Frankie a sheepish smile, “Oh, ummm… you look like you have it pretty well handled. Not sure if I could even make a dent in one of those logs.”

Frankie takes off his signature cap and uses the back of the same hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead - he chuckles and his eyes twinkle, “Could you help me gather and stack the wood I split onto that rack over there? And bring me new logs to chop from that other pile there?”

You nod enthusiastically. Frankie’s making work for you and you’re so thankful and excited to help.

For the next hour, you run around gathering the firewood that Frankie splinters and set him up with fresh logs. When you apologize that it takes you so long to carry the larger rounds to him, he tells you not to worry – it gives him a chance to catch his breath and take a much-needed rest. You don’t tell Frankie that he doesn’t look like he needs any rest at all – your own quickened breaths have very little to do with physical exertion and more to do with ogling Frankie’s broad and brawny frame, and the way the entirety of his strapping body is thrown into each axe swing, every muscle engaged, tensed. It’s similar to the way he looked when he effortlessly rowed the two of you in the tin boat across the lake, but like… a hundred times more burly.

You try to distract yourself from openly drooling at Frankie’s sweat soaked torso by expertly arranging the firewood on the rack so that it fits perfectly together like a Tetris puzzle. When the last piece has been placed on top, Frankie marvels that the firewood storage has never looked more organized and with one hand still holding on to his axe, he takes your soft hand in his other and leads you down to lunch.

Over the next couple of days, you notice that Frankie goes out of his way to make sure you’re not alone or hiding out in any of the cabins.

He takes you out in Benny’s truck to run in-town errands like picking up additional groceries or getting gas for the boat. These trips are always filled with fun and easy conversation and end with a treat at the ice cream shop on the main road. Frankie teases you on how you always flit from freezer to freezer, determined to try a flavour you’ve never had, and you groan at how he sticks to his tried-and-true mint chocolate chip.

You’re getting bolder at offering to do the indoor, more domestic tasks and chores that you know you have the skills to handle like making meals and cleaning up; more often than not, without you asking, Frankie will join you in the kitchen. Even though you tell him to relax and that he deserves rest after his physical exertions of the day, Frankie stays and hangs out - casually drying dishes, tasting your sauces, leaning his massive figure against the counter and discreetly pointing to various cabinets and drawers when you forget where things go.

Frankie makes you laugh with his quippy jokes and clever little observations, and he makes your cheeks warm with his subtle and sweet flirting. But mostly, he makes you feel so included, relaxed and accepted – his kindness at having taken you under his wing and giving priority to your comfort and enjoyment at the cabin makes your heart positively sing.

Since the day he took you out on the rowboat, Frankie has come to visit you in the Screened-In Veranda cabin every night. The first night, it’s to bring you extra blankets and one of his thick hoodies – all of it you accept gratefully; he also brings a pack of playing cards and the two of you play Big Two until you can barely keep your eyes open. Making sure you're bundled up in his hoodie, Frankie leaves you to sleep under a comically thick stack of blankets and happily swathed in his manly musk.

The next night, he brings you an old worn box of Rummy-O, explaining that he and the boys try to buy old games from garage sales to bring up to the cabin, even ones they’ve never played before. You’ve never played either, and for the next few nights, you and Frankie spread the tiles over your bedspread and become Rummy-O experts, stopping only when you’re too tired to keep playing - then and only then does Frankie leave you before traipsing back to his own cabin.

Embarrassingly, it takes you until tonight to figure out what he's up to.

“I know what you’re doing,” you grin in the dimly lit cabin as Frankie dons a Korean face mask and lets you give him a cuticle oil treatment.

“I’m getting pampered,” Frankie murmurs from where he lays, careful not to move his face lest the sheet mask slips.

“You’ve been keeping me company every night until I get sleepy so I don’t have to lie here in the dark and be scared,” you look at him warmly, in awe of this tender-hearted man’s goodness.

You see one eye open in the eye hole cut-out of the mask and the corners of the one for the mouth tug up a little, “Has it been working?”

“Yes and thank you. And I think your hoodie and the blankets you brought really helped too – the nights feels way cozier now.”

“Good. I’m glad. Now do you have anything that’s going to help with these bags under my eyes?”

You cackle, sure that the sound of your and Frankie’s joint laughter must carry clear across the lake.

It’s the last night at the cabin and the whole group is out tonight for another bonfire. You’re nice and snug in Frankie’s hoodie, giggling with Jenny, who you feel like you’ve barely seen this whole week – she fills you in on all eight hundred of the adorable things Benny has done for her this week and you’re over the moon seeing her so completely in love. The entire group is in great spirits, toasting to another successful season at the cottage, all the shared memories, new and old stories to tell, and the delicious food eaten over this week. Your dinners for the latter half of the week are praised, and when you bury your face in the oversized sleeves of Frankie's hoodie in embarrassment, you feel his strong arm curl proudly around your shoulders and you positively kvell.

The drinks flow liberally tonight with no one needing to wake up early and the only chore on anyone’s list being packing. About halfway through tonight’s bonfire, Frankie slips away from the group; everyone is too caught up in their own conversations to notice it, but you immediately miss having his comforting presence close by. You’re just about to ask Jenny for the tea on why Tom’s sisters seemed to be giving Will the cold shoulder when you hear Frankie’s dulcet baritone low in your ear, “Hey, City Girl, can I show you something?”

Getting up, you leave the others at the bonfire and follow Frankie back into the Main Cabin. He ushers you towards the main living room and when you enter, the sight that greets you stops you in your tracks with a gasp. The darkened room is lit bright and warm from the fire that Frankie’s laid in the fireplace, the flames crackling slow and calm – he must have been stoking it for a while. In front of the glowing fire is a little carpeted area with cushions arranged purposefully to create a makeshift sitting area. In the middle sits two brandy snifters filled with an amber gold liquid.

“Frankie, what’s all this?” you exclaim, eyes bright as you turn to look at the handsome, affectionate man who brought you here.

Gesturing for you to sit down in front of the gently roaring fire and handing you one of the glasses as you settle in, Franke shyly explains, “Wasn’t able to swing any cashmere sweaters, but I wanted to give you your brandy by the fireplace cottage experience.”

Rendered speechless by how cute and thoughtful Frankie is - all you can do is give him a doe-eyed look of awe as you sip the liquor he managed to procure. For you.

“Thank you, Frankie. This is perfect. But if I’m being honest, I’ve quite warmed up to the cabin experience,” you tease.

“Good,” the tenor of Frankie’s voice is warm with the undercurrent of what’s not yet been spoken out loud.

As you both enjoy your fireside libations, you joke and flirt, keeping the conversation light - somehow tip-toeing around what’s happening between the two of you. Your bodies, though, pay your shyness no mind, inching closer and closer until you’re practically in Frankie’s lap. The conversation grows quieter as words are replaced by looks of longing and want until all you seem to be doing is studying the dark and rough lines of Frankie’s face, the plushness of his lips, the adorable heart shaped patch in his facial scruff.

With one final sip of brandy, the soothing burn of the liquor down your throat gives you that final push of liquid courage and you drop your gaze from Frankie’s soft chocolate brown eyes down to his waiting mouth. Not so innocently, you lick you lips at the sight.

Then Frankie is on you, crashing his lips to yours – the empty snifters rolling away on the carpet as you pour yourself into his mouth, open wide and inviting. This first kiss is nothing short of sensual and desperate, the feelings that have been simmering over the past week boiling over until you’re both a mess of tongues, moans and clashing teeth.

“Oh Frankie,” your soft whimpers a welcomed song to his ears, Frankie returns your sentiments by licking behind your teeth, exploring and stroking into your receptive mouth with a fiery passion. His hands maneuver you to straddle him so that he can better feel you, roaming your back until one hand comes to a rest at the nape of your neck, the other under one of the pert globes of your ass, using them as leverage to press you flush against his chest.

As your hands go to run through Frankie’s soft waves, you knock his favourite cap onto the ground and you giggle loudly when it lands near the now forgotten brandy snifters with a little thud. Frankie feels himself harden at the melodic sound.

You make out like teenagers, tongues dancing and teeth nibbling until you both run out of air and have no choice to break apart, panting.

“Been wanting to do that since I saw you your first day here, City Girl,” admits Frankie, eyes tender and sincere as he rests his forehead against yours.

Leaning in to lightly peck his lips, you’re surprised but can’t help teasing, “What took you so long, Morales?”

Frankie chuckles, though his eyes flash with a bolt of insecurity, “Wasn’t sure you would want to. Benny said something about how he wanted to try and set you up with Will.”

Your face scrunches up with astonishment - so Jenny wasn’t just being facetious! But you quickly cup Frankie’s face and run your thumbs reassuringly through his adorable scruff, “I don’t know anything about that. But what I do know is that I can’t resist a kind hearted, handsome man who goes out of his way to take care of me, never judges me and makes me feel comfortable without pushing me to be someone I’m not. You, Frankie – I can’t imagine wanting anyone but you to kiss me.”

Taking this as the invitation it is, Frankie slots his mouth over yours once more. This second kiss is slower, deeper, and full of promise. You sigh as Frankie’s tongue slides over yours in a slow and intimate waltz and his lips find yours again and again and again.

“Querida,” he murmurs, “when we get back to the city, can I take you out to dinner?”

Grinning at having earned yourself another nickname, you tuck yourself into the nook under Frankie’s chin and press one, two, three soft kisses to his neck while nodding, “I’d love that, Frankie.”

The next morning you wake up well rested, with a strong arm banded over your body and Frankie’s hard chest pressed up against your back. Slipping slowly back to consciousness, you can’t help but smile as the memories of the previous night come flooding back. Frankie came back up to your cabin with you and stayed to keep you company as he had the previous nights, but instead of games or spa treatments, he kept you awake with the hard and soft kisses of his expert mouth and innocent touches that by the end of the night, didn’t feel quite so innocent anymore. Lips swollen after hours of making out, Frankie had tucked in with you under the covers and held you close, lulling you to sleep with evenness of his breathing and the soothing rise and fall of his chest. Rolling over, you find Frankie already slowly blinking awake, “Good morning, City Girl. Did you sleep okay?”

You nod into his shoulder, “Slept perfect, Frankie. Coziest night here with my own personal furnace.”

Frankie chuckles, “I like waking up with you like this, pretty girl. Like seeing you wearing my clothes, too.”

Shyly, you gaze into Frankie’s eyes, heart beating faster at his look of adoration, “I like it too, Frankie. Waking up with you, wearing your clothes.”

After some tender and sweet kisses under the covers, the two of you manage to get out of bed so you can pack and get ready for the trip home.

Right before he closes the door to the Screened-In Veranda Cabin, Frankie turns around, “Wanna ride with me on the way back, City Girl?”

“Sure! What about Santi and Will?” You can’t help but get excited about the prospect of a long road trip with Frankie.

“They can go with Benny. Or Tom. Well at least Santi can ride with Tom. Don’t think Tom’s sisters will let Will into Tom’s truck,” Frankie looks genuinely amused and you once again spot that cute dimple make an appearance in his right cheek.

“Omigod! I meant to ask Jenny about that – what happened??”

Frankie throws you a heart-stopping wink, one that nearly sends your knees buckling, “Tell you on the way home, querida.”

---

A few hours later, everyone’s packed bags are stowed in their respective cars, the cabins locked, boats put away for the winter, and sheets and laundry stripped to go back to the city to be cleaned.

“Ready to go, City Girl?” grins Frankie, “Bet you can’t wait to get home.”

Buckling your seatbelt and looking fondly at the sweet man who made sure you felt seen and cared for this week, you say, almost wistfully, “It’s not that bad here.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your lips, Frankie nuzzles your nose affectionately with his before putting the car in reverse. Steering the wheel one-handedly with his other big paw cupping the back of your headrest, he winks, “Cottage country ain’t got nothing on cabin country, am I right, querida?”

You giggle as he straightens out the car and take the hand that Frankie’s holds out to you over the centre console, “Only the cashmere sweaters, but other than that, nothing.”

