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carol-munson · 1 year

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old times. (stella's version - rockstar!eddie)

let's revisit our life as stella rink in the rockstar!eddie universe. another day another crossover, check out libby's version here. catch up with the rockstar!eddie au here.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, drugs and drinking mention (mild), pregnancy talk, general tension, puking/pregnancy sickness, very sweet and overbearing eddie, all around deeply fluffy.

“What heels should I wear?”

“It’s a house party with some of my old friends, Stell, why do you wanna wear heels?” Eddie asks with a laugh, coming out of the bathroom with a towel slung around his hips. He looks at you through the water droplets falling in his eyes from his curly bangs and smiles at the outfit laid out on the bed. Some little red number and nylons, four different pairs of heels laid out at the base of the hotel's California King bed.

“It’s not that kind of party, sweet thing. I told you,” he shakes his head, “just jeans and a t-shirt. There's no one to impress.”

"Are you sure?" you ask, turning to look in the mirror on the wall, tapping out a crease the concealer under your eyes.

"I'm sure," he encourages, "You want one of my shirts?"

"It's gonna be cold, right?" you wait for his confirming nod and start rifiling through the hotel dresser full of way too many clothes for a four day trip.

"I'll give you a sweatshirt, honey," he urges, tugging on a pair of old ripped jeans over a pair of boxers, "Just be comfortable, you're not supposed to be stressing out like this."

You roll your eyes playfully at him while he approaches you slowly, dimpled grin plastered on his face. A scratchy smatter of facial hair had come through over the past couple days that he hadn't bothered to shave and it tickled you while he leaned in for a kiss.

"It's bad for the baby."

Ever since you saw the little pink plus sign on the test, Eddie had taken any chance he could to say, "For the baby." He'd taken to calling you 'mama' in a Wayne like drawl ever since the blood work came in. He'd buy any onsie he saw in a store, always picking up one in a new state with some cheesy saying on it like, "My Daddy went to Texas and only got me this onesie!" He asked his manager to contact their merch developer to start making little Corroded Coffin shirts three weeks into the pregnancy. He asked the contractor on for the Hollywood house to start planning the nursery with him. There wasn't anyone more excited to be a dad than Eddie Munson.

Before you know it, you've found yourself in a pair of boot cut jeans (perfectly tailored of course) and white on white Adidas shell toes. A turtle neck and one of Eddie's Corroded Coffin sweatshirt's kept you warm on top -- not something you'd ever wear to a party in The Hills, but The Hawkins Daily probably doesn't care that you're not in Versace's SS RTW '94 collection.

You didn't look as glamourous as you would with a whole team, but at least your nails were done and your engagement ring sparkled brilliantly next to your diamond studded wedding band. Your small gold hoops hugged your earlobes -- you just needed something to add some pizzazz. You felt so tired and bloated these days, everything made you sick -- you deserved to feel pretty.

"You ready to go, lil' mama?" Eddie asks, rubbing his hand up and down your forearms to keep you warm. He looks so casually cool, you almost wanna shove him off you. Beat up old Reeboks from the 80s, ripped jeans, some stupid crudely drawn on shirt that said 'Hellfire' on it from years ago that wore tight against his adult body -- but still effortless, still sexy.

You blame it on the leather jacket and his over decorated battle vest. That had to be it.

You nod, heading down the back exits of the Indianapolis hotel to the parking garage where you loaded into Eddie's old van from high school. He preferred to drive this around when he was back home, brought on less attention than one of the Jeeps or Jaguars you both had lying around in California. While the outside still looked dingy and untouched, the inside had been redetailed and updated to keep up with the times. New carpeting, new sound system, updated leather seating, air conditioning, anything you'd want in a mid90s car -- it was in 'Charlene' -- named effectionately after one of Wayne's ex-girlfriend's who let Eddie have it when it wouldn't start anymore.

The ride felt simultaneously short and long, the rolling of your stomach in the car paired with the anxiety of being with a group of people you didn't know was inching up your throat. You looked pale in the side view mirror, pinching your cheeks hurriedly to bring some blood back to your face.

"You feel okay, honey?" Ed asks, "Want me to pull over? Did'j'you bring your water with you? I brought some if you need it."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," you assure. You're not fine, but it's better not to worry him. You weren't sick. Just nervous.

"Should I have just gone to Wayne's?" your heart sinks when you ask, "I don't want you to feel like you need to entertain me all night or anything."

"You know Dustin – you met everyone else at the wedding," Eddie says, putting a hand on your thigh, "It'll be okay. We're just gonna do a short campaign for D&D -- you can watch. You'll get to see my acting chops."

When he winks at you, you melt. It's been five years and you still feel like a teenager every time his gaze lingers on you for a little too long.

"You're gonna put me out of business," you joke back, "Hollywood's next girl next door, huh?"

"They're gonna beat down the door to book me," he replies with a faux-seriousness that makes you giggle, "Gonna outshine all you little bitches."

The rest of the ride is filled with laughs because he knows you're nervous. He knows you don't feel good. And sure, Wayne would love to have you tonight and make you dinner and talk about the baby but Eddie so rarely gets to show you the old him -- the version of him before he was famous. Before he ever did heroin -- when all he did was sell weed and comic books out of Hawkins Comics & Gaming Expo after dropping out of high school in '83 so he could get his big break.

Every trip to Indiana was a holiday or so short they'd only be there a night. You both almost exclusively saw Wayne, either staying at the trailer -- since he gifted the house Eddie got him to a new single teen mother who'd found her way to Forest Hills two months after the renovations had finished -- or in a hotel in the bigger cities. You both never had the time to show each other your old lives, even after all these years together. So when Will Byers got on the phone during one of Eddie and Dustin's weekly calls and invited him to his birthday party -- Ed cleared his schedule to make room for the occasion. He hadn't seen the guys in a while, not since the wedding in October, and before that it was during his stint in Hawkins after 'the incident' in Toronto.

When the van pulled into the driveway, already littered with cars, and your nerves pooled back in your stomach. It wasn't just not really knowing them well that was making you nervous, it was them not really knowing you. The press about the sex tape was just starting to die down -- but had they seen it? Did they know about it? Did they watch Eddie on Leno? Did they hear about the broken microphones when he got in a fight with Howard Stern? Did they know about how Eddie had to pay to get Howard's studio redone?

"He shouldn't have talked his shit, then, baby," Eddie shrugged when he got the legal papers in the mail. You'd never seen him so angry in his life than when Howard called you his 'whore wife'. The clip of Eddie saying "Excuse the fuck out of me, but what did you just say about my wife? Do you wanna lose your fuckin’ teeth man?" Replayed on a loop on all the metal radio stations before playing a Corroded Coffin song.

Were these guys going to judge her the way the press had? Should she mention the pregnancy? Did they already know? They had to have known. Eddie called Dustin minutes after you both found out.

"It's gonna be fine, Stell," Eddie knocked you out of your running thoughts with his soothing voice, opening your door on your side of the van. He offers his hand to help you out, he always does, like a prince helping you out of a carriage. You walk hand in hand to the door and you can feel the coolness of his wedding band against your skin -- it's the only gold jewelry he wears, even though you offered to get it in platinum. 'I want it to stand out, baby. Want everyone to know I'm Mr. Stella Rink.'

Eddie rings the bell, pressing a kiss to the top of your head while your other hang grips the handles of the bag of treats and expensive champagne you brought. The champagne you can't drink. The charcuterie board with cold cuts that you can't eat. Your stomach lurches again.

You're greeted by all the boys when the door opens and they all start to scream -- low and vibrating yells from men in their mid and late 20s who just wanna be boys again. Your nose is hit hard with strains of four different colognes, weed smoke, and beer and you grab Eddie's arm in a panic. Fuck.

"Oh, shit, shit shit," Eddie starts, "Sorry, sorry, can she use your bathroom. I think she's gonna puke."

"Yeah, of course, c'mon, c'mon in," Will is so immediately caring that you want to cry. His hand on your back while he and Eddie lead you to the bathroom around the hall. You drop the bag of food and liquor outside the door before you run inside to wretch, closing the door on both men behind you.

"Sorry man," you hear Eddie explain, "She's pregnant so she's just, y'know, like, puking everywhere all the time."

"It's totally okay," you hear Will assure.

"Not surprised she's pregnant," you hear another voice say with a snicker, "We all saw it on the news."

"Hey," you hear Eddie's voice get lower while another heave of bile comes out of you, "Watch your mouth, Wheeler."

There's silence and then the sound of a smack on the back, "I'm just kiddin' man. Fuckin' love you guys."

You finally think you're done, rinsing your mouth out in the sink.

"Do you guys have mouthwash?" you call out, hearing their murmur of conversation.

"Behind the mirror," Mike responds. Your sigh of relief at the Listerine is audible and the boys snicker and you laugh too. This is ridiculous. What were you so nervous about? This was going to be fine. Just fine.

Eddie's waiting for you outside of the bathroom, offering his hand again when you emerge, "You okay?"

You nod and he picks up the snacks and wine while leading you to the kitchen. He puts the champagne in the fridge, maneuvering it amongst hundreds of beer cans and a covered grocery store cake. You go to open the snacks before Dustin stops you.

"I got it, Stell," he urges, "You should sit down."

"Henderson," you say with a cocked head, "I'm pregnant, not dying. I can put out snacks."

"Look, I'm just doing what I'd do for Suze," he says, "If I'm here, you're not lifting a finger."

"And where is Suze and the baby now?" you ask with a smile.

"They are in Utah to visit her parents and her brother's and sisters," he explains matter of factly, "And...lucky for me, I couldn't take off work this week to go visit them, too."

"I'm sure your thrilled," you laugh. He puts a finger to his lips and laughs too, fatherhood suits him so well. Despite being five years younger, Eddie has gotten so much wisdom from Dustin. Asking every question that comes in his head, picking Suzie's brain about pregnancy even though you have to keep reminding him that all of this is different for every couple.

Eddie puts a plate in front of you full of snacks you can have and strokes your hair, "Do you want water? Soda?"

"Can I have a Heineken?" you ask with a hopeful smile.

"No," he singsongs, "But you can have a Coke if you want?"

You frown, "Fine, fine."

Eddie opens it for you and places it next to your plate, barely biting into a cracker before the doorbell rings again. You've started your conversation back up with Dustin and Eddie to tune out the ruckus at the door and you swear you hear it -- but you can't be sure.

"Libby!"

Absolutely not.

There's no way.

You peer a little past the wall of the kitchen blocking off the view of the front door to see a glimpse of her hair falling over Will's shoulder and you know if she's here -- so is he. Your heart races in your chest, sweat building under your arms and in your hairline like you're going to be sick again.

You peer over a second time to see Steve on one knee taking off her shoes for her and bite back a scoff. You feel Eddie's hand on your shoulder and your attention snaps to him, "What're you lookin' at, baby?"

He follows your line of site and sees them, too. Eddie's regualr smile falls to a thin line, "What the fuck?" he mutters quietly.

"Of course he's taking her shoes off for her, can't do anything herself," you huff.

Eddie squeezes your shoulder, "Don't," he says with a shake of his head.

"Don't act up. You're just gonna make yourself upset," he warns. You both had a right to be mad, but Eddie didn't have the energy for negativity anymore. Lucky for him, you have enough energy for the both of you.

"I'm so sorry, dude. I should've told you," Dustin said. Their conversation is muffled while shock rings in your ears. You watch her give Will a gift, their jovial conversation, her dolled up outfit. Lucas and Mike giving her hugs hello. She sparkled. The life of the party. Her miserable hulking jock boyfriend hanging behind her with her purse in his hand.

You look back down at your plate of snacks -- you wanna puke again but you don't know if you need to puke again. You hear Libby and the rest of the crew maneuver into the livingroom, laughing and joking as they go. Her smile is so evident in her voice and your heart can't help but break at the sound of it -- she was your friend, too. Once.

It's not long before you hear it, the familiar stomps of a one Steve Harrington entering the kitchen with a cigarette between his lips. The interaction feels like it's happening in slow motion when he stops in front of the table.

"Shut the fuck up," you say under your breath, "You're joking."

Eddie instinctively steps in front of you, one hand sneaking behind him to stop you from talking -- ‘I got it.’

Steve stands there, dumbfounded at first, and then shakes his head.

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me," he mumbles, looking straight at Eddie's face. It had been over a year, but rage surged through Eddie's system for a moment before he took a regulating breath.