Frankie brings your hand up to his lips, placing a sweet kiss to your knuckles as he starts down the windy dirt road in the direction of the city, “An easy fix for next time, City Girl.”

Biting your lip to keep from smiling too much, you nod happily in agreement. Next time.

#tropeoff2024 #frankie morales #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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capslocked · 1 year ago

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run.

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you.

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst.

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth:

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?"

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven.

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks.

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music.

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart.

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

#wooah smut #nana smut #kwon nayeon smut #el7z up smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember #woo ah smut #woo ah nana smut

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wynnyfryd · 1 year ago

Text

Trailer park Steve AU part 10

part 1 | part 9 | ao3

cw: recreational drinking

When they get to Eddie’s trailer, Steve’s mom is sitting on the couch, eyes unblinking as she watches the TV.

There’s just static on the screen.

“Steve?” she slurs when she finally realizes they’re there. Sways a little when she stands. There’s a dreamy quality to her voice, a blank look on her tired face: agreeable but distant, a smudge of campfire smoke curling far over the trees.

Double-dosed her pills again. Jesus Christ.

“Oh, Stevie, baby, it was just awful.” She reaches out for him, and he wishes he could find comfort in the way she cups his elbows with delicate hands. Wishes he could lean into her touch and offer comfort in return, but her tone is so dull and mild that bile rises in his throat. Chemical calm bullshit, and Steve has had enough.

“Ma, just…” he sighs, shrugging her off. Scrubs a hand over his face. Too young and too old for this. “Just go home, okay?” The street is quiet again, all the neighbors tucked back in their houses now that the show has run its course. He doesn’t think anyone will notice her stumbling across the road. “Get some rest. I’ll be over in a bit.”

“Sure, baby.” He leads her to the door, and she turns there on the threshold, eyes glassy and unfocused; looks through him like he’s a ghost. Then her gaze shifts around the room — the hats, the mugs, the clutter; the lived-in explosion of color that Steve’s annoyed he likes so much — like she’s just seeing it all for the first time, and absently, she murmurs, “This place is dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Mom.”

“Hmm?” she asks, but she’s already drifting out the door.

Steve’s face is on fire. He stands there for a moment, just staring dumbly out into the dark. What the hell is wrong with her??

Behind him, Eddie snorts. "Oh, she’s on the good shit, huh?”

Steve whips his head around. Eddie’s eyes are full of mirth, his dimple peeking out, and it startles a laugh out of Steve. He thinks maybe he’d take offense if he weren't so busy being mortified.

But also, like.

It is a little funny.

Or maybe it’s so unfunny that it circles back around.

“Jesus, man,” he huffs, “Sorry. I don’t— I don’t know why she…”

“S’fine,” Eddie says with a casual flick of his wrist. Seems like he means it. He rocks back on his heels, hands in his back pockets, just sort of eyeing Steve up. Assessing. Running his tongue over his lips. They're big, for a guy's. “…You want a beer?”

“Fuck.” That sounds so nice. “Yeah. Please.”

“Have a seat.”

Steve takes the offer when Eddie nods at the couch, too tired to do the whole song and dance of ‘oh heavens no, I couldn’t possibly impose.’ Who’s got the energy for that?

The couch is old. His skull thuds against the un-cushioned back when he sinks down into it, but he’s too tired to care. Worn out as the lumpy springs under his ass, the frayed fabric beneath his arm. A wave of exhaustion rattles his bones, reverberates in his teeth. He thinks he could sleep for sixteen years.

Eddie clears his throat when he comes back with the beers, a sudden cautiousness about him as he hands Steve an unopened can like Steve might claw him in return.

"Sit down," Steve rolls his eyes. "I'm not gonna bite."

Eddie makes a strangled noise. The springs bounce as he plops onto the seat beside Steve, sitting sideways with one leg up on the couch between them, his arm resting on the back. "So, ah...." He gives a wavering chuckle; pulls a lock of hair across his face to hide himself. "Is this the part where I formally apologize for trying to knife you?"

Ugh. No the fuck it isn't. Steve’s too drained for it, absolutely at capacity for more serious shit this evening, thanks; and besides that, it was...

Whatever. It's old news.

Instead of giving a real answer he reaches into his pocket, snicks his own knife open and pretends to brandish it at Eddie, asking, "Eye for an eye?"

Eddie's eyes go huge. "Dude, what the fuck??"

"Just fucking with you," Steve laughs, lifting the can up to his mouth. "But there; now we're even. Shoulda seen your face."

“Ah—!” Eddie’s jaw drops in offense. “Ex-cuse you!”

God, of course he’s more dramatic than all the kids combined.

Steve jabs the knife into his beer, pops the top and starts to chug, throat working as he gulps the whole thing down in four big sips. It tastes like frothy, bitter piss, but it's cold and it soothes the scratch in his throat.

Eddie lets out a low whistle. "Well, goddamn, Harrington."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" "You're not?"

Steve grins and wipes his mouth.

—

They get drunk pretty fast (Eddie refused to be upstaged in his own house, so one shot-gunned beer became two became four), and somewhere along the line the conversations get weird; hilarious and dumb. Saying shit just to say it, chipping away at the ice wall between them with bare fingernails.

Eddie hollers some shit like: "What are you even talking about?" and his arms fling out wide, almost spilling his beer. "The deep sea is so much scarier than the mountains!"

"Are you joking?" Steve throws back. "The mountains have, like, giant cats and shit! Birds of prey with wingspans the size of your van."

"Yeah, and the deep sea has eldritch monsters that live in volcano vents and hunt with no eyes and eat their young for fun or whatever the fuck. You ever heard of an anglerfish? Or a phantom anglerfish? Tell me that shit isn't right out of a Lovecraft story."

"A what story?"

"How am I the one who hasn’t graduated yet?"

Then later:

“Dude, Batman? Seriously?”

“He’s the world’s greatest detective!”

“He’s a greasy little weirdo. You only like him because of your whole…” Steve gestures at his tattoos.

“Whatever, Spiderfan.”

And later still:

"Okay, okay, okay. Fuck, marry, kill... Shit. Y’know this would really be easier in a town where so many people hadn’t died."

Steve grimaces at himself; expects Eddie to call him out. It’s too insensitive, too soon.

Eddie just cracks a grin and suggests, "Fuck, marry, revive?"

—

They talk for a long time. Eddie's kind of charming when he's not being a dick. A nice smile, deep laugh lines. Steve can almost see why the kids are so obsessed with him. He's never met someone so animated; feels like he's talking to a Saturday morning cartoon. The conversation mellows out after a while, and he doesn't realize he's dozed off until Eddie shakes him awake.

"Hey, man," he says, voice just above a whisper. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to crash on the couch, but, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I mean, your back is probably gonna hate you for it."

Steve rubs his fists against his eyelids and blinks himself awake. Feels jittery and weird, yanked out of the start of a bad dream. When he looks up he sees that he’s got his shoes up on the couch; and there’s dried drool on his chin, and all at once he feels embarrassed, off-balance and panicked like he missed the last step down a steep flight of stairs. Of course he's overstayed his welcome. He's being fucking rude. "My bad," he mutters as he jumps up off the couch. Stands up way too fast, makes his vision tilt and swirl. "I'll get out of your hair."

Eddie reaches for his arm. "Dude,” he says, “you're fine. You can stay if you want.”

Steve moves out of his hold. “Nah, get some sleep; I’ll see ya around.”

Eddie frowns at him, a little furrow between his brows, and somehow Steve feels like he’s in the wrong, like Eddie isn’t the one who just kicked him out.

Like maybe Steve’s just running away for a second time in one night. Always back and away, this guy.

Who's the fucking coward now?

—

part 11

y'all know the drill, tagging whoever commented on yesterday's installment provided your tumblr settings let me <;3 @thealwithnoname @violetsteve @manda-panda-monium @stuftzombie @bronwenmarie @aliea82 @slowandsteddie @acedorerryn @anne-bennett-cosplayer @ahsokatanoss @steveshairspray @hallucinatedjosten @estrellami-1 @ppunkpuppyy @stevesbipanic @silver-snaffles @yourmom-isgay @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @zombiecreatures @im-a-disgrace-to-humanity @faery-god @hotluncheddie @runninriot @a-little-unsteddie @teatimeeverybody @newtstabber @pearynice @hellion-child @cuips-not-cute @steddieas-shegoes @steves-strapcollection @loguine-linguine @griefabyss69

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #tw: alcohol #tw: drinking

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rebelspykatie · 3 months ago

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Part 3

Part 1 - Part 2

Eddie’s pretty sure he’s never thought about kissing another guy. He rarely thinks about kissing anybody. For the longest time, he was convinced that no one would ever want to kiss him, so he never saw the point in dwelling on it.

But maybe that was unusual. He might have mistaken his apathy for normalcy when really he’s the freak. The average person probably thinks about kissing an awful lot. He’s listened to Jeff talk about asking out Lacy from his calculus class and Gareth go on and on about how unfair it is that he can’t make out with his boyfriend behind the bleachers to know that the average high schooler is pretty horny.

Yet, Eddie’s childhood wasn’t littered with school yard crushes. There aren’t fond memories of girls that he imagined sneaking off with during lunch period or recess. There’s just…nothing. A part of that was his rocky childhood and jumping from his parents, to just his dad, to Wayne. But a lot of it was pure disinterest in the hottest girl in their grade growing breasts before all the other girls, or how tenth grade Mandy would make out with anyone with the right incentive.

He’s never thought about it long enough for anything to stick. He figured, one day, when he was old enough to escape Hawkins and all the small minded bigots who think he’s a devil worshiper, that he would find a girl that appreciated his specific eccentricities. That he’d settle down somewhere quiet, a little closer to the city than Hawkins, and find some blue collar job and start a family. That’s just what everyone does, right?

He knows that’s not true, though. That everyone doesn’t follow that path. He knows people like Gareth and Robin, and apparently Steve, don’t get to just walk into happily ever after. There’s no white picket fence in their future, and Eddie’s never had to confront that reality so head on before. He knows what it’s like to be different. To have a target on your back. But, it’s nothing like the ostracization of being gay.

Thinking about kissing Steve scares him. When he closes his eyes, it’s a looping replay of that day. Steve’s soft lips on his unmoving ones. Big hands cradling his face. He can perfectly recall the terror and confusion. It’s seeped into his bones now, because he’s realized something about himself and he doesn’t know what to do with the information.

He can do nothing. He can move forward and pretend that he doesn’t wake up panting, picturing Steve on top of him pressing him into the mattress with their faces attached. He doesn’t ever have to acknowledge that for the first time in twenty years of living, he’s having honest to god wet dreams that involve another person. And that person he’s envisioning is a guy. Everything can just be swept under the rug.

But he’s pretty sure it scares him more to know that he can’t. It’s eating away at him. Eddie feels trapped in his own skin. The truth is clawing its way to the surface, wanting to break free, even if Eddie’s shutting down as it tries to spill out. He knows it’s inevitable, that overflow. The dam breaking.

It takes an intervention to set everything in motion. Wayne’s been fussing over him for weeks. He’s been doing that worried parent thing that he thinks Eddie doesn’t know about, where he stands outside Eddie’s closed bedroom door like he wants to knock and say something, but doesn’t. He’s studying Eddie over their morning cereal like the little floating letters are going to spell out why Eddie’s been holed up in his room almost mute.

But the final straw is when Wayne comes home from work to Eddie painting figurines on the stairs of their new trailer while pretending that he’s not watching Steve help Max fold laundry next door. There’s this polite distance between them and Eddie that didn’t exist before, this wide expanse where before Eddie would’ve been sitting on the picnic table in front of Max’s trailer teasing both of them, or maybe helping if it was a low pain day.

Instead, he’s sat like a toddler in timeout, taking furtive peaks over the little paint brushes and praying that Max’s sharp intuition about situations like this is dulled by her literal lack of being able to see Eddie from over there. Steve can see him, though, and Eddie’s feigning that it doesn’t bother him. What a grave he’s dug for himself here.