"Uh, Eddie um, I just got my car uh, detailed -- wanna check it out? See if they did a good job?" Dustin offered, trying to break the tension.

"Yeah Henderson, that sounds like a great idea," Eddie agreed slowly, keeping his eye on Steve while the boxer turned on his heel to go back to the livingroom.

It was no longer a question of whether or not you wanted to puke.

You needed to puke.

Eddie and Dustin headed outside while you barreled back down the hallway to vom, turning the water on so no one would hear, praying that this would be the last time. After a couple of dizzying minutes, you gather yourself, rinse with Listerine, and cautiously head to the door.

You only see her feet in the corner of your eye, blocked by everyone surrounding her before you open the door. The cool March air kisses your face like a lover back from war, catching on the sweat of your clammy skin. You shut the door, making sure it's not locked, and scan the street for a sign of your husband.

"Over here," he calls from across the street. You jog over in your sneakers, Eddie looks you over, "You get sick again?"

"Yeah, but s'fine," you nod, "I'm okay."

Eddie reaches into his jacket pocket, hearing the crinkling of plastic, and his hand reappears with two gold wrapped candies.

Ginger chews. The only thing that kept your stomach settled these day. Eddie bought them in bulk the moment you found something that helped and kept at least 50 of them on him at all times, lest you felt even the slightest bit ill.

"Here, baby," he offers, holding the candies out on his outstretched palm, "You'll feel better. Think you need to eat something real, soon. You didn't eat a lot at breakfast."

"Ed, I'm fine," you assure, taking the chews and horking them down. You just don't want to feel sick anymore. He takes out his keys and hands them to you.

"I got a big bottle of Evian in there for you, go grab it," he instructs, "You're gonna just get more sick if you're dehydrated."

"Honey," you say with a warning edge, taking the keys, "I know. I can take care of myself, okay?"

He frowns, "Just tryna help."

You sigh with a smile, pecking his cheek, "I love you. I appreciate it. M'sorry." You cross the street again, catching Libby and Will in an animated conversation through the window and avert your eyes to the van. You grab the Evian and crack it open, practically chugging it behind the coverage of the passenger door -- heaving breaths out of your mouth when the bottle leaves your lips.

"Trying to pretend it's a real party, Stell?" Eddie teases, "Sucking that down like it's Moet."

You roll your eyes, "Fuck off, Munson."

"We're gonna go back inside, sweet thing," he says, tilting his head over to Dustin, "You need a minute?"

"Um, yeah, gonna let the ginger set in first and then I'll come in," you smile.

"I think they ordered pizza, that sound good? Want me to see if I can get you something else?" Eddie smiles.

"No, no, pizza's fine honey," your smile is tight while you watch them walk back in, the sound of too many voices and music peels through the open door.

You take a few deep breaths to steady your nerves, looking at yourself in the side view mirror again. You sigh, you’re sure you look fine to everyone else but you look bad to you. You step half way up and in to the van to open the center console, fishing out a spare blush and lip gloss that you kept there for emergencies. Your touch up helps make you feel a little refreshed, but still came the daunting task of going back into the house.

You crept in the door quietly, seeing Eddie and Dustin laughing with Mike and Lucas, standing like pretend grown men in a circle. You scan the base of the couch again and see Libby’s socked feet, taking a swig of your water while you position yourself next to Eddie. His arm naturally finds its way around you while he talks and you feel safe again. The vibration of his chest while he speaks, the scent of his cologne mixed with less and less cigarette smoke while he works on quitting before the baby comes. His presence lulling you back into security without as much as a word.

Lucas and Dustin walk away to help set up the table for the game, while Mike continues to talk to Eddie about guitars. Wheeler wants to get a new one but he isn’t sure he has the right adapter for his amp and your brain glazes over in boredom. If you never heard about amp adapters again it would still be too soon.

“Technology’s moving too fast, babe. The sound is getting too manufactured.” He’d complain throughout the house like a grumpy old man.

Will calls Mike over and they start talking about playing, you hear Libby’s voice in the background and your head swims. When the conversation pauses, Eddie looks down at you and smiles, “You look pretty, you put a different blush on?”

His ability to still notice the little things makes your heart leap, “The one in the car. Felt like I sweat all my makeup off after puking.”

“You look like a million bucks, mama,” he winks, pulling you in tighter and kissing your forehead, “Gonna go help set up sweet thing, why don’t you go put some food in your body with that water.”

You chug your Evian to stop from fixing your mouth to say something bitchy. It’s hard to let him take the lead, to have him suggest how to care for yourself in this state. You want to tell him to mind his business, to snap at him — but he’s doing it from a place of love and you know that. You’re not good at having someone take care of you like this. You never let him do it before.

There was someone at this party who had told you that to your face.

You get out of the way, padding into the kitchen and grabbing a handful of pretzels and tossing them on a plate, your previous snack plate thrown away. You gather some cheese curls, M&Ms, chips, anything in a bowl for eating and pile it high. Munching on it while you watch the party set the living room up for the game. Dice and maps and papers being passed out to eachother. Beers and weed being offered.

You're only half listening while you came back over to the table where everyone was sitting in fold out chairs or the couch, only to realize there was no seat for you. Eddie turns at your movement, sitting on the end. He scans the room, there’s space next Libby on the couch but that’s not happening so he spreads his legs a little farther, patting his thigh.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, “S’fine, honey.”

You perch yourself on his lap and watch him look at your plate, he opens his mouth to say something but then closes it — plucking a chip off and popping it in his mouth, then another.

“Really looking forward to this birthday campaign, Byers," Eddie says across the table, "Never thought Wheeler could come up with something so creative."

"Rude," Mike scoffs, "But, even though I'm definitely that creative -- I didn't write it. Libby wrote it." You look down at the pretzels on your plate as if they are much more interesting than anything else.

“You wrote it?” Eddie asks gently.

“Yeah, I mean, I just threw it together,” Libby assured, “It’s nothing special.”

“No, no,” Eddie urges, “It’s good. It’s really good.”

Bile creeps up your throat.

Good enough to kiss her at the bar again? You shake it out of your mind. You’ve moved past that. He can compliment her and have it not mean anything more than that. He complimented Max's hair at your wedding, he compliments your manager Simone all the time. You bite into a pretzel — it’s incredibly dry. Eddie’s hand finds your hip and your mouth runs drier. Did he touch you after so that you wouldn’t be mad? Why are you thinking so far into it?

You reach down to get your water but he beats you to it, putting his character sheet down with his other papers to open it for you.

“I can do it, Ed,” you assure gently, “You’re busy.”

“I'm never too busy for you, Stell,” he whispers while the conversation continues around him, “I just — I’m sorry.”

You stay on his lap, snacking, feeding him snacks while he pays attention to everyone else.Minutes pass, they feel like hours while you watch everyone else laugh and joke with each other. Libby is glowing -- completely in her element, and you're here in your husband's sweatshirt feeling like hurling every five seconds and no one cares about you at all.

You need air.

You get up and fish into Eddie's pockets while he talks, grabbing a handful of ginger chews and the dregs of your Evian bottle and walk over to the kitchen to the back door. For the second time that afternoon, the cool wet air feels good on your face.

You shut the door behind you and take a deep breath, putting your head down and leaning forward with your hands on your knees at the exhale.

"You too?" you hear. It's a gruff voice. A voice you know well.

"What? Not havin' fun, Harrington?" you ask dryly, rolling up slowly, vertabrae by vertabrae.

"Could ask you the same thing," he says with a shrug. You turn to look at him, still big and hulking as ever. Sunglasses over his eyes and a cigarette between his lips. You look at eachother for a moment, you can feel his eyes through the lenses -- the honey eyes that looked like daggers the last time you saw him. The honey eyes that rounded like saucers when you told Libby to leave while she still could. Looks like she didn't heed your advice.

He takes a small step toward you, "Want a smoke?"

The box is nearly empty and you don't smoke Marlboro's anyway, "I'll pass."

He shrugs, taking one of the remaining cigarettes left and popping it between his lips.

"So, when're you due?" he asks while he brings up his lighter.

"Excuse me?" you ask, eyes narrowing. You cross your arms protectively over your chest.

"When's the baby due?" he asked again on his exhale, blowing the smoke away from you.

"Who told you?" you look at him quizically -- it's not like him and Libby would've found out any other way but this party. You weren't announcing to the press until you were at least 12 weeks.

"No one," he smirks, "Any other party I've seen you at you're normally stumblin' around with some Cliquot and chain smoking by now."

"I am not," you huff.

"And fuckin' Munson hasn't broken out any party favors yet so either you're knocked up or you finally put him on a shorter leash," his smirk widens while he takes another drag.

"Get his name out of you're fuckin' mouth, Harrington," you spit. You see his jaw clench, like he's holding back.

"See you haven't changed much," you mutter, opening your bottle of water only to see that there's nothing left. Steve drops the butt of his cigarette, stomping it out with his shoe before turning to one of the coolers outside and fishing out a Sprite.

"S'not as fancy as Evian but," he cocks his head while offering it to you, "Might settle your stomach."

You peer at it, and then at him, slowly reaching for the dripping can, "Thanks."

It comes out more apprehensive than you expect. You walk over to the picnic table that seems decades old, sitting down on the damp old wood of the bench and opening the can -- catching the bubbles as they over flow. You see Steve fish a Sprite out for himself and head over to you, lighting the last cigarette in his pack. You jaw clenches.

"Uh, congrats though," he says, flipping his glasses to rest on his head and running his hand over his face. You nod, feeling a little uncomfortable -- it wasn't pregnancy making you sick at this point. It was the threat of where this conversation could go, and you had a sharp tongue today. It was the fear of Eddie coming out here and causing a scene because -- despite it being over a year -- he wouldn't want you out here alone with King Steve.

"You know what you're having?"

"Twins."

Steve chokes on his Sprite, turning around to spit the liquid out onto the yellowed grass. He turns back around, wiping his mouth.

"Good fuckin' luck," he breaths, shaking his head. "Fuckin' twins."

"I know," you say quietly, toying with a piece of splintered wood on the side of the table, "I haven't told Eddie about it yet."

"The fuck you mean?" Steve asks, concerned, sitting down on the bench opposite you.

"I just found out before I came down here," you confessed, still toying with the splinter, "He was already in Indiana when I went to the 7 week appointment -- that's when they saw two of them in there. Fraternal. I'm due in November."

"Shit," Steve mumbles, "Uh...you okay?"

You nod, "I'm nervous he's gonna freak out. He's excited but I know he's so nervous about being a dad. He's so scared he's gonna fuck up -- I feel like this will be too much for him."

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," you say, shaking your head while the rest of you shivers, "I don't even fucking like you."

He barks out a laugh, "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Rink."

You laugh with him and for the first time, there's a subtle softness between you that hadn't existed before.

"Um," he starts, "Not sure it's my place to say this but -- I think Munson'll be fine -- he's off the heavy shit, right?"

You nod, looking at the opening of the Sprite can, the liquid reflecting the sky above you. Your shoulders tense at him mentioning Eddie's drug use -- 'How're those veins holdin' up Munson?' Eddie hadn't touched anything beyond weed and a few bumps of coke (off your body) since '92.

"He's been off for two years," you say, ripping the splinter of wood off the table and tossing it into the grass.

"See? Already ten times better than my folks. You’ll be just fine," Steve says softly -- you'd never hear him speak like that. So inward, almost calm.

Your eyes meet, holding each others gaze with understanding before Steve slides his glasses back down.

"Drink," he demands, his chin jutting towards the can of Sprite.

"Pfft. You sound just like Ed," you groan with an eye roll.

"What, is he finally bossin' you around?" Steve lets out a chuckle while he puts his last cigarette in his mouth.

"No one bosses me around," you snip, eyes reaching the sky, "God he just doesn't stop it's so fucking --"

"Steve," you hear Libby's voice behind you, her socked feet at the door frame. She tip toes clumsily in the dry grass, light on her feet as she does and gets behind him, reaching into his pants pocket.

"Baby, what're you --"

"There it is," Libby says with a smile, his wallet in her hand. She fishes through it, grabbing a few bills. She looks over at you, but doesn't make eye contact, "Oh, hey Stella."

"Hi Lib," you say to the rotting plank of wood at the center of the picnic table. You try to stifle a laugh from how clear it is that she's really been enjoying herself.

Steve looks up at her blankly, and she grins down, "The pizza's here, Stevie. I don't want Will to have to pay for it on his birthday."