“Boy, don’t you think this has gone on long enough?” Wayne sighs as he climbs out of his truck, this world-weary, too knowledgeable sigh that makes Eddie squirm.

“I don’t know what you mean, old man.” Better to just play ignorant. Even though Eddie’s pretty sure he can’t escape Wayne’s withering gaze. He hasn’t in over ten years, so he likely won’t be starting now.

Wayne just stares at him. A raised eyebrow and crossed arms that tell Eddie he means business. He’s not getting out of this.

Eddie’s jaw shifts and he looks down at the figure in his hands. “I don’t really know what to do, Wayne.”

“Move over,” Wayne says, settling down beside Eddie until they’re shoulder to shoulder, barely waiting for the little shuffle Eddie does to make room. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just stares across the yard in the same direction Eddie was moments before, a contemplative look on his face. “This about that boy?”

Eddie follows his gaze over to Steve. His silence goes on a little too long before he softly says, “yeah.”

Wayne hums, still looking at Steve. “You know, you always were a late bloomer.”

That grabs Eddie’s attention. He turns towards Wayne, who takes that as his cue to continue, and sets down the figure behind them.

“Nothing ever happened when I thought it would when you were a boy. Lizzy said you took forever to walk and talk. I kept waiting for you to come to me about the birds and the bees, but you didn’t. Not sure if that was a good thing to let go, but I knew you weren’t getting yourself into trouble. Probably wasn’t much I could offer you that public school wasn’t already teaching you.”

Eddie wonders briefly if he should’ve hidden the condoms in his room better, but maybe that’s what gave Wayne the confidence to leave Eddie to his business. Even if they were collecting dust before they became dust that day the trailer cracked open.

“You never brought anyone around.” He nods in the direction of Steve. “Not until him.”

The conversation with Steve is distantly replaying in his head. How he went over their every interaction with Robin and they came to this same conclusion. Maybe Eddie really is an idiot.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Eddie adds. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what they’re doing, son. That’s part of life.” He pats Eddie on the back. “It’s ‘specially a part of being in love.”

Eddie’s not sure he’s willing to start that train of thought, yet. He’s grateful for the quiet, unspoken acceptance, but he’s not ready to think about labeling it something as profound as love. He flounders for a second before saying, “I think I’ve missed my chance there,” as he looks back over at Steve.

“Are you dead and I don’t know it?” He squeezes Eddie’s shoulder. “Seem pretty real to me.” He whacks Eddie’s head gently. “Ain’t nothing missed if you’re still alive to make things right.”

“Hey!” Eddie laughs, mock offended at the attack, rubbing the back of his head and leaning away from Wayne. “Isn’t it socially unacceptable to joke about someone that was legally dead for almost three minutes?”

“I think I get leeway as the one that kept you alive for ten years by myself.” Wayne wrangles him into a side hug, pulling him to his chest with an arm around his neck. “Just cause things are broken, doesn’t mean you can’t fix ‘em, son.”

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #katie writes #look i'm trying to fix this and give everyone the happy ending i promised #i swear

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swordsandholly · 8 months ago

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Steel Magnolia

Part 1 - paused

Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!plus size!reader

No use of y/n

Rating: Mature/MDNI

Word Count: 2.1k

Author’s Note: I just recently got back into fandom spaces and reading fanfic again and looooove the uptick in fat Y/N characters. Ofc as a big girl myself I wanted to try my hand at writing one too.

Hopefully I’ll post this on AO3 soon. Whenever I get my invite so I can make an acc.

“Oh! Darlin’, did ya see those boys next door?” Mrs. Duprey gasps as you swipe the last of her Bubble Bath OPI polish across her fingers.

“Next door?” You cock an eyebrow. “No one’s been next door since Adam and Eve.”

“I saw them on the way in!” She grins, the corners of her eyes wrinkling pleasantly. “Strappin’ young men - y’should talk t’ ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure I will sooner or later, ma’am.”

“You’ve been single too long.” The nosey old bat contributes. As much as you love her she truly cannot leave well enough alone.

“And I’m perfectly content as such.” You give her your warmest smile.

The trailer home across from you has remained empty for as long as you can remember. It’s well kept - sometimes you see random gardeners mowing or going in an out with tool bags - but no one lives there permanently. You’d think in a beach town it would at least belong to some snowbirds. A timeshare, maybe. It’s none of those things, though. Just a well-maintained, perfectly empty husk.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, probably.

Sure enough, as you walk Mrs. Duprey out of your little single wide trailer, you spot a black SUV parked out front of the neighboring double wide. One that is definitely *not* a repair man or worker’s vehicle. She coos at you to make sure to talk to them before waddling off to her own car. She really shouldn’t be driving at her age. You wonder briefly - futilly- if she’d sell you her car in exchange for rides.

You suppose she’s right - even if it is for the wrong reasons. You’re not particularly interested in flirting with the new neighbors. After all, don’t fuck where you eat is a saying for a reason, but it wouldn’t exactly be neighborly to not introduce yourself. Especially with all the people coming and going from your home for your nail tech services. The old Yankee’s catty-cornered from you still believe that you're a drug dealer. At least they only come down for a couple months of the year.

Despite your staunch decision not to flirt, you still find yourself adjusting your clothes. Maybe the sports bra as a top is a bit much…

Fuck it. If they live here now they’ll see you in worse.

You fix your lipstick and throw on your platform sandals. The ones that clip-clop as you walk. Maybe it will help announce your presence.

The screen door wraps quietly as you knock. You take two steps back on the front, wooden porch so as not to come off too aggressively. As the seconds tick by you debate on knocking again. Maybe they’re out. Or busy. They did just move in today, most likely. Maybe you should-

The door creaks slightly as it opens. A very, painfully handsome man pushes the screen door until it clicks in place. “Afternoon, lassie.”

You blink stupidly as he crosses his strong arms and leans on the doorframe. His eyes are a striking shade of blue - somehow both sharp and soft. His dark hair is shaped into a slightly grown-out, un-styled mohawk. It fits him oddly enough.

“I, uh,” you take a deep breath. Christ you need to get laid if just *looking* at a hot guy has you this off kilter. “I live across the way. Just wanted t’ say welcome t’ tha neighborhood.”

That lopsided smile on his face grows into a grin. You don’t miss the way his eyes catch on your chest. “Aye? Nice tae meet ye. Names John MacTavish. M’friends call me Johnny.”

He gives your hand an extra little squeeze after shaking it. That accent might as well have you on the floor. You continue to blink dumbly, watching the at the scar on his chin stretches as he speaks.

Christ almighty, you’re pathetic.

“Nice to meet’ya.” You give him a warm smile, tilting your head to the side slightly. “Ya’ll here for vacation? We don’t get many Europeans ‘round here.”

He chuckles. It’s low and rumbling and would probably feel wonderful with your ear pressed to his chest. “Little bit o’ business, little bit o’ pleasure. This an’ tha’.”

“Hello, there.” Another man pops up from behind Johnny suddenly. Fucking hell, he’s gorgeous too. Older, for sure, with a uniquely cut beard that would probably look rather silly on anyone less handsome. At it stands, he manages to make it appear dignified.

“Ah, jus’ about tae call fer ye, Cap. This is our neighbor.” Johnny gestures toward you.

“John Price.” The man steps forward to shake your hand. It’s firm and professional and thank god your grandad made you practice a good handshake as a kid or you’d be painfully embarrassed.

“Are all UK men named John or is this just some sorta cult?” You blurt, unable to stop yourself from snickering at them.

Older John chuckles at you fondly, his facial hair giving him a pleasant U-shaped smile. “Be easier to remember that way, wouldn’t it? No, we’re with two others. Kyle and Simon. They’re out at the moment.”

“Kyle and Simon.” You repeat, nodding. Johnny, John, Kyle, Simon. “Are y’all in town long?”

“Indefinitely.” Is all Price gives you. It’s a tone that even someone as dense as you can recognize as ‘don’t ask more.’

You clap your hands together and smile a little wider, ready to make your exit. “Well, I’m not here t’be a bother, just wanted t’ welcome ya and, uh, let y’know that I have a lot of people over throughout the day - I’m a nail tech. They shouldn’t bother ya but y’know.”

“Ye can come bother us anytime, bonnie.” The Scot hits you with that grin again and your face suddenly feels far too hot.

A loud, whining screech sounds off from down the road. You check your watch. Holy shit, three-thirty already. You begin to back off the porch. “Ah, nice t’ meet ya again! See ya ’round!”

As you jog down the little dirt road of the trailer park another black car passes you. It’s smaller, a sedan. You make very brief eye contact with a blonde wearing a surgical mask and another man with the sharpest golden eyes you’ve ever seen - even through the tint of the window.

*Kyle and Simon,* you think.

You make a mental note to greet them at some point and continue down the street. The school bus slowly stops at the entrance and you take up your spot in the small crowd of parents. IT’s a shabby old bus - chipping paint and break pads that sounds like they’re about ready to snap. It’s all they’re willing to send out to your little section of the city, though.

Shelby meanders over in your direction, her usual Camel Crush lit up in one hand and the other teasing her already well-lifted hair. “Afternoon. Saw there was some new folks across from ya.”

“Hm?” You keep your eyes on the bus. “Ah, yeah. Just vacationers, I think.”

“Lookers, though.” She chuckles.

“They’re from the UK.” You offer.

“No shit!” Shelby stamps out her cigarette as the bus doors open. “Accent and all?”

“Yep.” You grin.

Shelby tsks and fiddles with her hair again. “I best go over an’ make myself known, then.”

“There’s an older fella with a neat beard. Think you’d like ‘em.” You snicker.

She hums. “I’ll bring a pie.”

The children practically burst out of the bus doors, as always. Ready to be home and shuck off their backpacks to their respective adult. Shelby’s son almost knocks her over, offering a little “Good afternoon, ma’am!” to you before heading off with his mother.

You nod to him, shoving a hand in your pocket as you wait for yours. She’s always the last. Always caught up in a book or something and doesn’t realize it’s time to get off of the bus. Sure enough, the driver has to call back to her before the little girl comes dashing out. She jumps off of the bus steps, despite being told time and time again not to, and kicks a rock on her way toward you.

You bow low for her. “Welcome home, Lady Sophie.”

She giggles, dark curls bouncing as she skips over. “Ni-ni!”

You take her bag from her. The thing really does dwarf the poor six year old. Her hand slips into yours easily. Soft and round and somehow always so much warmer than yours.

“My nail color chipped!” She announces, holding up her ring finger on the opposite hand.

“Oh! Now we can’t have that. I’ll fix it tonight.” You smile, waving at old Mr.Chester as the two of you pass.

“Well now!” He calls. “How blessed am I to see two such lovely ladies!”

You both giggle, continuing on your way. He’s a good landlord - spotted you more than a few times when Sophie was a baby and you couldn’t work consistently. Honestly, as you look around, the little community that he’s managed to build in this shitty corner of the world should be praised. Housing just enough snowbirds to cover his property costs while keeping rent low for the full time locals. Maybe you could convince Natalie at the paper to run a little story on it or something.

As you pull up to your own home, the blonde man is outside leaning on the front of their double wide. Seeing him standing at full height makes your blood run cold. The man is built like a damn barn - tall and wide. Beyond solid. *Brick shithouse*. It’s a bit weird that he’s covered in clothing head to toe but whatever. Weirder things have happened before. The mask still covers his face, you wonder if he had taken it off before you came up or just flipped it up to smoke.

“Sophie, head on in. I’ll catch up.” You push her toward the door. She scampers in, the screen door slamming behind her as you march up to the brick shithouse of a man in front of you.

“Which are ya? Kyle or Simon?” You smile, holding out your hand to shake.

Dark eyes rake over you, stopping briefly on your hand, before moving back to meet yours. He stomps out the half smoked cigarette. “Simon.”

You let your hand drop. Bit rude, this one. “Nice t meetcha.”