She turns to tip toe back to the door with the cash in hand and he follows, her socks dirty with wet soil and grass. You don't hear it, but you know he's scolding her for something -- his fingers gentle around her chin while he talks to her.

He comes back when she disappears into the house and sits back down -- the bench creaks.

"She's having fun," you smile, "Happy for her."

"A little too much fun," he takes a drag of his cigarette, "That Sprite isn't there for you to look at, Rink."

You roll your eyes but take a sip of it anyway, "I know you're not telling me what to do. Must be the roids talking."

He catches your mean smirk and smirks back, his eye roll rivals yours. You're almost impressed.

Steve looks at the house, seeing Libby in the window with the boxes of pizza and his brows soften behind his glasses. He takes a moment, like he's considering something.

"Look, Rink -- what I did..." he starts, lifting his glasses to rub one of his eyes, "In Toronto and Malibu..."

"Steve it's --"

"No, no, shut up -- stop," he says, resting his glasses back on his nose, "What I did, what I said -- it was shitty."

He pauses, you sit in silence for a moment.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Yeah, you shouldn't have," you agree, taking another sip of Sprite -- you're annoyed that it is making you feel better.

"Everything I said was the truth, so -- I'm not apologizing to you," you say with a smile and a shrug.

"Fuckin' Rink," Steve shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, attention turning to the door again where Libby is standing.

"Come eat!" she calls. Holy God, you're fucking hungry.

"Go," Steve instructs, and you wanna snap at him too, but whatever demons are growing in your uterus are really begging for cheese and sauce. You get up, looking behind you while Steve works on finishing his cigarette and step into the house.

"Shoes off, baby," Eddie says when you see him in the kitchen, a plate of pizza in either hand. You kick your Adidas off and scurry over to the front door, leaving them with the pile of everyone else's before meeting your husband back in the kitchen.

"You want veggie or pepperoni?" he asks, holding either out in front of you.

"Veggie," you choose, taking the plate of his hand. You turn to see Libby waiting at the door for Steve, a plate of slices in her hand -- offering it to him when he comes in the door. Your heart sinks. You want to believe it's a good relationship, you really do -- but when you see her like this, this contrast of her bubbly nature with the group versus her obedient meekness when he's around -- you worry. Eddie catches you staring and looks at you through heavy lids, his lips a straight line.

"What?" you ask, "What's that face for?"

"Don't be sneakin' around on me," he warns, "I don't like that."

"Baby, it's fine," you say lightly, "I wasn't sneaking around -- you were busy! I just needed some air."

"It's not fine. I didn't want you to see him again," he says through a bite of pizza, "And definitely not by yourself."

"Oh stop," you click your tongue, "Put that fake macho attitude away."

"I'm so macho, what do you mean?" he quirks his brow while he gets in your face, dimples deepening when he smiles into a soft, pizza saucey peck on your lips. You look at him, his eyes are a little glassy and blood shot.

"Are you stoned?" you ask with a laugh.

"Eh...not a lot, enough that this tastes like the best pizza I've ever had," he laughs back at you.

"C'mon, lets sit," he urges, giving you a tiny pat on the ass to get you out of the way of all the moving parts in the kitchen. You cozy up next to him on the oversized recliner by the couch and look at the maps and dice left abandoned on the table.

"Are you winning?" you ask, taking a bite of your slice. Fuck, you might not be stoned but this is definitely the best pizza you've ever had.

"It's not that kind of game, baby," he smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the edges when he does.

"Oh, sorry," you blush, "I didn't know."

"S'okay," he says with a stretch of his arm, wrapping it at around you while he folds his now empty paper plate with his free hand.

"You having fun?" you ask, shoveling another bite of pizza into your mouth.

"Feel like I'm back at a highschool party," he blushes, "Excited to get to the making out part of the night. You know there's this girl I have a crush on? Her name's Stella. Think she'd wanna be my make out partner?"

"Oh, so wild," you play along, "I know her. Do you want me to ask her if she likes you?"

"No, no, she'd never go for a guy like me," he fake frowns, "I'm a loser in a rock band."

Almost as if on cue, a Corroded Coffin song comes on the radio and you playfully lean over him to turn up the volume on the stereo. Eddie covers his face with his hands, biceps bulging in the tight fabric of his shirt.

"Oof, so embarrassing," you tease. The party, sans Libby and Steve, clamber over to join in on the teasing, but it all turns into hype when they start screaming the lyrics at him. He peeks over his hands and then drops them, screaming the lyrics with them.

You feel the air around you get hot at the sight of him air guitaring the exact right chords, his face getting confident and concentrated like when he's really playing. He notices your stare, looking up to shoot you a wink but when you blush at him he can't help but pull you into a kiss. It's lewd and sloppy, like how you'd make out at California parties when you both had too much to drink. You know deep down he misses that version of you, but he can always find her when he kisses like this.

The hype turns into childish playful groans of disgust and teasing coos, "Ewwwww, don't be gross."

"Get a room!"

"No wonder you have a baby on the way," Mike teased. The grouped lulled in quiet, everyone blushing but not at dark as Wheeler. Your eyes flit quickly to Steve and Libby, and a strike of guilt pangs in your chest. She didn't know. How would she?

Always good at breaking tension, you make a joke at the expense of yourself, "Don't act so surprised, you all saw it on the tape."

They probably had. It was all over the news.

The room erupts in cackles and you laugh into Eddie's hand while it claps over your mouth, "Shh, shh, stop." His giggle in your ear is infectious. You reach up to touch his hand, your finger sliding over his wedding band as a reminder that he made all the changes he said he would. He put in all the work he promised. He's still going to meetings and still seeing a shrink -- he's even brought you with him a few times.

'Eddie mentioned he thinks you might have some issues with letting go of control.'

'I think you don't know what you're talking about.'

In your peripherary, you catch Steve pull away from her touch -- renderring her visibly upset. She gets up and heads to the hallway and part of you wants to get up and go after her, but your attention turns to Steve. His eyes lock with yours and he gives you a look like 'See what I'm dealing with here? What did I do?'

You look back at him flatly at first because he knows what he did. You motion your head toward the hallway at him mouthing a small 'Go!' He huffs and bobs his head with another award winning eye roll because he knows you're right.

Mrs. Fuckin' Munson.

Both of them disappear in the darkness of the hall and you watch as Max and Will's gaze follow them.

"It's okay," you assure them quietly -- it grabs their attention. Will was better, but Max always got flustered when you spoke to her or paid her any mind. You weren't a stranger to people being star struck around you -- but you wished it wouldn't happen around Ed's friends. Especially when he just wanted to be normal.

"Stell, you wanna hear a story about how Eddie struck out with a super hot babe at Hawkin's Comics back in '85?" Lucas asked.

"Yes, absolutely," you nod feverishly, "I want every painstaking detail."

"Oh god is this the story with --" Eddie starts, flush blooming on his cheeks.

"Yep, with the magic trick," Lucas interrupts with a laugh.

"Oh yes! When he punched her in the face?" Mike adds. Eddie's head falls into his hands, grin plastered on his face behind his palms. His face matches the can on Coke on the side table next to him.

"He punched a girl in the face?" you gasp but it turns into a girlish laugh -- a mean girl laugh that you thought you threw away in grade school. You run your hand over his back in soothing circles.

"Who knew he'd be Hollywood's heartbreaker a year later," you tease, "Tell me everything."

You listen to the tale intently, Eddie eventually finding comfort resting against your chest to feel the vibrations of your laugh under him. His eyes lull when your fingers graze over his scalp, running through his hair -- an absentminded soothing action you did without realizing it. He can't wait for you to be a mother -- he knows you're gonna be great at it. You've already spent so much time taking care of him, how different can some rugrat be?

When the story is over and everyone is nearly crying with laughter, your stomach lurches.

"Oh shit," you groan, wretching nothing, "Fuck, sorry, hold on."

You race to the bathroom for the third time only to be met with the closed door opening to Steve and Libby. You wretch again, looking at them while they look at you.

"Sorry, please -- just, please move -- " you plead, shoving past them and shutting the door on their backs. You heave into the toilet. Undigested chunks of pizza and veggies plopping down into the water unceremoniously -- the fizz of the Sprite crawling back up your throat burning while it mixes with your stomach acid.

"Ugh, shit," you groan as another hurl rolls through your body -- up your back to your neck and out of your mouth. Your coughs and sputters turn to more upheavels until there's nothing left to throw up. You take a few deep breaths, resting your head on the cool porcelain on the toilet seat -- not even caring at this point if its dirty.

With wobbling legs you get up and rinse your mouth for the third time that day, splashing some cold water onto your cheeks. The knock on the door makes you jump and you wait to hear Eddie's 'Baby, you okay?' come from the other side, but it doesn't.

"Hey, Stell?" it's Libby asking for you.

"I got you some water. Can I come in?" she asks. Your heart races. Steve you could handle -- but you don't know if you can handle this. You hesitate for a moment, looking at the door then back at yourself in the mirror, then back at the door again.

You reach for the handle and click it open, revealing her and her glassy stare -- cup of water in her hand, and one for her in the other.

"Uh, here."

You reach for it, your mouth and joints suddenly feelings the strain of dehydration, and gulp some of it down. Letting out a 'thanks' with a sigh.

You're silent for a second, mulling over your next move. You could just walk away and go back to your husband or you could grow the fuck up. You and Eddie have had countless talks about their hookup. He never shyed away from it, always doing his best to be as open and honest about it to quell and insecurity you might've had. It didn't kill you that he'd had a little crush on her, you had little crushes on plenty of people -- you worked along side the most beautiful and charming people in the world. At the end of the day, the ring was on your finger -- his vows were a short novel that he got bound in leather and gave to you the night before your wedding. He still knew your Big Mac order. He still knew you'd always take a sip of his regular Coke when you ordered diet.

"Do you wanna go outside with me? I just really need some air," you offer. You see her eyes widen, but she nods while you walk into the space she made for you in the hallway. You walk ahead, slipping your sneakers back on and finding Eddie back in the game with the boys. Steve sitting in darkness off to the side with his sunglasses on -- what a putz.

Eddie's character voice is low and gravely but animated -- some kind of accent lacing the words but you know it's his poor attempt at Northern Irish. He turns his head when you giggle as he finishes his sentence, sneaking behind him and reaching into his jacket pocket for some ginger chews.

"You okay?" he murmurs to you.

"Yes, honey," you whisper, grabbing the candies and sneakily slipping out his box of Camels and his lighter to slide into your jean's back pocket.

"Your character seems really cool," you smile into a kiss on the side of his head from behind, "You sound great."

"Thanks," he blushes, still whispering with you while the other members continues.

"I'm gonna step outside," you say with a rub to his back and he nods before joining a huddle with Lucas, Dustin, and Will to plan their next steps. You turn back to Libby and motion towards the back door, heading back outside towards the picnic table -- the sun begginning it's descent. You shivered a little in your sweatshirt -- you should've worn a coat or maybe another layer. You watch Libby as she comes outside, sitting across from you with her back towards the door.

"Hi," you say softly, with a smile, "It's been a while."

"Yeah," Libby nods. There's a permeating silence, neither of you knowing how to start the conversation. The last time you'd seen each other had been so cold. You had only kept up through seeing whatever brand deals she might have garnered, or running into some of Steve's fights on TV. Sometimes when your makeup artist had worked with her she'd give you her insight, but it had never been enough. Apparently Steve wasn't hovering so often.

"So how do you know these guys?" you ask, because this was the last place you ever thought you'd see Libby and Steve. She lights up at the question, easy and middle ground.

"Oh, I was really close with Will in high school. Some seniors were picking on him and I...sorta yelled at them," she explained.

She giggled at the memory, "How about you? How do you and Eddie know this bunch?"

"Eddie started living with his uncle when he was around 10 and then sarted working at Hawkin's Comics after he dropped out of high school in '83," you say it like you've heard this story a thousand times before, and you have, "The boys used to come in and buy new issues and some Dungeons and Dragons play books, eventually they started a little club and stayed friends after. I'm sure since you knew them back then you might've heard about it."

"He stayed friends with the boys for the most part, but stayed really close with Dustin -- so when he was here last year after um -- y'know -- everything. They sort of all got a chance to reconnect. And here we are."

"I bet it's weird, huh?" she asks with a shrug, " Not knowing many people, being far from home."

"And I'm sober for it," you complain with an eye roll. Your chin goes to rest on the heel of your hand, leaning on the table.