The other man pops his head out of the trailer. Kyle, you assume. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hi.” You smile as warmly as you can, giving your name. “I’m assumin’ yer Kyle.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I’m guessing you’re the neighbor Price mentioned.”

You nod, about to speak again but Simon shoves past you, marching his way up the steps. “Let’s go.” He grunts, pushing the other man back into the trailer despite his protests.

You wrinkle your nose at him. What an asshole.

“Who’s tha’?” Sophie asks over the back of the old, worn couch as you let the trailer door slam behind you.

“New neighbors.” You say simply, glancing out the window. “Don’t go over there without me, yeah?”

“Okay!” She agrees, sitting back on the couch and bouncing, beginning her usual post school chant. “Bluey! Bluey! Bluey!”

You drop her backpack down beside the small coffee table. “After yer homework.”

“Nooo!” She pouts.

“Then no Bluey.”

Sophie pouts harder but crawls down in front of the coffee table and pulls out her little work sheets. At least the school doesn’t over run them too terribly with homework toward the end of the year. You glance at the calendar. Wednesday, May 22nd. Damn, she really only has about a week left. Though, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to this summer break with her. She’s old enough now that you can take her places like the arcade without having to wait on her so much. You’ll actually be able to play some of the two-player games.

Plus, this year, you actually have a little more pocket change to make it fun.

You turn to look out the window once more at the new neighbors. Their curtains remain closed, cars neatly parked out front. The door opens slowly, the hot Scot and rude blonde wander to the Sedan. Simon’s shoulders shake at something Johnny said - you think he’s laughing but its hard to tell with that mask. Johnny’s head turns, blue eyes meeting yours through the shitty glass windows of your trailer. You squeak and duck to sit next to Sophie, praying that he didn’t catch you staring.

#simon x reader #fanfiction #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #fanfic #call of duty #plus size reader #fat reader #ghost cod #cod x reader #cod mw2 #holly writes

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lihhelsing · 3 months ago

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steddie | 1,7k words | angst | mature

Written for @steddieangstyaugust Day 13

Prompt: "Please, Stay"

Read Part 1 | Part 2

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Eddie spends a lot of time having no words.

As Steve carries him back to the beemer, Eddie doesn't have words. He hums against Steve's shoulder when Steve asks him if it's ok for him to put him down but in reality he would very much like to keep clinging to Steve.

He has no words as Steve pats his pockets until he finds his keys to open the trailer door and he almost says something to calm Steve down about Wayne not being there but Steve doesn't seem worried about it.

Which really should clue him in that there are things he is unaware of, but his face is bloodied and his chest hurts every time he breathes and he doesn't have energy to worry about it.

Steve carries him to the couch and puts him down gently, but it still hurts.

Eddie closes his eyes when his head hits the pillow but he lets out a low groan when he feels Steve moving away.

"I need to clean you," Steve says and Eddie can hear him moving through the trailer. Maybe he should feel embarrassed, but he doesn't.

Steve Harrington is at his house after all. If Eddie plays his cards right maybe he'll get his Star Wars marathon after all.

When he comes back, Eddie almost says something, but then Steve is touching him and it hurts but it's also so good. He's gentle and sweet and he bats Eddie's hands away when he tries to touch his cut.

"Behave, Eddie," Steve says, and Eddie groans, but he abides.

When he's done, Eddie immediately misses his touch.

"I'm gonna get you something for the pain. I think you might have a broken rib and the best advice I can give you is to rest and wait until it's healed."

Eddie groans again and delights himself with Steve's laugh as he walks around the trailer as if he belongs there. Eddie imagined someone like Steve wouldn't feel comfortable in a shithole like the trailer.

Not that Eddie doesn't love it. He does. So fucking much. But Steve lives in a mansion, his bedroom alone is probably bigger than Eddie's entire house.

Steve comes back and he helps Eddie to sit down. He feels better, even if everything still hurts. But he's home and Steve's there because he found him by some miracle and now he's putting a glass of water to Eddie's lips and helping him swallow a pill that will probably make him sleepy.

Steve smiles proudly when Eddie drinks the entire glass and moves to put it back in the kitchen and that's when Eddie sees it.

His eyes move to their old center table and he knows what he's going to find there. One of his Star Wars cassettes that he was too lazy to put away the other day.

Maybe he could get away with suggesting they watch it but as his brain is considering the best way to ask Steve that, he spots something that so obviously doesn't belong there he has no idea how he hadn't noticed it before.

A big bouquet of flowers. Red roses, if Eddie is not mistaken.

He moves even as his entire body seems about to catch on fire and grabs it, pulling it closer to smell it.

They smell good. Eddie doesn't think he ever saw such gorgeous flowers and he knows for a fact Wayne didn't buy them. He's more of a Peonies kind of guy.

Which only leaves...

"Oh, uh, sorry, I shouldn't have-" Steve says once he's back, and he moves to get the flowers but Eddie holds on to them.

"Did you really stood up a date to go rescue me?" Eddie asks, and he doesn't know why he does it.

Steve frowns as he looks down at Eddie, "Oh, no, the flowers are-"

Eddie breaks eye contact with Steve because he feels bad now. Glances at the clock, it's almost nine.

"If you show up at her doorstep with these flowers, I bet she'll forgive you for missing the date," Eddie says, and then he raises the bouquet in Steve's direction so he can take it. "I'm sorry I got in the way."

Steve grabs the flowers and Eddie thinks this is it, he's going to leave and Eddie will be left alone to lick his wounds. But then he puts them back on the table and kneels in front of Eddie.

"Don't be sorry. I was worried about you and I'm glad I trusted my gut," Steve says and he does the sweetest thing, cupping Eddie's face and looking directly into his eyes.

Eddie feels... naked. Completely stripped of his attitude and his snark and everything else he uses to protect himself.

The worst of it all is that it feels good. He feels a calm washing over him when he's this close to Steve. He has no idea when his dynamic with Steve changed from the King and the Freak to this.

To Steve on his knees on the trailer being the one fucking good thing in Eddie's life right now.

But Eddie knows better than to believe that things are really like this. That even if Steve is something good in his life, he knows it's not the same for Steve. Eddie is still just his drug dealer, the one person who can get him some weed for free.

"You don't have to do that," Eddie says and Steve raises a brow. Up this close, Eddie can count the freckles on his face and he's trying so hard not to stare at his lips.

"Do what?"

"Take care of me," Eddie says even as he's cringing inside. Even as if all he ever wanted was someone to take care of him like Steve is doing and now he's pushing him away.

"I don't mind," Steve says as his thumb moves on Eddie's cheek.

It's too soft and Eddie is all sharp edges.

"You don't have to do that to get free weed."

Steve pulls back as if he got burned. There's a shift in his expression that Eddie hates and he thinks maybe this is the reason he has nothing good in his life.

"Maybe I should go," Steve says and Eddie feels it on a molecular level. He doesn't want Steve to go but he doesn't know how to ask him to stay.

"Don't forget the flowers," Eddie says and Steve looks at him like he's insane.

"Eddie," he says softly. Eddie sees him almost reaching his hand but giving up mid-air.

"She probably won't even care about the flowers, dude. If you show up looking like this, she'll take you anyway."

Steve presses his lips together. He's annoyed, Eddie can tell, but he has no idea why. Eddie is complimenting Steve and the fact that all he has to do is smile and then he has any girl he wants.

"That's good, because the flowers weren't for 'her'," Steve says the last word making air quotes and Eddie doesn't get it.

"I'm not following," Eddie says. He's still on the couch and Steve is still on his knees and it's so fucking weird.

"There's no girl, Eddie," Steve says and maybe Eddie hit his head when he fell because this doesn't make sense.

"Are they for your mother?" He asks and even as he does it he knows it's a dumb question. Steve doesn't talk about his family a lot, but from the little he does, Eddie knows his mom is not the flower type.

She would need to be around for his son to get her flowers.

"You know they are not for my mother. I carried you inside, Eddie. How the hell would I've brought the flowers too?"

Eddie stares at him as he lets the words sink in. It's a little embarrassing that Steve had him in his arms, especially because he could've walked on his own but Steve felt warm and nice and Eddie had no idea when he would have him this close again.

"The flowers were already here," Eddie says under his breath and he can't lie, Steve's exasperated expression is kind of cute.

"The flowers were already here," Steve repeats as if Eddie needs him to. And maybe he does because that doesn't make sense unless...

"Were you here waiting for me? Did Wayne let you in?"

Steve smiles and claps his hands once as if he's proud of Eddie for figuring it out.

"I was waiting for you. And Wayne did let me in. I was actually waiting in my car because I didn't know if you'd appreciate me meeting your uncle like this, but he tapped on my window and said he knew who I was and told me I could wait inside if I wanted. He had to leave and said you'd probably be here soon and then you weren't and I started getting worried and I decided to go look for you."

Steve says all in one go and Eddie feels glued in place as he looks at him. Wayne knows Eddie's been sporting a huge crush on Steve for months and he knows his uncle was delighted that he would have something to mock Eddie with.

"Why were you waiting for me?" Eddie asks and he feels dumb as the words leave his mouth but Steve just smiles fondly, as if he thinks it's cute that Eddie is that naive.

"With flowers," Steve adds and Eddie sighs.

"Why were you waiting for me with flowers, Steve?"

"Because," Steve says and Eddie's afraid he's not going to elaborate. That he's going to leave Eddie to figure out for himself and worse, that he's just going to leave because he can't take Eddie's dumbness. "I was hoping the flowers would make my intentions clear."

"I'm not sure they did," Eddie says, eyeing the flowers behind Steve. They are nice. The kind of flowers you get for someone you really care about.

"Eddie!" Steve says and Eddie snorts because he's being a little shit on purpose. "I'm going to leave."

"Please, Steve," Eddie says and he has him again. Doe eyes and full attention on him. "Please, stay."

Steve smiles and nods and Steve leans in and Eddie thinks he's going for a kiss but he just hugs Eddie and for now, that's enough.

#i'm sorry #I know you want them to kiss #and they will #but they have to suffer a little bit more first #steddie #angst #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson

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munson-blurbs · 5 months ago

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Summary: Eddie gets a not-so-sweet surprise when Hendrix takes some song lyrics a bit too literally.

TW: the briefest allusion to smut (referencing chapter 1), minor spousal conflict

WC: 1.5k

A/N: Based on an idea given to me by none other than @corroded-hellfire 💚 y'all wanted more of Hendrix, so here he is!

April 2003

The sedan rattles along the winding road to Forest Hills Trailer Park, pebbles crunching beneath the tires. Sunday nights meant dinner at Wayne’s, a tradition that you and Eddie both vowed to keep as long as possible.

A familiar intro trills over the car’s radio. Eddie’s eyes leave the road for a brief second to meet yours.

Step inside Walk this way You and me babe Hey hey!

“Our song, Sweetheart.” Your husband grins, right hand slipping from the steering wheel to crank the volume louder. He sings along, just as animated as he was that first night at The Hideout.

Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on Livin' like a lover with a radar phone Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp Demolition woman, can I be your man?

“Dad, what the heck?” Harris grumbles from the backseat. At eleven years old, he flips between adoration and annoyance with astounding speed.

“Yeah, what the heck?” Hendrix echoes his brother, though his smile is a far cry from Harris’s exasperated eye roll.

Eddie relents, twisting the knob just enough to be heard over Joe Elliott’s vocals.

“This is the song I sang that had Mom falling in love with me.” There’s a teasing glimmer in his eyes, daring you to disagree with him.

You eagerly take the bait.

“Love is a strong word,” you counter. The night you and Eddie met was steeped in memories of longing and lust, of giving into your desires in what was supposed to be a fling.

A fling that’s been happening for nearly seven years and counting.

Eddie sits forward suddenly, snapping the volume knob so Def Leppard once again reverberates through the car. “Wait…this is the best part!” He yells back to his sons, taking an extended pause at a stop sign to headbang.