"Congratulations, by the way," Libby cracks a shy smile, "On the baby and the wedding."

"Thanks," you smile back, "I'm due in November. Y'know I thought I'd be so relieved once the wedding was over after all that planning but -- with y'know the tape and all the press -- and then getting pregnant it's been...it's just been a lot. Kinda lonely."

"I saw some pictures," she responded, "You looked really pretty."

Your heart breaks, "I wish..." you trail off for a moment, unsure if you should say what you're thinking.

"I wish you could've been there."

"Me too," she says, eyes casting down towards the table.

"It was fun, and all the boys were there -- and Max. You would've had a good time," you say, and then pause to think, "Maybe not Steve. He doesn't strike me as good at dancing."

Libby laughs, "Steve never dances."

'Not much of a dancer but good enough in bed that you stayed with him this long? What kind of rhythm is he even working with?' you think. You laugh too, but it fades out when your heart swells -- it's better to be honest.

"Not just the wedding though. When the tape came out and -- everything that went down. I wished you'd been around. It's hard y'know, when everyone is talking about how much of a slut you are for having sex with your own husband," you confess, "And then Jesus, everything with Ed and Howard -- so embarrassing."

"I only had my sisters and my mom for a while. It just would've been nice to have a friend around, too. Someone who understood," you pause for a beat, "I missed you."

You grab the box of Camels and his lighter from your back pocket to open it. It's half full, which is impressive since Eddie bought this pack last week -- really following through with cutting down. Any other time, this pack would've been gone by noon at the latest. You hold the box out in your hand across the table -- not the olive branch you thought it would be, but it'll do.

"Wanna light?" you ask, "It helps sometimes just to smell it around me. Takes the edge off."

You're surprised at how quickly she reaches for the pack, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it with one fell swoop. The kind of speed you see back stage at fashion shows or in the back alleys of the studios you shot at.

"You're telling me," she mumbles through a drag.

"Didn't realize you were one of us now. Are you that stressed out?" you asked. There was no way things were going that badly already. You watch her look over her shoulder with a nervous shiver, certainly looking out for Steve.

"It's just like you said," she says before blowing out the gray haze, the scent hits your nostrils and your heart finally stops thrumming, "to take the edge off sometimes. Steve doesn't know."

"I'd imagine not," you tease.

There's a moment of silence while Libby takes another drag. Smoking suits her, she looks more established -- more grown up. Sure of herself.

"I missed you, too," she says. You think it's the pregnancy hormones that make you want to cry. You both smile at eachother, eyes shining in the cold air. It would've been a different year entirely if you had just stayed friends.

"Is—has everything been okay? With Steve?" you asked. The answer seemed obvious since they were still together.

"Yeah, things are good. They're..." you watch her consider the answer. No longer under the watch of America or her family, but someone who'd seen some of Steve at his worst, "...they're much better. He's been going to therapy, it seems to be helping," she admitted.

You laugh at the confession. King Steve sees a shrink. Of course.

"Ah, that explains it," you grin, fiddling with Eddie's zippo on the table. She laughs with you. It's nice to laugh with someone else other than Eddie.

"I'm sure that was a terrifying moment for you," she jokes, tilting her head towards the house. It was at first, talking to Steve one on one -- but then maybe it wasn't.

"I definitely didn't wonder if you had him cloned and rewired," you tease before reaching out to her across the table, "And you? How have you been?"

"Good. We're back on the road next week, Steve has a fight in Chicago," she explains. You knew that life.

"Any more Prada shoots?" you ask. Your mind wanders for a brief moment if Steve ever ended up giving her the card you wrote her.

"Maybe. But...I don't know, ever since we came back to Hawkins, I've been...no, it's silly," she waves her hand, making a face -- but you want to know what she wants.

"No, I know it's not! Come on, tell me."

"I've been thinking about...maybe taking some classes. I wanted to go to school, before I met Steve, and I'm just...wondering if maybe I still could," she says nervously. Like a secret she'd been keeping for years.

"Libby, I definitely think you still can," you encourage, "I think that's a great idea."

"Ah, I don't know. We'll see. What about you? How far along are you?"

You pull your hand away -- you're excited but almost a little exhausted by talking about the baby -- babies, you keep having to remind yourself. But you know it'll only get worse the more you start to show.

"Not very, just due in November. I mean, I'm scared shitless, but I'm excited. Eddie's nesting more than I am and he's not the one puking every five seconds," you can't help but get exasperating at his constant flitting about -- but thinking about him with a baby makes your heart melt.

"But...he's gonna be a great dad," you confess, your cheeks heat up for a moment.

"Yeah, he is," she agrees, "And you're gonna make the best mom, Stell."

You gulp and shake your head for a second, "I dunno. You think so?"

"I know so," her smile genuine and warm and you want to reach up and give her a hug but something moves behind her that catches your eye.

You spy Steve at the door way and your eyes flick to the lit cigarette in her hand while she talks. He takes a strong step forward, eyes meeting yours -- he puts a finger to his lips with a devilish smile as to warn you not to reveal his unfortunate surprise. You want to roll your eyes while she takes her next drag, but you know it'll give it away.

He comes behind her and cups his hand under her jaw and you stifle a laugh while she sputters out the smoke into his face.

"Hey, angel. Whatcha doin'?" he asks, you can sense he's less than happy about her currently predicament. Another reminder why he probably didn't want you hanging out with Libby in the first place.

"I-I was just keeping it lit for you," she says with rounded, mischevious eyes. You giggle, which makes her giggle, while he makes a face -- and you know he doesn't appreciate it.

"You think that's funny?" he asks down at her, but you know he's asking both of you.

"No -- " she starts, her voice falling into something small and meek. A familiar head of shaggy curls appears behind Steve's hulking frame. Fuck, you forgot your husband was here.

"Stell, babe, have you seen my Camels?" he asks while he jogs out, slowing down to a confused stop when he sees all three of you outside. He stands next to you, seeing the box of cigarettes and his lighter on the table -- a lit cig in Libby's hand.

"Okay, so when did you start smoking?" Ed asks, furrowing his brow.

"She doesn't," Steve says down at her. It's the only slight interaction they've had all night. You cringe.

"Sure you don't want it, Stevie?" Libby asks, offering it to him. He gives her a look and shakes his head -- tossing the cigarette into the grass.

"I don't smoke that nasty shit, and neither to do you," he almost looks offended that she asked. Eddie turns his attention back towards you, shoving his hands in his coat pockets -- his exasperated breath floating out in contrast to the cold air.

"What're you doing, huh?" he asks, "It's freezing out, you have no coat on. You've barely eaten. You're a foot away from someone blowing smoke around you. C'mon Stell, it's bad for --"

"For the baby. Yeah, yeah, I know, Ed," you sass. He picks up the box and puts it in his back pocket, lighter shoved in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

“Well, I hate the break up the Girl Scout meeting over here," Ed announces dramatically. You notice Steve's jaw tick.

"But I need to get you some dinner,” Eddie says, his hands giving your shoulders a soft squeeze, “Let’s go say goodbye inside so we can get going.”

“Ed, no, I’m finally having fun,” you complain.

“Don’t argue with me, please,” he says softly, “You got sick three times and barely finished your pizza. Let’s go get something that agrees with you. We can go to the diner.”

“No,” you half whine, grabbing Libby’s hand across the table.

“Let’s go, Stell,” he urged, annoyance and edge building on his voice — feeling Steve’s eyes on him while his wife blatantly doesn’t listen. Eddie turns and walks towards the house, expecting you to follow him but you stay on the bench and cross your legs. They tighten when Eddie turns back around half way to the house in the grass, frustration clear on his face.

“Stella Lynn,” he growls, "Get over here, now."

You huff, and you swear you can hear Steve snicker under his breath. 'You finally lettin' him boss you around?'

"Sorry, I have to go," you frown, getting up and taking a step over to him.

"You're being a buzzkill, Ed," you say loudly enough for them to hear. He takes a few steps back to meet you, putting his arm around you while he scowls.

"What's our agreement, these days -- hm?" he asks, not even caring that the other couple is there watching you, "If I don't get to do cocaine -- you don't get to what?"

"Don't get to start shit," you reply with a frown. You know Steve is snickering and you'd give anything to be back in the ring in Toronto to give him a right hook that you actually know how to do now.

"So let's go," he repeats.

"Just give me like, one second okay?" you ask, pecking him on the cheek. You scurry back over to Libby and Steve and interrupt their conversation.

You meet Steve's eye and before he can speak you put your finger in his face but your face is playful, "Don't."

"555-4823," you say down at Libby on the bench, "That's my new number. Call me literally whenever."

You hurry back over to Eddie who pulls you back in tight at the waist, leading you back into the house. The warmth envelopes you like a hug, you hadn't even realized how cold you were until you came back inside.

"Everything good out there?" Dustin asks, his concerned stance matching Eddie's from outside.

"Everything's fine, Henderson," you singsong, "Don't let Munson get in your head."

He smiles and reaches forward to pull you into a tight hug, "I'll see you guys tomorrow, okay?"

You hug him back tightly, letting go to go around with Eddie for the rest of your goodbyes -- Max nearly falling over herself when you reached forward to wrap your arms around her. Eddie smiles when he watches you interact with his friends, a little heart broken to take you away just as you started to loosen up but he planned to make more trips home now that you were about to start a family together.

You hear Steve and Libby come in while you make your exit, the door shutting behind you when you hear Will call out to her.

"You have fun?" Eddie asked, opening the van door for you. He helps you in, but you shake your hand out of his when he reaches for it. Eddie frowns but shuts the door for you before appearing on the other side.

"Yeah, it was fine," you smile, "Talked to both of them."

"How'd that go?" he asked, apprehensive. The van chugs to life when he puts the keys in the ignition, pulling out of the driveway.

"Good. I think," you nod, "I think it's good."

"I don't wanna go to the diner," you confess when he pulls onto the road.

"No? What'd you want?" he turns, and then focuses attention on your tummy, "Better question, what do you want?"

"I think McDonalds," you admit, making a face. He pulls a face that doesn't match yours, he's frustrated with you.

"I don't think that's a good choice, baby," he says softly.

"You don't really get to tell me wh--"

"It's not that I think it's a bad choice because it's unhealthy, it's a bad choice because you've barely put anything else in your body -- you need nutrients, babe. You didn't even take your vitamins today," he says, his voice raising slightly to talk over you.

"I'm not made of fucking glass, Ed," you snap, "This whole week you've been up my fucking ass, I'm so sick of it. I know how to take care of myself."

"Stell..." his voice softens, "I'm just trying to help you."

"Well, don't!" you smack the console between you -- your voice was petulant but you didn't care.

"Okay," he says, his voice calm. He doesn't want to fight with you, not after a good day. Maybe you'll be happier after you eat something. He keeps one hand on the wheel, knowing the roads well, the other slides over to you with his palm outstretched, "You wanna hold my hand?"

You look down at it and pout, sliding your fingers in to lace with his own, "Yeah."

Eddie smiles at your admission – something about your little mood swings these days was fun for him. Much easier now to reel you back in from being scathing, all he had to do was be a little cuter than normal. (And he was already pretty cute to begin with, if he does say so himself.) Ed pulls into the drive through, your order never changing, and before you know it you're back on the road with two hot bags full of burgers and fries on your lap.

"Want me to bring you to one of my old stomping grounds?" he asked with a smile, "We can pull over and eat instead of going to Wayne's right away."

"Oh, is it where you punched that girl in the face?" you tease. He huffs, spare hand reaching up and squeezing your cheeks while he keeps his eyes on the road.

"You're cruisin' for a bruisin', Rink," he laughs, teeth gleaming behind his lips.

"Nah, it's where I used to go hook up with nerdy babes from the shop," he blushed, turning down a heavier treelined road -- the mist of the rainy day settling against the warm orange lights.

"I'm sure they were throwing themselves at you," you mocked.

He turns to look at you, mildly offended, and scoffs, "I'm sorry. Have you seen my dick? Of course they were."

You giggle with him while he turns into an empty parking lot, a lone car further to the back. Eddie looks at the car and back at you, "Think it's a couple of kids?"

"Yeah, probably," you nod. He grins.

"Wanna go ruin their night?" he laughs.

"Ed, c'mon, let them have their fun. No one was interrupting you when you were screwing around," you chide, but as you pull closer you see the bounce of the car.

And the car is familiar.