Pour some sugar on me Ooh, in the name of love Pour some sugar on me C'mon, fire me up Pour your sugar on me I can't get enough

He leans in, smushing his lips against your cheek, as he sings along.

I’m hot, sticky sweet From my head to my feet, yeah!

You playfully shove him away, giggles betraying the irritated exterior you’re trying to uphold.

From the backseat, Hendrix pipes up. “What does that mean?”

Without missing a beat, Harris instigates further. “Yeah, Dad. What does this song mean?”

Damn pre-teens. If there’s no trouble to be found, they’ll make some.

Eddie swears under his breath, cheeks flushing red as he tries to find a response suitable for his three-year-old. “Well, um, he’s just…” he falters, any and all explanations fleeing his head. He improvises song lyrics on the fly when he forgets the real ones on stage, but now his brain short-circuits? Convenient.

Luckily, you’re used to fielding questions from little kids; one of the benefits of teaching preschool. “He wants to be extra sweet so a girl loves him.”

“So he pours sugar on himself?” Hendrix’s nose wrinkles in adorable confusion.

“Yup.” Easier to confirm your son’s own ideas than to come up with an alternative. Leaning back against the headrest, you force out a giggle. “Pretty silly, huh?”

The subject is swiftly dropped as Eddie pulls the car in front of his uncle’s trailer, Wayne already standing at the door and announcing that the pizza was on the table and ready to be eaten. “Delivered hot to the door, just like they promised,” he said, repeating the Surfer Boy slogan.

It isn’t until dinner has been eaten, the conversation naturally dwindling, that trouble begins to arise.

“Har, I wanna look over your homework when we get back,” you say, crumpling up your sauce-stained napkin and placing it on your empty plate. Your eyes narrow when you clock the uneasy glance that your oldest son shares with his father. “You did finish your homework, right?”

Harris tries and fails to hide behind his messy mop of curls. “Not exactly,” he mutters. His uneaten crust is suddenly of incredible interest. “I was gonna do it today, but, um…”

“But what?” Your impatience is directed both at him and Eddie, the other alleged adult in the house, who was home with Harris while you took Hendrix to a playdate.

“Well, okay, the plan was for him to do his homework,” Eddie begins, choosing his words carefully. Too carefully, like he’s trying to hide something. “But then Jeff called and told me about this tournament at the arcade; like, all of the old-school stuff we played as kids. I told Harris he could go if he promised to finish his work after, but then time got away from me—”

You grit your teeth, all-too aware of your audience present. The last thing you need is for your temper to unravel in front of Wayne and the boys. “So Harris’s homework isn’t done because…” You take a deep breath before continuing. “…because you wanted to go to the arcade?”

Wayne mumbles a barely audible “hoo, boy” as he clears the snack table.

“I’m sorry, all right?” Eddie shakes his head. “I lost track of time, but he’s gonna get it done. It’s just, what, some math and science stuff?”

“And social studies,” Harris admits.

Eddie’s face blanches. “Okay, so…just three things.”

Except it’s not that simple. Harris needs to take breaks to keep himself motivated and prevent frustration. He needs to reread and revise because he has trouble attending to all of the details at once. And now that he’s older, his know-it-all approach only makes homework time more challenging—for him and for you and Eddie.

“Looks like he’ll be up until God-knows what time, then,” you shoot back. “And you can be the one up with him.”

“I said I’m s—what the hell?” Eddie leaps up, nearly falling over his feet in the process. A mountain of grainy white substance falls from his lap, into the futon’s crevices and onto the floor.

Hendrix stands beside him, an upside-down—and now empty—bag of granulated sugar in his pudgy hands. His big eyes dart between you and Eddie, anticipating your reactions.

“Hendrix,” Eddie says through a deep breath, channeling every ounce of remaining patience. Harris cackling doesn’t help, either. “Why did you do that?”

Your youngest son shakes the bag a few extra times for good measure. “Putting sugar on you so Mommy likes you. Like in the song.”

Shocked into stillness, Wayne speaks up. “What song made you dump all of my sugar on your dad?”

Hendrix beams as he belts out, “POUR SOME SUGAR ON MEEEEEE! STICKY SWEET!” He turns to you triumphantly. “Do you like Daddy now?”

You tuck your lips into your mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. Logically, you know that you can’t reinforce this behavior, even if it was done with good intentions.

But it’s also really funny.

“I like Daddy even when he’s not covered in sugar,” you say. “I love him a lot, and us having a little argument doesn’t change that.”

“But the song…” Hendrix furrows his brows.

You breathe out a sigh. “Sometimes, people say things in songs that we don’t do in real life. Like when people beat each other up on TV or in movies. It’s fun to watch, but we aren’t actually going to do it.”

The boy pouts. “So do I gotta say sorry?”

“Yes,” you tell him, “to Daddy for pouring the sugar on him, and to Grampa Wayne for wasting his sugar.”

“Sorry, Daddy. Sorry, Grampa Wayne,” he says softly. “I didn’t know the song wasn’t for real.”

Wayne grins. “S’okay, kiddo. I’ll just drink my coffee black for a while.”

Eddie’s positioned over the kitchen sink as he brushes the rest of the granules off of his shirt. “I think we need a hard-and-fast rule that we don’t copy any of the things we hear in songs.”

“Agreed.” You start towards the tiny closet where Wayne keeps the vacuum, adjusting the hose so it can suck up the sugar embedded into the futon’s mattress. When that’s done, you grab the broom. “Now, Hen, you’re gonna hold the dustpan while I sweep the floor.”

“But—” he starts to argue, but a raise of your eyebrows silences him. “Okay…”

Eddie takes the broom from you, a tight smile on his face. “Guess I kinda deserved that, huh?” He murmured.

“Didn’t wanna say it out loud, but…yeah.”

“I really am sorry.” He sweeps the sugar into Hendrix’s waiting pan. “It was a real dumb move on my part.”

You kiss his cheek. “I know you’re sorry. And I forgive you, you stupid, stupid man.”

“Good.” He grins wickedly. “I’d hate to have to pour more sugar on myself to win back your affections.”

You roll your eyes. “Just keep sweeping, and then we can talk about my affections.”

“Yes, dear.”

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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eddiessluttywaist · 9 months ago

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the boy is mine (eddiessluttywaist's edition)

AGELESS/BLANK/UNDER 18 BLOGS ARE NOT WELCOME TO INTERACT. PLEASE RESPECT MY RULES AND BOUNDARIES.

summary: romantic night at the trailer, based off of this prompt!

pairing: bf!eddie x gf!reader

word count: 1, 944 words

content/warnings: MDNI, fluff, kissing, lots of touchy feels, a lil smutty?

a/n: creds to whoever owns and posted those ^ photos! they’re not mine, i just made the collage! also would like to credit @carolmunson for this prompt and @mrsjellymunson for tagging me! I haven’t written for eddie in so long, and this was a great way to get back into it <3 thank you! hope you enjoy my contribution <3

You basked in the scent of Eddie’s bedding, how he was ingrained into each and every fiber. Every motion, every shift of the sheets, you could smell him. He had foolishly left you to your own devices in his bedroom (which was surprising since the last time he did that, you almost dared touch his Sweetheart) so you indulged.

You curled up in the sprawling mess of blankets and sheets then grabbed the small throw pillow you had embroidered for him and buried your face in it. It was a delicate, pretty, little thing that stood out in his room even with its DnD theme, but he loved it. He loved that you made it, that you put so much effort into it just for him, so he slept with it every night. Unfamiliar with the concept of purely decorative pillows, he didn’t realize most people tucked such things off to the side before getting into bed each night. So, it smelled like cigarettes, convenience store aftershave, and his shampoo. The scent filled you with dizzying affection, only pulling it away from your face to then hug it to your chest as he walked back into his room.

“I ran out of, like, nice cups. This okay?” he asked as he blew into one of the mugs and then used the bottom of his shirt to wipe it down. He was planning on cleaning those cartoon-themed cups properly for some absurdly fancy hot chocolate you had brought back from your family vacation. He was even planning on making another case for not wasting it on him, but, of course, his attention strayed easily when you were in his bed.

When his gaze finally fell on you, a lazy smile quirked up one side of his mouth. The handles of the mugs hung off the curl of his fingers which rested against his hips now as he took in the sight of you. He tilted his head to put it at the same angle as yours, his favorite pillow in your arms. You were an unbelievably endearing sight. The love that filled him was fluttery and overwhelming.

“And who said you could hold my favorite pillow?” He teased, sauntering over to the bed.

“I made it,” you scoffed with a smile.

He hums lazily in response, that crooked grin still hanging around as he shoved at the clutter on his bedside table. He picked up a small notebook, brow furrowed as he observed it only to haphazardly toss it towards his dresser to make more room. It was that or your tub of Betty Crocker, and he knew better.

You stared at his forearms, drinking in the movement of the musculature underneath. The warmth of his bedside lamp made it even better to watch the lines and curves of his tattoos beneath its comforting, golden light. How could something so simple be so beautiful? Your focus then trailed to the perfect structure of his hands as the mugs slid down his fingers. The ceramic cups clinked against the surface of the old table.

“I think as the creator, I have some right to hold it too,” you continued to make your case while he crawled into bed with you, giving you that subtle mischievous look he always got when he was toying with you.

His strong arms wrapped around you to secure you closer to him.

“I worked very hard on it, y’know.”

Eddie let out an “Is that right?” kind of sound, the texture of his jeans scratching against the bedding. He pulled you into him with such a desperate need to squish you as close as possible as if he thought you might be leaving soon. Those brown curls tickled your jaw while he nuzzled the side of your neck, audibly breathing you in.

“And it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to embroider all that Dungeons and—”

He finally pulled back to cut you off, smushing his face against yours in a way that made you giggle. Eddie’s kisses were always lazy and sloppy this late at night, but you loved them that way. His lips were warm albeit a bit rough from all the anxious biting that he abused them with. A pleased hum left him and vibrated deep in his throat, his large hands encasing the sides of your face and his fingers tangling in your hair. His rings would probably tug a strand or two when he pulled them away, but you couldn’t be bothered to care.

The way your body relaxed reassured him, and he slid his arms down to pull you in again so your stomach could be flat against his own. Then, he let out a small chuckle when he had to separate from you to pluck the throw pillow out from between you. Eddie placed it elsewhere with emphasized tenderness while you stared at those ruddy lips that you missed already.

“Pillow was in the way,” he murmured in a low tone, kissing you back as you pulled him in for a few more pecks.

“And here I was thinking you were starting to love it more than me.”

“Aw, now don’t be like that. You know that’s not true,” Eddie drawled, grinning over that unconvincing little pout you gave him.

He sat back on his legs to move the bedding out of his way, then pulled you forward by your thighs which he readily settled in between. There was nothing he wanted more than to be thoroughly pressed against you. It wasn’t even about sex, at least not always. He just loved the feeling of you being so close to him. The softness of your stomach against his taut abdomen. The plushness of your chest pressed against the flat planes of his own. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t love the way your bodies fit together too, but he’d melt into you if he could.

Eddie was the type to lean into you while you were walking together, ending up so close that his wallet chain would keep bumping against you. He always sought out your hand to hold or your shoulders for him to drape his arm across (which of course always ended up with him folding you into him so your face would press against a Hellfire symbol or band name, and he could settle his chin on the top of your head).

“I don’t think I believe you.”

You crossed your arms, failing to keep up with your façade, especially with that smile and those dimples.

“Well then, my dramatic lil lady,” He spoke with that same theatrical cadence that he used during campaigns, his brow furrowed with determination. You groaned over the incoming mawkishness, rolling your gaze up to the ceiling and smiling to the point that the apples of your cheeks ached.

“I suppose I must convince you.”

His hand settled on the side of your neck, thumb brushing against the center of your throat as he dipped down for another kiss.

“You’re so corny,” you laughed against his lips.

“And you… taste like vanilla,” he sighed, laughing with you after.

“Mm, well, that is the work of Ms. Betty Crocker,” you smiled up at him, gently tapping his nose. “Speaking of…”

Eddie groaned, mentally cursing himself for even bringing it up as you squirmed out from underneath him to grab the container from behind the abandoned mugs. He watched you intently while you sucked a scoop of frosting off your finger. When you met his gaze, he gave you a cheeky grin that he failed to conceal by biting his lip and then wiggled his eyebrows at you.

“You’re a child,” you snorted, reaching out to tap some frosting onto the tip of his nose.

“And you’re devastating,” he countered in a voice so sickeningly saccharine with love that you wiped the frosting right back off. He caught your hand and sucked the sugar from the pad of your thumb before you could fully pull back.

“Who knew the local bad boy could be such a softie,” you teased softly, scooping some more frosting to feed it to him. Eddie playfully bit down just enough to make you laugh.

“I believe you mean ‘the local freak.’”

“Mm, tomato, tomahto,” you shrugged, lapping up some more frosting off your finger. His rich umber eyes seemed to glitter in the dull lighting, his pupils dilating. You looked up at him through your lashes when you felt his stare.

“We’re gonna have a problem if you keep doing that,” Eddie’s voice was rough even as he smiled over you.

“What?” you laughed, full of faux innocence. He just smirked. “No, what?”

“You know what.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you shrug, going to scoop some more frosting out when he snags the tub from you.

“Wh— hey!”

You already missed his warmth when he sank back onto folded legs, dipping his forefinger into the tub.

“You’re gonna get your rings all sticky,”

You blushed when that made him cackle, but you at least got the comfort of his body again as he hunched over you. His smile was tangible against the side of your neck, his hair tickling you again.

“Not the only thing that—”

“Eddie, shu-u-ush,” you laughed, and he flattened himself on top of you again, leaving tacky, sugary kisses on your neck while you pried the vanilla frosting from his hand. He gave up on keeping it from you, happy to have a free hand again to seek out your waist with.

Holding the container with one hand, you arched your other arm over him to scoop just one more—you swore just one more! —fingertip of frosting, but he was pulling back before you could even dip into it.

“Gimme that—”

“So rude taking things from me today,” you tutted, watching with a pout as he fed himself some of your treat.

“Have to have you all to myself,” he mimicked some toxic-alpha-dude-type bravado, but he couldn’t even get through it without chuckling at the end.

Eddie prodded at the dwindling supply of Betty Crocker’s then tossed the container back onto his bedside table. But you reached out to catch his wrist and brought his index finger to your mouth before he could bring it to his own.

He groaned, leaning onto one elbow while he gawked at you. His full lips parted at the sight of you, his thumb brushing against your cheek as you sucked on his finger. Damn.

“You never play fair.”

“And you like that,” you stated proudly once he slid his finger back out of your mouth.

“Course I do,” he grunted, sliding the pad of his thumb over your lower lip. “May have taken a few attempts to graduate, but I’m not that dumb.”

Your following giggle was breathy and fleeting as you sunk into the tension filling the room. You took in the growing heat in his gaze that tracked his thumb while it hooked your bottom lip. He mimicked opening his own mouth as you did so without even being asked, making him smile and drag his tongue over his lip. He slid his pointer finger down your tongue again, letting it trail down until he was holding your chin between his curled finger and thumb. Keeping your chin down and lips parted, he leaned in. The kiss was firmer—more determined—and desperate. He was putting every ounce of his desire into you, and this time you were the one melting. You felt like you were sinking deeper into that old mattress, and you wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him with you.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie stranger things #stranger things #eddiemunson #eddie munson imagine #stranger things x reader #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson ficlet #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #bf!eddie munson #the boy is mine eddie munson #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson smut

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ghoulfriends-and-tin-cans · 7 months ago

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Howdy Partner - Part 1

I...yep. This fic finally broke out of the cage in my brain and found its way into the world. Careful. It bites.

If you'd like to be added to my taglist, please let me know!

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

~*~

Pre-War!Cooper Howard (Fallout Show) x fem!Reader

[A/N: This is just fluff with some suggestive language, because as sinfully hot as he is as a Ghoul, he looks like an absolute cinnamon roll as an actor.]

Warnings: Fluff, mild angst, mutual pining, idiots in love, they both think their feelings are unrequited, Cooper is already divorced, flirty friends to lovers, they both wanna kiss so bad, drinking but not heavy, mentions of alcohol, they're not tipsy but they have had a couple of glasses of champagne.

~*~

"Cut! That's a wrap for this week," the director called, and everyone on set began to disperse. Beginning to corral the various props so they could be stored until Monday, I breathed a sigh of relief that the week was over. Halfway through winding up one of the ropes, someone cleared their throat behind me.

"Pardon me, ma'am. Any chance an ole cowboy could int'rest you in a celebratory drink?" The faux western accent drew a smile across my lips before I could school my expression. When I turned, Cooper Howard stood in full costume with his cowboy hat held respectfully over his chest. Always such a gentleman.

"Surely there's some gorgeous starlet who you'd rather be drinking with, Mr. Howard," I teased as I laid the looped rope onto its hook. Clasping my hands behind my back, I blinked innocently up at the man who'd been my friend for years and had quickly carved a spot for himself in my heart.

"Now, why would I want to take another woman out on the town when the most gorgeous one in all of Hollywood is standin' right in front of me?" He murmured, and despite the pang it sent through my heart, I gave a sly smile as I grasped his arm.

"One of these days, Coop, you'll regret being so flirty with me," I said as he plunked his hat on top of my head instead of his own. I couldn't imagine it looked as good on me as it did on him.

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Because, one of these days, the woman destined to be your next wife might overhear you, think you're taken, and give up before she's even met you." We walked toward his trailer, dodging busy workers as we talked. "Or worse...I might actually think you mean those sweet little things you say to me."

Keeping my head forward as we walked, I caught him looking at me out of the corner of my eye, his expression inscrutable.

"Wouldn't that just be a shame," he muttered, but his tone contradicted his statement entirely. A large grin stretched Cooper's lips as we stepped inside his trailer. I knew the drill by now. We left the door open, and I took a seat as he ducked behind a privacy screen at the other end. His accent fell away as he changed out of his costume. "That hat's yours now, by the way."

For a moment, all I could hear was the gentle sound of cloth as I tried to force my tongue to work.

"What?"

"They had about ten of those hats for this movie, and I snagged a couple. One for me, and one for you. That one's yours," he called, and butterflies swarmed in my stomach. "Assuming you want an old actor's hand-me-down, of course. You could always just leave it in my trailer today when we go for drinks and the costume people will find it. I just remember you saying you liked the way the one from this particular movie looked, so I figured..."

He trailed off as he walked out from behind the privacy screen in a white button-down shirt and some dark brown slacks. My breath hitched in my throat, but I shook my head quietly.

"No, I do love it. I'm not leaving it here," I said as I got to my feet. "Thank you, Cooper."

Pink dusted his cheeks, and I couldn't help but wonder how I got this lucky. He didn't feel the same as I did, but it was enough that he considered me one of his close friends. Or, at least, that's what I told myself on those lonely evenings when I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms.

I'd been lost in thought for a moment, snapping back to reality when he waved a hand in front of my eyes.

"You in there?" He asked, a mix of amusement and concern coloring his features as I blinked up at him. "You looked like you were a thousand miles away."

"Only about fifteen," I muttered, and before he could ask what I meant, I plastered what I hoped was an enthusiastic smile on my lips. "Well, what are we waiting for? You wanted a celebratory drink, so let's go get it, shall we?"

Cooper had known me for too long to be fooled by that. Like always, I could see his jaw clench for a second as he tucked the information away in the back of his mind for later, then smiled back at me.

"Lead on, ma'am." His faux western accent was back, and he gave me a little wink as I slipped past him out of his trailer.

I'd expected to find myself in a bar with him, but Coop had different plans. He'd driven me to his place - a much smaller house than the one he'd previously shared with his daughter and his ex-wife. He'd downsized after the divorce, choosing a more rustic place that was closer to nature than his cushy almost-mansion had been. Modern conveniences were still present, but he was no longer surrounded by the stifling side of city life.

Kicking our shoes off and wandering out onto the upstairs balcony, we raised our champagne flutes and toasted the success of the new movie. I tried not to watch the bob of his Adam's apple too closely as he swallowed.

Looking out at the dark expanse of the night and the bright lights of the city several hours later, we'd barely finished more than a couple of glasses each. It was so incredibly easy with him. We'd talked the whole evening away, focusing on everything and nothing, paying no mind to the fact that the world kept spinning without us.

Eventually, a cold breeze whirled through the air, and we retreated inside. Cooper grabbed an oversized blanket and we cuddled up together in his living room in front of the fireplace. Setting the hat he'd given me on the coffee table, he wrapped his arms around me and let me rest my head on his chest.

This wasn't the first time we'd curled up like this, but it felt more weighted this time. His chin touched the top of my head just as I noted how fast his heart was beating.

Adrenaline. That's all it was. We'd both been startled by how quickly the temperature had dropped. There was no way it could be anything else.

"It looks better on you," he murmured against the top of my head, and my own heart thudded faster in my chest. "The hat, I mean."

A huff of laughter escaped me.

"Somehow, I think your fans might disagree, Mr. Howard. Hell, even I disagree," I admitted as I toyed with one of the buttons on his shirt.

"That's too bad. All of you are wrong. You look so damn good in it," Cooper said as one of his hands skimmed up my back. He sounded more serious than any of his other silly little flirtatious statements ever had - a feat I hadn't thought possible. I could never tell if he was joking when we were alone like this.

"Careful, now. I might end up thinking you're serious–"

"I am," he blurted as his grip around me tightened by a fraction. "I'm serious."

When I lifted my head to look up at him, Cooper was already looking at me; his gaze was soft and vulnerable as he lifted a hand. The backs of his knuckles brushed down the side of my face so gently that the breath was stolen from my lungs.

"Cooper..." I tried to tell him what I was feeling - tried to force all of the words I'd been holding back to the tip of my tongue - but they got stuck somewhere in my throat.

"It's okay," he breathed, his voice was low and rough as he spoke. "You don't have to say anything. I know this probably isn't... I'm divorced, older, and I have a kid. I'm not under any delusions about how undesirable my situation is, but I just wanted to say it once...before I lost my nerve."

I must've fallen asleep. I was dreaming, I had to be.

"I don't expect you to feel the same. You're so beautiful, so kind...you must have men beating down your door for a chance to be with you, and you're stuck here drinking with a washed up old man," he murmured, guilt winding around every word. "When I drive you home in the morning...if it would make you more comfortable, we can forget I ever said anything...blame it on the champagne."

Alarm rocketed through me. I didn't want that. I didn't want to forget. I didn't want to blame it on the alcohol.

Dream or not, I just wanted Cooper.

Leaning upward, I took a chance and pressed my lips against his. They'd always looked soft. I never thought I'd get the chance to find out what they felt like on anything but the back of my hand.

When he kissed me back, I'd never been so glad to be wrong.

Giving in to my desires, I braced one hand on his chest and buried the other in his soft, dark hair. He grabbed the back of my neck, pulling me closer as we drowned in each other.

When we finally broke apart, Cooper nuzzled my nose drawing a breathless, joyful giggle from some dazed part of my mind.

"Stay with me tonight," he whispered, and I nodded my head.

"I did assume I would be when you stated that you'd be driving me home in the morning," I teased, and he gave me a gorgeous smile, his eyes twinkling in the low light.

"Beautiful smart-ass. I meant...stay in my room with me. Not the guest room," he murmured even as his gaze dropped to my lips again. "I promise I'll be good - keep my hands to myself."

"You don't have to." The words whispered against his lips prompted a hungry hum from his throat, but he shook his head.

"I want to wine and dine you first. You deserve that...deserve to be treated like a princess," he said, "that way, when the time comes, and I finally have you all to myself, you'll know how much you mean to me."

A desperate whimper escaped me, and he smirked like the cat that got the canary.