"Oh even fucking better -- it's Harrington," Eddie is giddy at the realization, leaning on the horn with an evil giggle.

"ED!" you yell, swatting at his hands, "Stop! Stop!"

Ed turns on his high beams, able to see through the slight fog of the back window.

"Is that Steve's ass?" you ask, peering forward while Eddie beeps the horn again.

"Hey, don’t look at that," Eddie snaps, covering your eyes while he pulls away -- Steve's middle finger pointed directly at him. When you squeal out of the parking lot, you roll deeper down the road and onto the backway to Wayne's -- pulling in front of his trailer without getting out.

"Wanna eat in the back?" he asks, "We could fool around after."

"Just like with your nerdy babes?" you tease, "I can't wait."

You both hop out and meneuver to the back where he slides in close to you, passing your food over. You don't wait for him to get situated, your stomach growling at the smell of salt and cheese -- your saliva might as well be whatever oil they dunk the fries in.

"Woah," he says with raised brows, "That little gremlin is really hungry, huh?"

You swallow hard, gulping down a sip of your diet Coke.

“Little gremlins,” you say to the floor of his van.

“Hm?” he asks, “You know I can’t hear you all the way when you mumble, baby.”

The only perk of him losing some of his hearing in his right ear is that he can’t always catch on, but you knew you couldn’t keep this from him any longer.

“Gremlins,” you repeat, “As in plural.”

Eddie looks at you, eyes wide, like he’s trying to understand what you’re saying.

“As in two,” you say softly, pausing for a moment while he nods with your words, “As in twins.”

“Twins,” he repeats, his voice normal before his eyes blow. It hits him, finally, what you were saying.

“TWINS?!” you let out a breath of relief when he smiles, “We’re having TWINS?!”

“When – what — when did you find out? Why didn’t – how were you – we’re having TWINS?!” the food is left forgotten and fries skitter across the carpet of the van. He pulls you in before you can explain and kisses you, hard and intense, lips trying to move through his smile but he can’t stop grinning into your mouth.

“Why didn’t you tell me when you found out?” he asks, resting his foreheard against yours, “Did they tell you yesterday?”

“Yeah,” you smile up at him, tears pricking your eyes, “I don’t know, I was scared you were gonna get stressed out or – or – be mad.”

“Be mad?” he asks, “Stell, you’re having our babies. By proxy I don’t think I’m ever allowed to be mad at you for the rest of my life. Especially not for having twins.”

He kisses your forehead while he continues, hands massaging the sides of your scalp, “Do you think maybe you’re a little stressed out and instead of owning it, you decided maybe I would be stressed out when you told me?”

You give him a look, “What, you see a shrink for two years and suddenly you think you know everything?”

“Oh, so I’m right,” he nods with a smile, your look doesn’t subside.

“I get that you’re stressed, because two is a lot – and we don’t even know what it’s like to have one,” he soothes, “But you’re gonna be the best mom. I keep telling everyone about how great you’re gonna be. I know you’re scared, but I’m here with you the whole way, okay?”

Your lower lip wobbles, and a few tears sneak their way out, “Okay.”

You are scared – but no one would hear you say it outloud. He pulls you against his chest, instinctively stroking your hair like he always does when you start to cry. His excited breaths steady so that yours can, too.

“Can we go tell Wayne?” he asks, “He’s gonna lose his fucking mind.”

You nod while he lets you go to pick up the mess he made, shoving slightly at your shoulder when you lean down to help.

“Please let me,” he mutters, “Let me do it, just go inside. I’ll be there in a minute.”

You can’t help but sigh while you open the van doors and slide out. His shoulders tense at the sound.

“You gotta let me take care of you one of these days, Rink,” he says while you linger outside with your hand on the door. He scoops up the fries and puts them in one of the empty bags before crunching it up and hopping out of the van to meet you.

“Deal?” he asks, offering his empty hand to you.

“Deal,” you smile.

“Okay but you can’t just say deal and then not actually mean it,” he rambles while you walk towards the door of the trailer.

“Oh my God, Munson. You’re being so insufferable right now.”

“Will you two stop yellin’ out here!” Wayne calls from the window, “They can hear you two counties over.”

You both giggle. Still just two kids under the pregnancy. Under the sex tape. Under the wedding rings. Under the fight in Toronto. Under rehab. Under separating. Just two kids holding hands who don’t know how to be quiet when the street lights are on.

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carol-munson · 2 years

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we have such sights to show you (sadist!eddie x f!masochist!reader)

warnings: 18+ major MAJOR smut, minors DNI. eddie and reader are in a long term established relationship. takes place in october 1990. big trigger warnings for: spanking with multiple implements, use of manipulative coercion (not dubcon, not noncon), lots of name calling and degredation (whore, slut, bitch, pig, calling or inferring that reader is stupid/disgusting/worthless), physical sadism, emotional sadism. knife play, blood play, blood kink. references to daddy kink, references to a lot of kinks, references to role playing. references to use of safe word. mild dom drop. YES, there is aftercare.

-- The drive home was quiet with Eddie's hand on your thigh, his other on the wheel while he leaned back in the driver's seat. His expression was stoic while he drove, he didn't smile, he didn't turn to you at red lights to steal a kiss -- you knew before you left Steve's house what was to come when you got home. Before the second movie was even over.

Eddie was thrilled to be the one who got to pick this round for movie night, opting for something scary so close to Halloween. Hellraiser, and Hellraiser II -- not exactly your favorites, but definitely something his horror loving heart could pound to. Steve was miserable the whole time because he wasn't allowed to be scared, a new flavor of the month cowering into his chest when they weren't making out.

Robin was enthralled with the Cenobites, getting into excited discussions with Ed about their back stories and designs. Whispering next to each other while still trying to pay attention. The kids and Nancy just complained about it being gross. But it was the way Eddie's hand discreetly crept upward, ringed fingers wrapping around the hair at the nape of your neck and pulling tight that told you what would happen later. He turned to you when you took in a quiet but sharp breath at the feeling, letting out a soft hum of confirmation. You knew when you were putting your shoes on to leave and he stood over you with his arms crossed, walking to the door while you stood up. You forgot how to move when he looked at you, his hand on the door knob. He beckoned you forward with two fingers, his voice had dropped, his stare darkened for a simple demand:

"Come."

You shivered.

Eddie turned off the ignition when he pulled in infront of his trailer - Wayne's trailer only a few steps down. He'd had enough money to move into a small one bedroom apartment closer to Robin, but he didn't want to leave Wayne behind. He waited at the screen door for you, his breath crowding around him in the cold.

"Please, go slower," he snapped sarcastically while the leaves crunched under your boots. You broke out into a small jog, hurrying into the door as he opened it. Eddie, still the gentleman, helped you remove your coat to hang it up. When he turned back around from the coat rack he took your cold hands in his to warm them, but the way he looked at you was enough to get the job done.

His hands traveled from yours, to your arms, to your cheeks kissing you softly before breaking away, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes, baby," you smile, his eye contact searches for truth in your statement. He smiles back at you when he knows you mean it, leaning in for another kiss. "Go get ready for me, hm?" he asks. You nod, your head getting fuzzy at the suggestion, even though you'd been prepared for this request the whole ride home. It still made you tingle, no matter how long you played this game -- it felt like the first time, every time.

---

You stood naked in his bedroom doorway while he was sat on the edge of his bed with his heavy combat boots planted on the floor. His wallet and chains were still attached to his pants, jacket and shirt discarded save for a black tank top against his pale, inked skin -- what can ya say? He knew you liked to see his arms flex when he worked.

Your collar was laid out on his thigh, thick and leather, undecorative. A silver loop on the front with smaller ones to the sides so if need be, he could clip you in place just about anywhere. "Come," Eddie repeated his sentiment from earlier in the same low tone he had before. You took a step forward and he cleared his throat, his gaze narrowing at you. "You know better," his voice is low and gravelly in his throat, a smirk flicking across his face when you sink to your hands and knees.

"I don't like it when you start off by disappointing me," he chides while you crawl from the door to the space between his legs, settling on your knees before him. "Sorry, sir," you say softly while Eddie's hand slides gently under your jaw, his thumb rubbing back an forth on your skin. "What do you say when I check in and you feel okay?" he asks, a ritual of questions before he decorates you. "Orange," the coolest flame aside from red. "What do you say when you want me to ease up or want me to be nice?" he smiles when he asks, you giggle at him -- it's more fun when he's not nice. "Yellow," a bit hotter.

"What do you say when you want me to stop?" his hand moves so his thumb can brush against your lower lip. His chest tightens when he asks. "Blue," the hottest flame aside from white. Burning. Hellfire. You had only used it twice before and Eddie was in dom drop for hours after each of them -- completely inconsolable. Steve had to come over and intervene. "And if something feels beyond Blue, if you need me to take you to the hospital or call 911..." "Code Red," you nod. "And I have permission to call Blue or Code Red if I think you aren't able to make that decision for yourself?" he doesn't lose eye contact and your heart hammers, you want to kiss him for how deeply he cares for you. "You have my permission," you take the hand on your face by the wrist and press slow kisses to his rings while he looks at you. "Please bless me, sir," you whisper up at him, Eddie almost chokes. How on earth did he get so lucky? You're on your knees begging for him to put you in your place, to fulfill both of your desires. You trust him to do this to you. He wants to pinch himself every time you look up at him with those glassy, rounded eyes -- you couldn't be real, there's no way.

He takes his hand away gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead while he gathered the collar in his hands.

"My pretty girl," he mumbles against your skin. When he pulls away you both have a silent agreement that once it's fastened, you're no longer you -- you're just his, you belong to him only. You're his to control. He guides you to the bed to adorn you with the rest of your cuffs, leather and binding, able to connect to each other at a moments notice. Your ankles and wrists are dressed, straps like a garter belt around your waist and thighs — chains of different lengths hung on the walls depending on what position he wanted you in, how bound he wanted to see you.

He presses a crudely made spreader bar he put together from old PVC pipe between your ankles while you stay kneeling, clipping your cuffs into place on the ends. Eddie stands back to admire you in the low light, two candles flickering on his dresser glinting in your eyes.

“Do you worship me?” he asks, lighting a cigarette, holding it in his lips while the smoke leaks out of his mouth. He looks over the instruments laid out on the bedside table, running a finger over your leather bit gag only to pick up his riding crop. You breathe a sigh of relief through your nose and his eyes flick up at you briefly.

“Yes, master,” you respond, Eddie can’t help but grin smugly at how willing you are to say it.

“Who do you pray to?” his voice gets more stern this time, sliding the crop through his hands, tapping the end on his palm.

“My master,” you confess. Your eyes flutter closed for a moment while he tucks a stray hair behind your ear. You savor the gentle touch as it’ll be the last he’ll give you for a while. He takes another drag from cigarette, letting his mouth open so the smoke billows out in a thick cloud in your face. The haze burns your eyes but you fight the desperate need to clamp down your eyelids — lest you be chastised for not keeping your eyes on him.

“Who makes you worthy?” he asks, eyes like shiny black beads narrowing down the slope of his nose. The leather of the crop presses up on your chin, tilting your head up just a bit. You’re not afraid to look at him, but it hurts to do it. He’s so…pretty, so domineering. He raises his brows with heavy eyelids, blinking slowly while he waits for your answer. More clouds of smoke escaping him while he toys with the cigarette between his teeth.

“You make me worthy,” you say.

“That’s right,” he says, tapping the crop under your chin before striking it down on your shoulder. You lean your head back and let out an audible sigh at the subtle sting. He replaces the riding crop under your chin with his hand, holding tight on your jaw.

“Such a sweet, pretty thing,” he says with a darkened stare, his voice deepening to something rumbling and animalistic, “Excited to ruin it.”

You whimper under his touch, tugging away slightly from his grip on your jaw.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tutts, pulling your face closer to his, “What did they say in the movie? What was that line?”

He takes a beat to listen to your fearful pants fill his ears, to watch the tears start to wet your eyes. Eddie’s slacks start to tighten at that look in your face, somewhere between terror and complete devotion.

“‘So eager to play, so reluctant to admit it,’” he quotes with a mean chuckle. He takes the now almost finished cigarette out of his mouth, carelessly putting it out on your thigh to match the other fading burn scars he’d littered there. You let out a loud cry at the surprise of the burn. Normally you have time to brace yourself for his cruelty, but maybe he wasn’t in the mood to prepare you. Sometimes he could be so mean.