"Now, can you be a good, patient girl for me tonight, sweetheart?"

I agreed, muttering under my breath that he was a damn tease, but my protests were silenced by the look Cooper gave me as he led me to his bedroom. Longing looked good on him.

~*~

Taglist:

@live-logs-and-proper

#ghoulfriends-and-tin-cans fic #Cooper Howard x Reader #Pre-War!Cooper Howard x Reader

344 notes · View notes

steveseddie · 5 months ago

Text

outside looking in

for @steddie-week day one “secret relationship”

rated: t | cw: none | wc: 4,8k | tags: max’s pov, post vol. 4, 3+1 things, secret relationship, friendship, max & steve, max & eddie

click here to read on ao3

Max is sitting on the front steps of her house, adjusting the wheels of her skateboard when the screen door of the Munson’s trailer swings open.

The noise it makes as it slams against the side of the trailer makes her jump. It’s only been a few weeks since Spring Break and she’s still on high alert after everything that happened.

Looking up from her skateboard, she expects to see Eddie or his uncle. She’s used to it- catching them on their way in or out of the trailer or sitting on the old ratty couch that they keep on the front porch. She’s used to waving at them and them waving back. Sometimes, if it’s Eddie, she’ll stick her middle finger out just to make him crow with laughter so loud she can hear it from across the gravel path.

What Max doesn’t expect is to see someone else stumbling out of the Munson’s trailer.

She certainly doesn’t expect to see Steve.

It can’t be Steve, Max thinks. She remembers one of the doctors at the hospital telling her that her eyesight suffered some damage from being trapped in Vecna’s mind prison for too long and now she thinks that he must’ve been right. Maybe she does need glasses.

But even if she squints her eyes, she still sees Steve. More importantly, she sees what Steve is wearing, and even from a distance despite whatever eyesight problems she might have, she can see that the clothes Steve is wearing aren’t his. Well, the jeans probably are, but the shirt is black and the logo plastered on the front is a big skull surrounded by flames, and while she can’t make out the words that are written in big bold letters, she’s willing to bet it’s the name of one of Eddie’s metal bands. Which would make that Eddie’s shirt.

And it looks wrinkled, slept in.

Huh.

Jogging down the front steps, Steve makes his way to his BMW, parked out front and sticking out like a shiny sore thumb. Max is surprised she didn’t notice it sooner.

She watches as he runs a hand through his hair, his messy hair- another sign pointing to the fact that Steve spent the night in Eddie’s trailer.

And the thing is Max didn’t even know they were friends.

She’s seen them talk- or more like bicker when the party hangs out, but she had no idea that they sometimes hang out just the two or that they spend the night at each other’s places, or that they share clothes.

She thinks she’s not supposed to know, based on the way Steve stops in his tracks with his hand frozen mid-air as he reaches for the car door handle when he spots Max across the road.

His eyes go wide and his jaw drops a little, the dopey smile that was plastered on his face disappearing as he stands there, staring at her for several seconds.

Max raises her hand in an awkward wave, which seems to snap him out of his reverie. He offers a small finger wiggle in return.

Max doesn’t know how clearly he can see her. Just like her, Steve was advised by one of the doctors to wear glasses- his own eyesight showing signs of damage after the multiple concussions that he’s suffered over the years. And just like her, Steve didn’t listen.

Still, she raises an eyebrow at him while staring pointedly at the shirt he’s wearing.

And despite his own shitty eyesight, Steve must be able to see her face clearly enough because he ducks his head, realizes what Max is staring at, and his eyes widen even more. Then, without looking at her again, he hurriedly slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car, backing it up and driving it away.

Once the car disappears, Max jumps to her feet, and tucking her skateboard under her arm, she walks over to Eddie’s trailer.

Her knuckles rap on the door and she hears movement behind it- the couch squeaking, a loud thud, and a heartfelt “son of a bitch!” coming from Eddie as he, most likely, trips over something.

Eddie starts talking before he opens the door enough to see Max, rubbing at his eyes. “Did you forget something, Stevie-” He pauses when he finally sees Max, whose eyebrows are knit together in a frown. Stevie? She’s only ever heard Eddie call Steve by his last name or by some mocking title before. “Oh. Hey Red, I thought- I thought you were someone else,” he tacks on with an awkward laugh, a hand hanging from his neck.

Max studies him for a moment. He’s in boxers and a shirt that could very well be the same one that Steve was wearing, equally slept in. They both must’ve woken up recently- Eddie’s hair is even more of a mess than Steve’s was.

“Who? Steve?” She asks, and Eddie makes a noncommittal sound. “Nah, he left already.”

Eddie bites his lip. “You- you saw him?”

“I was fixing my skateboard outside when he came out.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Wearing your shirt.”

“Um,” Eddie says dumbly, scratching the back of his neck. “He, uh, he spilled something on his shirt last night. If you ask me, it was an act of divine intervention, no one should own that many polo shirts.” He chuckles, but it sounds a little strained.

“So he was here last night?” Max asks and Eddie grimaces, mentally face-palming himself.

“Um, yeah.”

“Since when do you guys hang out?” She asks, raising an eyebrow.

Eddie shrugs. “Since we found ourselves as the only two adults in a group of children, I guess.”

Max rolls her eyes. “We’re hardly children.”

“Sorry, teenagers,” he says with a smirk. “But you know, same shit. Sometimes it’s nice to hang out with someone your age who also understands, you know- everything that happened.”

“I guess,” Max concedes. Maybe in a universe without the Upside Down, Eddie and Steve never would’ve become friends, but it makes sense that they did. After everything they went through.

Eddie reaches over and flicks Max’s forehead, sniggering when Max bats his hand away with a huff. “So, milady, is there a reason you visited me on this fine morning?”

There isn’t. Truth is, she was curious and wanted to ask about Steve and she did that already, so she might as well just leave. But she also has nothing to do all day and she was hoping to practice with her skateboard anyway-

“Can you give me a ride to the skate park?” She asks and when Eddie glances down at himself and raises an eyebrow, Max scrunches up her nose and adds, “After you take a shower or something?”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah, sure. Come in, you can wait here while I get ready.” He steps to the side and sweeps his arm with a flourish.

“Nerd,” Max mutters but steps in any way, leaving her skateboard on the porch.

“You can watch something or if you want to grab some breakfast, we have Cocoa Puffs and Honeycomb.” He scrunches up his nose. “But the milk might’ve gone bad, so. Careful with that.”

Max snorts. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” She says. She had breakfast at home anyway.

“Suit yourself,” Eddie says, throwing some finger guns her way. “Be right back.” And then he disappears down the hallway.

Max has been inside the trailer a few times, but she’s never been left alone so naturally she decides to snoop around a little while she waits. There’s not a lot that she finds interesting- worn furniture, old newspapers, Eddie’s uncle’s mug collection and-

Steve’s polo shirt that somehow ended up on top of the TV like it was tossed haphazardly by someone.

She picks it up and inspects it.

There’s not a single stain on it.

And well, Eddie’s excuse sounded flimsy at best, but this is confirmation that it was actually a lie. It makes Max wonder why Eddie would lie about it. Friends can share clothes and if Steve spent the night it would make sense that he would borrow one of Eddie’s shirts-

But why would his shirt end up on top of the TV if that was the case?

Before Max can answer her own question, she hears footsteps approaching. Putting the shirt back where it was for Eddie to find later, she makes herself seem busy by staring at the mugs lining up the walls just as Eddie appears.

“Ready to go?” He asks, oblivious to Max finding the shirt and discovering he was lying about the stain. When she nods, Eddie gestures at the door with another flourish and a, “Ladies first.”

Sending one last glance at Steve’s shirt, Max steps outside, still wondering what it could mean.

Max doesn’t expect it to happen again, but just one week later she sees Steve leaving Eddie’s trailer again.

This time she doesn’t need to squint to notice there’s something off with Steve’s clothes. She’s on her way to Eddie’s trailer when Steve walks out and jogs down the steps, not paying attention to where he’s going, almost knocking Max over.

“Dude!” She says, stopping him in his tracks.

“Christ! Where did you come from?” He hisses, stumbling a few steps back, clutching at his chest.

It makes Max’s eyes dart down to it and she raises an eyebrow. “Why is your shirt inside out?”

Steve’s eyes nearly bulge out his face as he looks down and notices that his baby blue polo shirt is, in fact, inside out.

“Uh.”

Max can see him trying to come up with an explanation, she can almost hear the gears turning in his head, but he seems to be coming up blank. She narrows her eyes further.

“There was- uh, there was a spider! It ended up caught under my shirt and I had to take it off to- to get it off me and I must’ve put it on the wrong way,” he stammers out with a strained laugh.

“A spider?” Max asks slowly, her eyebrow arched.

“Uh-huh.”

Max doesn’t buy it. Just like she didn’t buy Eddie’s excuse about Steve’s shirt having a stain. But since she doesn’t know the real reason why Steve was wearing Eddie’s shirt or why his own is inside out after leaving Eddie’s trailer, she doesn’t confront him about it, just filing the information for later.

“Okay.”

Steve awkwardly shuffles from one foot to the other for a second, eyeing his car like he wants to duck inside it and drive away from the trailer park and Max as fast as he can.

At that moment, the trailer door opens and they both whirl around to see Eddie lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips as he walks out. He freezes when he sees them, his eyes darting between the two.

“Oh, you’re still here,” he mumbles through the cigarette. “And so is Max, hey Red.”

Max gives him a wave.

“What are you two talking about?” He asks, taking a drag from the cigarette.

“I was telling Steve that his shirt is inside out,” Max says, her lips twitching into a smirk.

Eddie’s eyes widen the same way Steve’s did as he clocks in the inside-out shirt. “Right, that’s- that’s because, um.”

Max waits for him to come up with an excuse of his own, wondering if he’ll come up with the same one that Steve did. But before he can say anything else, Steve intervenes. “There was a spider, right, Eds?”

Eds? Steve calls him Eds now?

Eddie claps his hands together and points a finger at Steve. “A spider! Right! Nasty little crawler!”

Max rolls her eyes, wondering if they think she’s stupid. Idiots.

“Whatever.” She turns to Eddie. “My mom made lasagna and she told me to invite you over for lunch,” she says. That was the reason she came over in the first place.

Eddie grins around his cigarette. “Hell yeah, your mom’s lasagna is the shit.”

Max turns to Steve. “You can come too if you want. She made plenty.”

The corners of his mouth twitch up for a second before he frowns. “Crap, I’d love to but I have a shift in,” he pauses and glances down at his watch, “twenty minutes. Sorry.”

“Another time.”

“Definitely,” Steve says, ruffling Max’s hair and ducking out of the way before Max can punch his arm. “But for now, I gotta go!” He starts jogging towards his car.

“Don’t forget to fix your shirt!” Max calls and Steve makes a face as he opens the door.

“And beware of spiders!” Eddie yells right before he climbs inside. Max still catches a glimpse of the fond smile teasing at Steve’s lips.

When the car disappears, she turns to Eddie again. “You coming or what?”

“Well, when you ask so nicely,” Eddie says with a grin, walking down the steps.

As soon as he’s within reach, Max snatches the cigarette from his lips and drops it on the ground, snuffing it out with her foot.

“Hey!”

“Smoking kills, you know?” She says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“My dear Red,” Eddie says, throwing an arm over her shoulders as he steers them towards her house. “I defied death once, and I shall do it again!” He says in a silly voice.

Max bites her lip around a smile. “Yeah, yeah, you can defy it where I don’t have to smell it. Come on, Mom’s waiting.”

He withdraws his arm and jogs a few steps forward, crouching down in front of Max. “Hop on, milady.”

Max rolls her eyes, but she grabs Eddie’s shoulders for balance and jumps on his back. Eddie laughs, hoists Max up by her legs, and yells, “Onwards!” before he starts running towards her house.

Max can’t help but laugh along with him.

The next time Max sees Steve outside Eddie’s trailer he’s not leaving but arriving instead.

She’s sitting down on the porch with her Walkman, waiting for her mother to pick her up. She doesn’t just listen to Kate Bush these days, but she still keeps one of her tapes with her at all times. Right now, she’s listening to a mixtape Lucas made for her.

It comes to an end just as Steve’s car rolls into the trailer park, stopping in front of Eddie’s trailer.

As she rewinds the tape, she expects Steve to step out of the car and head inside, but he doesn’t. Eddie doesn’t come out of the trailer either. Steve just sits in his car with his hands on the steering wheel for seemingly no reason.

After ten minutes, he still hasn’t come out and since Max has nothing better to do until her mother gets here, she decides to walk over there to find out what’s going on with Steve.

She opens the passenger door and slides into the seat without announcing herself, making Steve jump and hit his head with the roof of the car.

“Jesus Christ! Ouch! Fuck!” He glances at Max with wide crazy eyes. “Goddammit, Max, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Max ignores the question in favor of asking one herself. “You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, dude, what gives?”

The hand that Steve is rubbing his head with stops abruptly. “Um.”

“Well?” Max gives him an exasperated look. Her mom is going to be home any second and she would like to get an answer before she does.

Steve bites his lip, watching Max closely. “Can- Can I ask you something?”

He seems nervous and that’s the only reason why Max lets him ignore her question. “Okay?”

“You and Lucas-” he starts and Max raises an eyebrow. She wasn’t expecting Steve to ask about them. “You’re together again, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did he- when he asked you to-” He waves his hand in a vague gesture. “You know- be his girlfriend, how did he- what did he do?”

She bites down on the why? that’s at the tip of her tongue. “He gave me this. A mixtape,” she says, holding her Walkman for Steve to see. “And he- he just asked me. He said that after Vecna he didn’t want to waste any more time. He wanted to be with me.”

Steve smiles softly. “Smart kid.”

“It wasn’t terribly romantic but-” Max trails off with a shrug. She hadn’t cared about that. Vecna made her realize she wanted to be with Lucas too, and that’s all that mattered.

“He probably knew you wouldn’t want a big romantic gesture,” Steve says and Max nods.

She narrows her eyes at him- at the way Steve bites his lip while glancing at Eddie’s trailer, thinking.

That’s when it clicks. The shared clothes, the inside-out shirt, Steve asking about her and Lucas, how nervous he is to go inside-

“Is that something Eddie would want? A big romantic gesture?” She asks and Steve snaps his head in her direction so fast she thinks she hears his neck crack.

“What- what do you- how do you-”

Max scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Dude, I saw you leaving Eddie’s trailer wearing his clothes and then with your shirt on inside out. And don’t give me that bullshit about the spider! You were obviously- you know.” She gestures vaguely but Steve gets it. His cheeks go pink which is enough confirmation. “And now you’re asking me about Lucas and how he asked me to be his girlfriend like- like you’re thinking about doing that so- is that it? Are you gonna ask Eddie?”

Steve sighs heavily, slumping back against his seat. “Yeah, that’s- yeah. I want to ask him,” he admits, gripping the steering wheel. He glances at Max out of the corner of his eye. “Is that- is that okay?”

Max snorts. “You know you don’t need my permission, right? But if you’re asking if I think you and Eddie being together is okay? Yeah, of course it is.”

Steve relaxes slightly. “Thanks. I- we- this thing between us is new. We haven’t told anyone. Not that we had to tell you,” he chuckles. “Of course, you figured it out, but we haven’t, you know, made it official, but I want to. I just don’t know how.”

“I thought you were supposed to be some kind of ladies’ man?”

Steve lets out an undignified squawk. “I- that’s not- I mean I was, but my game kind of went downhill after high school and Eddie- he makes me nervous.”

“Is that why you’ve been freaking out here for ten minutes?”

A high-pitched laughter tumbles out of Steve’s lips. “Yeah, that’s- yeah.”

Max rolls her eyes. “Steve, just tell Eddie how you feel! How you really feel.”

“Easier said than done, Mayfield.”

She turns sideways in her seat to face him. “Look, Eddie likes you, that’s obvious, and you like him so just tell him that. Tell him that you want to be together. Officially.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath.

“And stop doing that!” Max chatises, slapping his hand away. “You don’t want to look like a bird built a nest in your head when you ask Eddie to be your boyfriend.”

He drops his hand to his lap. “No, I don’t,” He concedes. Then he takes a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, I’m doing this.”

Max waits for him to move and get out of the car, but he just sits there. “Dude, you’re still in the car-”

Steve throws his arms up. “I know! I know, I’m going!”

And then finally, he gets out of the car. Max follows his lead, leaning her crossed arms on the roof to narrow her eyes at Steve.

“Now you gotta walk over there-”

Steve groans. “Yeah, I know that. You,” he points at her with one finger while the other one settles on his hip, “you gotta scram. I’m not doing this in front of you.”

Max rolls her eyes. “Whatever. My mom will be here soon anyway.”

She starts walking back to her house but before she gets too far, Steve calls her name. She turns around with a raised eyebrow.

Steve is smiling softly at her. “Thanks.”

Max smiles back. “Good luck!”

Her mom’s car appears then and she waves at Steve before running towards it. She gets in, and as her mom drives away, she sees Steve fix his hair one last time in the car window before finally walking towards the trailer.

She faces forward in her seat, convinced that the next time she sees Steve leaving Eddie’s trailer, he’ll be doing it as Eddie’s boyfriend.

+1.

The next time he sees Steve, however, it’s not outside Eddie’s trailer, but rather inside it.

She’s sitting down at the Munson’s table, watching Eddie putter around the small kitchen as he cooks them pasta for dinner while she works on her History homework.

Eddie has music on- loud, heavy metal music that Max rolled her eyes at when she walked in. But the truth is that she’s used to it by now and she prefers this to the silence back at her house when her mom is at work.

Because of the loud music though they don’t hear the car that parks outside or the person that walks up the front steps. It’s only when the door flings open that both Max and Eddie jump and glance at it, both of them relaxing when Steve walks in carrying a six-pack.

“Honey, I’m home!” He announces, shrugging off his jacket.

Max watches as Eddie’s eyes widen comically before darting between her and Steve, who still hasn’t noticed her. Steve must’ve forgotten to tell him that Max knows about them- probably too embarrassed to admit he asked a fifteen-year-old for advice on boys.

“Uh, Stevie-” Eddie starts, but Steve, whose back is still turned towards them as he hangs his jacket on the coat rack, ignores him and keeps talking.

“It smells great in here, Eds! I’m starving. Robin ate the last of my sandwich at work and then she wouldn’t let me steal anything from the candy display. I thought we could order pizza, but thank God my boyfriend decided to surprise me with a home-cooked meal. Oh hey, Max.” He wiggles his fingers at Max, finally noticing her, and she waves back.

Eddie’s jaw hangs open as he stares at Max. “Shit, I guess- I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” he chuckles, nervously tugging some of his hair in front of his face.

“Dude, the cat’s been out of the bag since I saw Steve leave in one of your shirts after spending the night here,” Max says with a snort.

Eddie splutters. “What?”

She smirks. “Yeah. And that time Steve walked out with his shirt inside out? Did you really expect me to believe it was because of a spider?”

Steve’s face twists into a grimace. Eddie shrugs, hanging a hand from his neck. Yeah, they should be embarrassed about that one.

“Also, who do you think was the one who gave Steve a pep talk before he asked you to be his boyfriend?”

At that, Eddie’s head snaps towards Steve, whose cheeks have turned pink. “She- what?”

“Okay, it wasn’t a pep talk, come on! I was just- I was a little nervous!”

“Aw baby,” Eddie says gleefully, leaning his elbows on the kitchen counter and resting his chin on his hands. “You were nervous?”

Max sniggers. “He was. He sat in the car for like ten minutes.”

Steve squeaks. “Shut up!” He tells her. Then when Eddie coos, Steve points a menacing finger at him. “You shut up too!”

Still giggling, Max watches as Eddie walks around the kitchen counter until he’s standing in front of Steve and cups both sides of his face while Steve pouts at him with his own hands resting on his hips.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I think it’s cute that you were nervous,” Eddie tells him before swooping in to give him a quick peck on the lips. “Even if you had no reason to be.”

Steve visibly melts, his hands falling from his hips like a puppet with his strings cut, his pout turning into a dopey smile.

Ew.

“If you guys start making out, I’ll leave. I swear,” Max announces, and both their heads snap in her direction, looking like they forgot she was there.

Their cheeks turn pink, but while Steve does look a little embarrassed, Eddie looks pleased.

“Apologies, my lady,” he says with a flourish. “Here, sweetheart, let me take this,” he tells Steve, grabbing the six-pack and walking around the counter to put it inside the fridge before going back to making dinner. Max finds the pet names very cheesy and gross too, but she doesn’t tease them about that. She has the feeling that this is the first time that they can act like a couple in front of someone from the party and she doesn’t want them to think they have to hold back- not unless it comes to kissing.

Steve joins her on the table, twisting one of the chairs around and straddling it, resting his chin in his arms. “If I’d known you’d be here, I would’ve brought you something to drink too.”

“That’s okay.” Max shrugs innocently. “I can have a beer.”

From the kitchen, Eddie cackles, and Steve’s eyes turn into cartoon-like hearts as he glances at him for a second before turning back to Max and speaking in that bitchy tone of his. “Yeah, that’s a no. Nice try. Maybe in a couple of years.”

Max rolls her eyes as hard as she can.

“What are you working on?” Steve asks, glancing at her notebook.

“History homework, I’m almost done.” Then she makes her voice a little louder so Eddie hears it when she says, “I would be done by now if Eddie didn’t listen to his music so loud it makes it hard to think!”

“You know, Red, music is supposed to improve cognitive performance,” Eddie says in a snarky tone.

“Yours isn’t music, it’s just noise.”

Steve sniggers and offers his hand for a fist bump that Max accepts. From the kitchen, Eddie sticks his tongue out at her.

“Whatever, your homework is gonna have to wait anyway. Dinner’s ready.”

Max closes her book and her notebook and moves them both to the coffee table while Steve clears out some old mail and flips his chair forward again. Then he helps Eddie with one of the three pasta bowls and Max grabs a soda from the fridge and two beers for them, carrying it all to the table.

Steve wasn’t lying when he said it smelled good. Max’s mouth waters the moment she sits down in front of her bowl, wasting no time before she digs in.

They eat in silence for no more than two minutes which is how long it takes for Eddie to start telling them about his latest study session with Nancy through mouthfuls of pasta. Max scrunches her nose every time she catches a glimpse of Eddie’s half-chewed food, but the whole time, Steve watches him with a dopey smile. Halfway through his story, Steve reaches for one of Eddie’s hands, holding it over the table. Eddie stutters in the middle of complaining about Nancy not believing in breaks (“That woman is a machine! It doesn’t matter if she’s facing off against a dark wizard or an English final!”), his eyes darting to their joined hands and then to Max’s bored expression before relaxing and flipping his hand over so that their fingers intertwine.

They don’t let go for the rest of their dinner- not while the three of them bicker and tease each other or while Steve tells them about his shift at Family Video or while Max tells them about El coming to visit during summer. They don’t let go when Eddie lets Max have a sip of his beer and both he and Steve double over with laughter when she scrunches up her face and gags at the taste.

They let go only when they move to the couch to watch a movie, but then they cuddle up to each other almost immediately.

Max gags again, but it’s just for show. She doesn’t mind any of it- the pet names, the cuddling, the hand-holding. She’ll draw the line at seeing them kiss because gross but she’s happy to see them relax and act like this in front of her. Someday, they might tell the rest of the party, maybe even the rest of the world.

For now, they seem happy to let her be the only one who knows. The only one who gets to see them like this.

And Max, well, she’s happy too.

#steddie #steddieweek2024 #steddie fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #hello i finally finished this and just in time for day one of steddie week #i love max and i love writing from her pov i hope you enjoy it too #steve harrington #eddie munson #max mayfield #monse writes

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