“No, please,” you whine, squirming your thighs and hips to move away from the assault. It’s hard with with spreader bar under you, with your body contorted and tied up for his pleasure.

“Oh no, can’t have that,” he says with a furrow of his brow, “What’s my biggest rule?”

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” you whisper out in a gasp, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“You never learn, huh?” he asks, but you know he’s not expecting an answer. Eddie takes the bit gag in his hands, you shiver at the sound of the metal clinking and he notices.

“Not feeling very brave tonight?” he smiles while you open your mouth, settling the bit between your back teeth. The leather gave you something to bite down on when the pain became a little too much. Eddie liked this over a ball gag so he could hear you scream and cry, drool still pouring out of your mouth by the end of the night.

You shake your head no, saliva already pooling under your tongue at the foreign object.

“You’re such a disappointment,” he spits, “Maybe I should untie you and find a different helot to entertain me.”

“Matter of fact,” he starts, finger trailing over the leather cuff on your ankle, “I think I’ll call someone else -- feel like you'll just bore me.”

You ache as he reaches for your binds, trying to beg him to stop but it just comes out as muffled whining through the gag. He undoes one ankle, and then the other, smirking while you start to cry. He takes his time putting the spreader bar back in his closet, hearing you sniffle was making the blood rush in his ears. Eddie leans over you to undo the gag and you smell the smoke of his Camels on him, it's woefully intoxicating. The feeling of his hands gracefully handeling the leather and metal on your body shouldn't make you feel quite like this.

The bit comes out followed by strings of your spit, even after being in for such a short time.

"Please -- please I'll behave," you cry to him, his hands reaching around your neck to work on the removing the leather collar pressed against your skin. He wants to discard you. Your heart drops to your stomach, pounding fast as his nimble fingers work at the buckle behind you. Your reach for his wrists, clawing desperately at them while you beg. "Please sir, I can handle it. I want you to hurt me, I need it," your petulant whine makes his pulse quicken, "Please don't take it off, I'm yours -- please."

"I don't recall giving you permission to touch," Eddie says in a measured, low tone. Your heart shoots from your stomach to your throat, making you sputter. Your hands retreat back to your thighs where they belong, shaking.

"I'm sorry, sir," you sound pitiful, but he doesn't want you to break just yet -- he had all night to destroy you.

"I can take it, I can be g--"

He lets go of the collar, leaving it on and still clasped. Eddie shakes his head while you babble, an exasperated sigh escaping him while one of his hands roughly rakes into your hair while your scalp screams.

"Stop. Fucking. Talking," he growls through gritted teeth. The crack of his other hand making contact with your cheek rings through his small bedroom. Your head turns hard to the side at the impact, the arch in your back was involuntary while the heat of his smack blooms through your cheek -- his handprint already decorating your face.

"Gave you that rule two years ago. You too much of a stupid fucking bitch to remember?" he asks just under a yell, pulling you by the loop on your collar to lay on your stomach, your face by the pillows. You frown and turn your head away from him towards the wall while he reaches for the binds at each corner of the bed, keeping you in place -- spread eagle below him. Open, vulnerable.

"Hips up, whore," he says in your ear, you huff at the admonishment but lift your hips up obediently. He slides a pillow under your hips to keep you at an angle that'll make everything hurt just a little bit more. Eddie's hand skirts up your thigh before leaving a stingy smack on your bare ass only to hear you hum contentedly toward the wall. You turn to look at him before he can ask you to and he reaches for the flogger on the table. He’ll start you off small, work his way up until you were an inconsolable crying mess on the middle of his mattress -- dick buried in your pussy while his hips snap against your bruising and abused skin.

You turn to look at him before he can ask you to and he reaches for the flogger on the table. He’ll start you off small, work his way up until you're an inconsolable crying mess on the middle of his mattress -- dick buried in your pussy while his hips snap against your bruising and abused skin. He lets the leather strips slide over your skin first and you sink into the mattress. The wait was the hardest part, him deciding when you were worthy of his abuse. You jolt when he runs it between your legs, the implication exciting you -- 'If you're a good girl, I'll play with her too.' You can't help but let out an excited whimper, your hips wiggling when he dances the flogger over the meat of your ass again.

"A glutton, are you?" he chides, "That's a sin, y'know."

The leather snakes off of you while he crosses his arms, the tattos on his biceps and forearms bulging, "They say it's a deadly one."

CRACK!

The sting of the flogger lights your whole body on fire, the sparks of it blooming from the sit point at the top of your thigh. He laughs quietly when you writhe under the first hit. Whining at the second, moaning when the third strikes you across both cheeks.

"Wrath is, too," you mutter out. He pinches your hot skin between the knuckle of his forefinger and thumb. You yelp, restraints jingling while they pull at your flailing wrists. "Play nice," he warns through gritted teeth, "Or I won't play with you at all."

He continues quietly, switching between mild pressure and hard, biting whips. He'd considered starting with just his belt, but since he had plans to go further than normal he didn't want you to get too hurt, too quickly. Though, being belted by him truly was your favorite.

The pain was right on the line, your thighs desperate to tighten but unable to by the chains attatched to your ankles. Your hips pushed up against the pillows, dragging downward to get some form of friction while he brought the flogger down on your ass again and again.

"See, and you were so scared before," he taunted, "You love being whipped, don't you?"

"I prefer a little more effort, but -- sure," you sass. Eddie's posture stiffens at your retort.

You turn your head back to the wall, nervous to look at him. You hadn't meant to sass -- it just slipped out. He'd say the same thing if you switched positions. Eddie huffs when you turn your head to the wall, wrenching you up by your hair to readjust you to watch him. Bratting now and again was fine, but not something he liked to deal with during a scene -- especially when he hadn't consented to it beforehand. "Do I look like I'm in the mood?" he asks, squatting to get eye level with you. "No sir," you say, guilt pooling in your chest. "Open your mouth," he instructs, there's no playfulness in the demand. The jovial spark in his eye replaced by a deadened glare. You do as your told, opening your mouth slightly and he begins to shove the handle of the flogger between your teeth lengthwise.

"Bite down," he says, you do. He takes a moment to look at you like that, now unable to snap back at him and smirks.

"A gift for you, since you love getting whipped so much that you're rubbing that slut pussy all over my pillows," he finishes the sentence by cracking his hand back down on your ass over the inflamed skin before going back to his collection of implements.

He switches out for paddle, your least favorite in his collection of them. Leather lined, never fun on a bare ass — big enough to cover a good surface area, thin enough to leave a sting and bruises for tomorrow. He watches your eyes follow it when he picks it up, spinning it in his hand before gripping it again. He taps it gently in the heel of his hand before turning his full attention back to you.

"A little more effort?" he asked with a laugh, "Okay."

He glides the paddle across your thighs first before bringing it down hard enough on the seat of your ass that you could hear it cut through the sound barrier with a loud 'THWAP'. Your eyes rolled back in your head at the pain, your hips jumping off the pillows at the first hit alone. He doesn't give you any reprieve, bringing it down a second time just as hard, then a third and fourth. Remorse had escaped him, chuckling at your loud yelp at the impact. The handle of the flogger falling out of your mouth in a sticky mess in front of you.

"You sound like a dog," he teases, "God, you are a dog."

Your cheeks burn at his comments, knowing he's just going to get more mean as the night continues. It's more exciting than heartbreaking, your thighs twitch while he mocks you. The paddle connects with the tops of your thighs and you jump again, rubbing your face into the mattress to soothe the sting of tears threatening to build in your nose.

"Awfully quiet tonight, you selfish bitch," he hisses, "You think I'm doing this for my health?"

"No sir," you mutter, gasping at the next hit -- charged with his sexualized anger, your whole lower body buzzing, "Thank you, master." "That's better," he grunts, changing his pace to short, forceful, stinging smacks. Eddie was in the mood for this, watching you get more pathetic as the night went on -- doing your best to stay together for him so he could savor when you started to let go and break down. His little pain slut who loved when he took control. Sure, there were so many other types of play he liked -- sometimes he wanted to hear you whine and cry all night while he kept you over his knee on the couch. Fighting you to keep you in place while your legs kicked and you tried to stop his hand from coming down. Crying to daddy about how you'll never be a bad girl again, cumming all over his fingers inbetween spanks. Sometimes he wanted you bent over the kitchen counter so he could belt you when dinner wasn't ready at his arrival from the body shop -- a punished housewife who could never please.

And sometimes, if you'd been really good, he liked having you on top with your hand at his throat. Laughing at him while he whimpers under you, training up your confidence for when he wanted to let go.

But tonight -- you knew your place. Better yet, he made sure to put you in it. "Ah-huh! Ah! Ow-ow-ah!" was all you could call out with his relentless pace, the lump in your throat building. It hurtles up and up, more forceful every time you go to swallow it back down.

Eddie admires the splotchy discoloration, the sheen forming on your raw skin after each direct smack of leather. Bruising already beginning to bloom on the curve of your ass -- christ he just wanted to fucking bite it when it bounced back at him. Taunting him to fuck you, to make you make even more pretty sounds for him.

The next slap hits close enough to your center to make you clench, your orgasm building since he picked up the paddle. Your hips raise while you whine and whimper and his final blow finally makes you let your walls down.

You start to cry. Hard.

"There she is," he sound so pleased with himself, "There's my little cry baby." He gives you an encore, raining down a few lighter smacks from the spit covered flogger over your angry lower half. You shook from the aftershocks and the sobs wracking your chest.

When he puts the tools down in their place on the bedside table, he walks slowly back over to you. His fingers skate over your thigh, humming at the feeling of heat radiating off your body. Eddie makes way toward your inner thigh which was now coated in slick. He knew you came more than once already but it wasn't worth punishing you over, too much sensation to know the difference. His fingertips run over your swollen lips, massaging gently while slipping them between your folds. "Thank you, sir," you croak out, arching your back to feel more of his touch. He bites back the ‘good girl’ on his tongue for remembering your manners. That wasn’t how you both were playing today, but god was it hard to hold back the restraint. He had half a mind to break the scene early just to drive his tongue between your legs. Tease you enough to get you begging for him to let you cum, get your pretty subby voice calling out to God when he was right there in front of you. "Hm," he hums out, removing his fingers and rubbing his calloused hand over your tender ass. You know what he's asking without words. "Orange," you say, making eye contact with him. He bites back his praise again -- 'my brave girl, look at you.' Your confirmation of being okay this far clues him in on what he can do next -- even if you won't like it at first. He lets two open hand smacks come down on your thighs again, sending you into a fresh fit of cries.

He toys with the cane in his hand first when he picks it up from the line of them on his dresser. Your eyes widen when you see it, especially after the flogger and the paddle, you weren't expecting to be caned tonight. Hot wax maybe, but not caned. Fear flows through your veins, meeting every nerve with an icy shiver.

“Are you surprised?” he asks, “Think you don’t deserve this?” You just look up at him from the mattress, half of your face pressed into it.

“You can answer,” he says, “Would love to hear what’s running through that empty head.”

“Don’t punish me, sir, please,” you croak out. The cane really was your enemy, it was only reserved for when Eddie was punishing you after a day of blatant bratting or when you broke a hard rule.

“Punish you?” he asks with knitted brows, placing it next to you while he puts another pillow under your hips, “I'm testing your limits, bunny. You told me you could handle it. You're not a liar are you?”

“No, sir.”

"Good," he replies, but it's not encouraging. "So, I'll ask again -- do you deserve to be caned?"

“Yes, sir,” you respond, face reddening deeper, “I deserve to be caned. I’d do anything for it.”

He chuckles while undoing the restraints on the mattress connected to your cuffs, knowing you're too far gone to try to escape your next fate. "Anything, huh?"

You nod, shimmying a little to get him to start when he picks up the cane again. The sooner he began, the sooner it would be over — but then again, the sooner you wouldn’t be able to sit without his help for a week.

“You’ll do anything?” he asks again, you nod dumbly, “You’ll eat your master’s ass?”

Heat builds in your stomach at the suggestion. The last time you had, he made you feel so dirty in the most delicious way. He came all over your chest and stomach only to punish you for being 'too good' at it on the first try, “If I’m worthy, sir. Please let me.”

“Such a filthy fuck pig,” he tutts, a grin building while he speaks, “You’re so disgusting. Dirty and desperate.”

“Begging to lick my asshole just so I’ll smack you around,” his admonishment hits right down to your pussy, making it twitch, “You hear how you sound?”

“Yes, sir,” you whine.

“What do you sound like?” he asks, a wolffish smile curling across his face.

“I sound like a whore,” you admit, tears building in your eyes again. You heart hammered from the humiliation and the arousal, your nervous system not knowing which feeling to focus on.

“Just like a cheap whore — last on the roster. You’re worthless,” he darkly states, “Pimps would have to pay people to fuck you.”

You pout into your next cry while he continues, “You should feel lucky that I bother.”

“I’m so lucky, sir,” your lips tremble while you say it.

Eddie snaps the cane onto your calves and it burns. Thin and spindly, the smaller the rod the more biting the sting — a sharp reddened line already etched into your skin.

You can’t help the yowl that comes out of you at the feeling. It hurts, and not in a way that makes your legs shake. The pain jolts you out of your hazy subspace and back to a shuddering mess -- your legs in an army crawl position while you push up and away on the bed.

"Don't you dare," he growls, reaching out to grab your ankle to pull you back down. The cane comes down on your already burning skin leaving another thin blood red mark across your ass. Again, again, again. Your legs were vibrating in pain with every big and small tap he brought down on your fleshy backside. You try to shimmy away again, stopped by his hand on your thigh, one of the marks shining with small beads of blood by his thumb. He stops to look at it, hypnotized by it, like he'd never noticed that you bled before.

"Stay right there, baby," he mutters out softly. The change in tone immediately makes you whip your head back to look at him. Eddie lays the cane across the tops of your thighs before gathering the beads of blood on his thumb admiring it and then admiring you. He locks eyes with you, holding your gaze while he licks your blood of his thumb and swallows it. Shit. Maybe it was from Hellraiser being a blood bath of a movie, or maybe it was your little pants and whines from the after stings of being caned -- no matter what it was -- blood was getting Eddie close as fuck to cumming in his boxers; and watching him lick it off his thumb had you dripping all over again. "Get on your back," he orders quietly, a shift in his demeanor -- no longer your mean master but something different, darker. Somewhere in the ether between your God and your damnation. You gasp when you slide of the pillows onto your back, the scratch of his cheap bedspread irritating your new wounds and bruises. Eddie undressing was thankfully there to distract you. He reached into his jeans discarded on the floor, fishing his switchblade out of his back pocket and flicking the blade out. Your heart rate soared, torn between so scared you could cry harder or so turned on you could just gush all over his bed. He climbed like a predator onto the mattress, settling himself between your legs -- the silver of the knife glinting as it appeared next to you in his hand. "Do you trust me?" he asks you for the second time. You nod vigorously through fast inhales and exhales, eyes flicking from his and back to the blade. "Do. You. Trust. Me," he repeats slower, keeping your face trained on him. The cool metal presses against your cheek where you knew his handprint was still etched.

"I trust you," you promise, keeping your eyes on him. He scans your face like he did earlier than night -- he could always tell when you were lying. He leans in to kiss you but it's rough and ragged, meant for his pleasure. Eddie pulls away, lips stringy with spit -- his dark curls closing you in like a curtain where it's just the both of you. "Do I own you?" he asks.

"Yes," you rasp out, "I'm yours." He leans you back on the bed, moving the switch blade to his dominant hand laying it flat on your chest, dragging it in unplanned shapes over your skin before standing it on its tip just under your collarbone. He looks at you, your eyes round and pleading but not afraid -- he seeks your silent confirmation to continue. You blink slowly, your body language a clue, and he blinks back. "All mine," he says to himself, putting pressue on the blade. It hurts, but it's slow and controled while he guides it down in a small straight line. You gasp at the feeling, somehow the quarter inch line felt like it took years to carve into you. He kisses the spot below the small line, watching blood bead out from it -- not enough to drip, not deep enough to pour. He takes the blade to the top of the small line, another quarter inch etched at the top of it. You let out a tiny moan when you feel his hips rut against you, slipping against your slick and swollen fold. "Baby, baby," he mumbles, "Be patient, hm? Can you be patient?"

"Yes, sir," you cry out, watching his lust blown eyes etch another quarter inch line from the main one. More beads of your blood marring whatever he was drawing onto your skin with his blade. The final line etched and you both moaned with eachother. "I l-like how that h-hurts," you breath out, tears still pouring out of you. "I like it, too," he nods. He sits up to admire his work, the blood on your chest, your mascara streaks down your face and neck. His pretty little ruined whore. Eddie leans down, groaning while his tongue drags over the ichor pooling over his art work to reveal a tiny 'E' carved just under your collarbone. You can't stifle the moan in your throat while he continues you lick up your neck, meeting your mouth hungrily. His hands find the backs of your knees, pushing your thighs to your chest using his hips to guide himself unforgivingly into you.

"Oh fuck," he hisses, "Shit, you feel so good."

But you were gone, hazed out, tasting the metallic tang of your blood on your lips passed on from his. The hard thrusting of his cock made your body bounce, soft little mewls escaping you -- too fucked out to engage in actually being fucked. "God, this fucking whore pussy," Eddie panted, your walls squeezing tight aroung him causing loud and lewd squelches to fill the void between Eddie's moans, "Fuckfuckfuckfuck." He wanted chase his high as roughly as he could to finish out the night but your glazed over eyes brought him down. Poor baby. His hand caressed your face while he slowed down his strokes to something soft and deep.

"Hey, hey, baby," he calls out, his voice back to normal -- your Eddie.

"You with me, honey?" he asks, heart racing a little when you don't immediately respond.

"Baby? Angel?" he asks again, taking your chin and giving you a little shake.

"Hm," you respond, your bleary vision clearing up at the sight of him -- big brown eyes searching for life in yours. He smiles when he sees your eyes focus on him, you croak out a small, "Hi."

"There's my girl," he nervously breaths out a laugh. "Don't stop," you whisper out, feeling his slow pace coming to a halt -- but the stretch of him pushing in and out of you was exactly what you needed. "I won't stop," he whispers back, his lips desperate to be against yours again. His pace quickens, finding your hand and lacing your fingers -- pressing it into the mattress to steady himself against you.

"That's my good girl. Ah, fuck. I'm gonna -- hhnnff shit," he grunts into your ear, "G-gonna f-fuckin' fill you -- hhhmmmffuck -- gonna f-fill you up." "Please, daddy. Please fill me up," you whine out. Ugh, Eddie might as well have died and gone to hell hearing your blissed out voice. So broken and stupid and wrecked that she needs her daddy. He couldn't last when you pulsed over him, an orgasm he wished had been bigger from you after all of this. He was almost embarrassed with how big his had been, though yours was round three and his was only the first. He slid out slowly, pulling you in for a kiss that felt like a gentle apology. He rubs noses with you when he pulls away, stroking your hair gently. "You really are my good girl," he praises. "Thank you," you murmur. "Can you stand up for me so I can help you get in the shower?" he suggests, "I'll take care of you." You lazily reach for him to help you out of bed, cried out and fucked out, exhaustion overwhelming you and all of your limbs. He pulls you up, holding you close to him while he walks you to the bathroom. You hear the hiss of the water in the standing shower, leaning against the sink while Eddie inspects every inch of your body while the water warms up and feeds you some ibuprofen for the oncoming pain. He's surprised there wasn't more damage outside of the one cane mark that broke skin. Sure, you were covered in welts -- but when weren't you after a night like this? He looked at the burn mark on your thigh from his cigarette, making a mental note to treat it with Neosporin like you always had to remind him to do. In the greenish light of the bathroom, the little E on your chest stood out even more. He couldn't help but feel a pang of excitement at it -- dried blood already darkening it against your skin. Eddie lead you into the shower, it was a semi tight squeeze when he closed the frosted glass door behind you, but you didn't mind. It was nice to feel his breath on your neck while the water hit you -- warm enough to ease the ache in your muscles, but not too hot to wake up the angry marks on your thighs and backside. "Easy, baby, easy," he chided when you went to reach for the soap, "I got it. I gotch'you." He takes the soap and a clean wash cloth slung over the door, sudsing it over until the light blue fabric was more bubbles than fibers. He started at your neck, moving your wet hair out of the way to get the back -- massaging you gently when your eyes closed. He worked slowly, washing your body in sections, pressing kisses to each one, letting you lean against the plastic of the wall to rest. Whispering your praises into your skin to remind you that you're perfect. "Thank you," he mumbles into your hip, on his knees while he runs the soap into his hands to gently cleanse the backs of your thighs. He knows the cloth is too rough right now, but he doesn't want the area to go ignored.

"Thank you? For what?" you ask sleepily. "Just, bein' my girl," he gives a peck to your thigh, letting his hand come to squeeze your other knee. He gets up, his curls drenched and sticking to his shoulders and face. You survey him under heavy lids and he looks almost sad. "You okay, Ed?"

"Yeah, yeah," his voice is a little shaky and he sniffles, reaching for the shampoo. You let him wash and rinse your hair, he takes his time with the conditioner how you taught him. He does the same for his own, making sure to leave some of it in, so his curls stay hydrated and healthy. His little live in beauty school drop out, where would he be without you to keep him so pretty?

He helps you out of the shower, drying you off and treating your burn and your new 'E' ornament with ointment before bringing you back to bed. Eddie doesn't talk much during this part since you're normally on your stomach. He coats you with a light wash of lotion, unscented so you could still wear your favorite body spray without the smells getting mixed up. He'd made that mistake once before when he bought lavender and you never let him hear the end of it.

He avoids the lotion on your battered body, opting for aloe gel instead to soothe the burn. You hiss at first under his touch, but quickly relax, listening to him hum a melody to himself -- slow and romantic. Eddie finishes babying you with a gentle back rub, reaching up to scratch and massage your scalp -- a full circle moment from when he pulled your hair hours ago to signal the kind of night he wanted to have. With his help, you get situated in his t-shirt and a pair of his old boxers that might as well just be yours at this point. He sniffles again and you look at him, his brown eyes a little glassy with tears. "You love me, right?" he asks, "Even when we -- Even after I do this?"

"Of course," you smile warmly at him, coming more to life as the minutes pass. "Can you..." he falters at first, trying not to cry, "Can you say it?" You hold him, your hand smoothing over his damp curls, "I love you so much." You lean back to look at him, "I love you so much that I let you do all of this to me. You're the only person I would trust to make sure I'm okay." "You mean it?" he smiles weakly. "I mean it," you tilt your head, "You're my favorite." "You're my favorite," he challenges. Eddie's next kiss is deep and loving, the way he kisses you when you come home from date night. The type of kiss where he says he wants to make love to you, both sweating and tied up with each other -- gasping each other's air, "I love you, too."

"I know," you promise him while you guide him out to the living room, hoping to cozy up on the couch and fall asleep on his lap. You both know the adrenaline and pain reliever will wear off soon and you don't want to be awake when the pain starts to really set in. Once you're both settled in, he flicks on the TV while you snuggle up in the blanket you crocheted for him as a gift for your first Christmas. Halloween starts on the screen. "Great timing," Eddie says to himself when his hand finds your head on his lap. "Oh, I meant to tell you at Steve's -- they're working on Hellraiser three," you piped up, still watching the screen, "I read about it in your new Fangoria."

"Oh, sick," he looks down at you and you look up at him with a mischevious smirk. "I'm kind of excited," you shrug, "Maybe it'll wake up a new thing in you for us to try. Maybe we can try whips or something."

He looks at you with a furrowed brow, like he can't believe that you're like this. Eddie shakes his head, still unsure how to wrap his head around what you said. "We have such sights to show you!" you laugh out in your best Pinhead impression. "Girl..." he started, still shaking his head while looking back at the TV, "And they all thought I was a freak?"

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carol-munson · 2 years

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we've moved! (find me at carolmunson)

hi, i'm here now:

carolmunson

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carol-munson · 2 years

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peanut butter vibe. (steve harrington x thick!reader)

fulfilling my own request for mean!hot!thick!reader and hot!rich!wealthy!corporate!steve harrington who is not so secretly in love with you.

word count: 10.2K

warnings: 18+ minors dni, f!reader, smut smut smut smut, there is smut everywere in this. from flashback smut to actual smut, they've BEEN fucking. mild daddy kink, face sitting, face riding, unprotected p in v sex, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), references to shower sex. body type mention, very little body insecurity mention, reference to an ex boyfriend saying reader was 'too big' for something but it's not like -- something that they take into consideration. dirty talk, pet names (honey, baby, 'good girl' etc.), mild choking, steve is so bitchy but also so soft in this i hate him.

Early December, 1996 Hawkins, Indiana

"Hi Stevie, it's me. I'm uh, I'm back a little early, Carly's having her baby soon -- I know it was a little weird last time with Andy being with me. We um, we broke up so he's not here this time. It wasn't like a big blow out or anything but -- why am I talking about this on your answering machine? Sorry. I'll be at Porter's tonight around 6 if you wanted to meet me there? It'd be cool to see you, I guess. -sigh- It's hard to bully you when you aren't responding. Anyway, bye -- I know you'll be there at 5:57because you can't wait to see me."

Steve let out a sigh while the answering machine closed out with a beep, the robotic voice announcing 'End of Messages'. He took his glasses off and ran a hand over his face, tossing a look at the clock on the wall across from him. It was almost quitting time, and Porter's was only a twenty minute drive away from the office. Part of him selfishly didn't want to show up, or maybe show up a little late to make you sweat since you'd forced him to meet your boyfriend last time. Well, ex boyfriend now.

You and Steve weren't friends in high school. He was busy being King Steve, basketball playing jock covered in ladies and popular people. You were busy in drama club and creative writing in the library, protecting your friends from people like Steve. Sure you knew each other, you graduated in the same year, had a couple of classes together -- but neither of you were very interested in offering each other the time of day. Two incredibly different ships passing in the night.

You weren't Steve's type in high school, either. Steve was always caught with what you'd describe as 'pretty little things'. Girls with waists he could wrap his hands around, thin and toned thighs, girls with a little jiggle where it mattered the most and none where it didn't. The girl's wearing bikini's to his house parties when the pool was open. Maybe if you had looked like that, you would've known Steve in high school -- but then again, he wasn't really the kind of guy you were trying to hail down in Hawkins.

When you weren't getting finger blasted backstage by Eddie 'The Freak' Munson when he got to the theater too early for Hellfire Club, you were making eyes at college freshman at the coffee shop you worked at. Something about slightly older men, y'know? A little mature, a little more sure of themselves. Pouring over books and scribbling in their notebooks behind their frames, staying until close to finish a paper or study for an exam. You had one or two wrapped around your finger your senior year before you left to go to school in Chicago. After Chicago it was New York -- working in marketing for a cosmetics line.

You'd come back to Hawkins every year for the holidays, but one year when your grandfather passed away you ended up at Porter's after the funeral. You were 24 and heartbroken, nursing a glass of red wine, looking out of place in your Manhattan clothes in the cozy small town bar.

You were alone at the stools until Steve Harrington came through the door, suit jacket slung over his shoulder and tie loosened over his button down. He nodded at the bar tender who instinctively poured him a whiskey before he even made it to the barstool two over from you.

"Rough day, Harrington?" he asked, sliding the drink down to him.

"You wouldn't believe, Paul," he shook his head, carding his fingers through his hair. He rested his chin on one hand, propped up on his elbow, catching your movement in the corner of his eye. He turned his head and looked over at you, a endearing smile lighting up his tired face -- that Harrington charm.

"What about you? Rough day?" he asked. At first you didn't realize he was talking to you, looking down into your wine and listening to the drone of whatever sports game was on the TV. You were brought back to earth when a soft 'hey' came from his direction.

"Me? Oh, yeah. My grandpa's funeral," you said with a scrunched face, shrugging, "Sort of a huge downer."

"Oh, wow," Steve said, turning his full body towards you on the stool, "Sorry for your loss -- that's -- yeah that beats my day. Sorry about that."

You murmur a thank you and go back to your wine, hearing him shift in his seat.

"You look really familiar," he says gently, scanning your face.

"We went to high school together," you say with a smile after a sip of your Malbec, "Class of '85."

"Hawkins High? You sure?," his voice gets a little syrupy, "I think I'd remember you."

"I was in drama -- wasn't really your type," you say with a smart head tilt. It didn't bother you that you hadn't been. The same way it didn't bother you that you might've been his type now.

You spent three hours together talking at the bar, exchanging stories about high school and your years out of it. He told you how he just started on the sales team for some big insurance company and felt so out of his depth but at least he got to wear a suit. You told him about your dingy apartment in the Lower East Side and how you missed driving all the time.

You spent another hour fucking in his BMW, riding him in the back seat tucked in a dark corner of the Porter's empty parking lot. Your skirt pushed up over your hips.

"Fuck," Steve grunted through gritted teeth, splayed out in the center of the back seat, his legs as far out as that could go, "Y'feel so fucking good. So fucking good on top of me."

You whimpered in response, the curve of his cock hitting your spongey, sensitive g-spot with every bounce. Your grip on his shoulders tightened as his hands moved smoothly over your thighs, finger tips digging into your fleshy hips when he got your reflection in the rear view mirror. Rear view, indeed. He let his eyes rest on the reverberation of your ass coming down on his hips and big legs with each shove down on his cock. The wet smack! of is crotch hitting against your soaked pussy making him want to fuck you even harder. He kneaded your body in his hands, grabbing handfuls of you as he got to your backside, humming while he felt it shake just out of his grasp.

You yelped when his warm palm cracked down on it, an angry sting running through your lower body. You couldn't help but tighten around him, slick dripping over him between your legs.

"Hm, you like that? You like when I smack that fucking ass?" he asked, holding your hips down so he could buck into you with a faster speed. Groaning while he pumped with vigor, you hear another hard crack on your ass resounding in the backseat before you feel the burn of it. Your whines made his cock twitch, slowing down to feel your hips grinding desperately against him for more friction. You slapped your palms gently against his clothed chest, pouting as you shimmied for more of his assault against your aching cunt.

“You love this cock, huh? Look at you, so fuckin' needy for it,” he gloated while your eyes narrowed in on him. Oh no, you weren't about to give Steve Harrington the satisfaction of telling him how fucking amazing his dick felt plowing into you. You weren't about to admit that all the things girls would say about him in high school were true. You reached for his jaw, holding it tight in your hand to look down at him while his hips slowed to a stop. He looked up at you, his eyes a little glassy, his grip loosening on your hips.

“Shut - your mouth,” you hissed down at him. He flushes, a smirk slips onto his lips as he leans back, putting his hands behind his head, his elbows splayed out next to him.

"Yes ma'am," he says with a soft raise to his eyebrows.

"If you'd like," he starts, taking his glasses off and tucking them into his breast pocket. He looks unbothered by your act of dominance while he runs a hand through his hair and leans forward to close the gap between you. His hands digging firmly into your ass to keep you balanced on his thighs.

His lips ghost yours while he speaks low and huskily, "I can take you back to mine and show you all the other ways I know how to use it."

He ate your pussy with the lights on and gave you his number before driving you back to your place.

'I like talking to you,' he shrugged, 'Call me whenever.'

And so began a so far, five year friendship -- you'd have long phone calls every few weeks or months when your busy schedules allowed. Staying updated on each other: how work was going, what bad dates you both had been on, what hijinks you'd been getting into with friends. Promotions, birthdays, hardships. It was nice to have a friend from home, someone who sort of knew the people you knew before you left. Nice to gossip a little, nice to laugh with each other.

Every time you came back to Hawkins, you'd meet up at Porter's for a drink. Have a real talk like you did the first night you got to know each other and then somehow, for some reason, you'd end up back at his place.

"What'd I say? Right on time, Harrington," you call out when he comes through the door. Steve groans, looking at his watch -- 5:57 on the dot. He'd had a long day, he was tired, and for a moment the sound of your voice made him grit his teeth.

You watch him check his watch and his smile tightens. He looks good -- suit much more refined from when you first really met him five years ago. Tailored, in a color that compliments his skin, his tie perfectly kept to his chest with what you assume was a pricey tie clip, shoes shined. He'd fit in great on Wall Street if he'd just get a fucking hair cut.

The way he walks towards you holds a different confidence than it had in the last year and a half when you were with Andy. Though it was clear he didn't particularly like Andy, he was perfectly pleasant -- able to slip right into a cadence of faux friendship you only wished Andy could've done. You once him over a second time as he sits in the stool next to you, his cologne was new, but expected. It felt like every man you knew was wearing Aqua di Gio.

"I know you're always so desperate to impress me but I gotta say, you look a little overdressed for Porter's. Were you nervous or something?" you ask sweetly, sipping on your red wine. You slide a whiskey double infront of him and he looks down at it, a frustrated smile breaks against his face. He bites the tip of his tongue between his teeth, shaking his head -- his hair moves with him.

"Looks like you didn't bother getting dressed up for me at all," he bites back, "C'mon, Manhattan -- a Hawkins High sweatshirt?"

Manhattan -- his favorite nick name when you got too big for your britches. A little too snobby for his liking, which was funny coming from a man with more designer clothing than you could dream to afford.

You looked down at yourself, you'd stolen the sweatshirt from your little sister -- your original one too battered and stained to see the light of day again. Sure, maybe your light wash bootcut jeans weren't screaming high fashion but your black square toed boots were cute! You swore you looked good before you left, but suddenly you weren't sure. You'd fallen off dressing 'nice' when you were home, it just wasn't worth it.

"Okay, mean," you spit, not giving off offense -- but not hiding it either.

"I like the boots, though," he shrugs, lifting the tumbler to his lips. The golden brown of the whiskey matched his eyes, they seemed to soften as the liquid met his mouth.

"Top shelf?" Steve's teeth are bright and straight in his smile while he sets the glass down.

"Do I ever disappoint?" you ask, crossing your legs. He burns pink at the question.

"Never," he's earnest in his response, finally making full eye contact with you, "You staying through the holidays?"

"Just for a few days, then heading back to wrap up Q4, I'll be back on the 23rd like always," you say. He nods and stands up, scooting his bar stool closer to yours -- just enough that your knees brushed. He leans forward, acting like it's too loud to hear you but the bar is only half full. You lean forward too, resting your chin on your hand, elbow drilling into your crossed thighs.

"And how's Carly?" he asks, you can see the delicate five o'clock shadow peeking through on his chin and neck. His lips full and wet with whiskey, he slides his tongue over them slowly to collect the flavor.

"So over being pregnant," you roll your eyes over your older sister's dramatics, "But you know -- she's excited. I'm excited, too! I get to live out my dreams of being the mysterious, hot, rich aunt."

"So, what -- Andy didn't want to be the rich uncle?" he asks, you note that he drops 'mysterious' and 'hot'. The mention of Andy stings a little and your eyes droop down to your wine.

"Sorry," he says, his comforting hand falling on your knee, "I'm sorry."

He squeezes your knee when you don't look up at his apology, a beat passes while you contemplate saying something mean -- but it's a little nice to see him feel apologetic.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks, his thumb soothingly running back and forth over your thigh as his hand moves further up. Steve frowns at your disappointed face, he hated crossing the line by accident.

You shake your head no, tilting your head back up, "Let's wait on that. I wanna hear about that big promotion you got -- we haven't really gotten to talk about it."

Steve got promoted to Director of Sales six months ago and it was kicking his ass way less than his previous management position. What was most exhausting was how incompetent everyone was.

"Well, you were kind of too busy --" he started, but quickly shook his head out of the bit, "It's fine, it's a lot of work -- god, no one ever knows what they're doing. A lot of directing going into this director of sales thing."

"Aww, my little scumbag -- running the insurance show," you coo, "You should do car sales next, so sleazy, you'll fit right in."

"You're somethin' else, tonight," he laughs, taking his hand off your leg, "And are you any better? Working for a company that tells women they're ugly so they'll buy all your shit? How's it going at L'Oreal anyway?"

You sigh and roll yours eyes, "More like L'Ore-hell. I just transferred into the marketing team from customer insights and it's somehow -- boring? I already know the answers to all of the problems they come up with. It's like they don't know who their customer base is."

Steve's eyes sparkle while you continue to rant about ROIs and think tanks, he loves when you talk about how much you hate your job. You get so passionate, you talk so fast he can barely keep up.

"I wish I could check your blood pressue right now," he jokes, it's the kind of joke adults make. Sometimes it feels like you're both playing the parts of adults at these bar hang outs -- two kids in their parent's clothes on barstools, just giggling.

"When I went to the doctor they had to check it twice because I was talking about work when they checked it the first time -- that's how stressed out it makes me," you huff.

"Sorry, I just made that all about me, can you please let me more about your director job -- are you at least happy about the promotion?" you ask.

You miss his hand on your leg but it's probably just the wine talking. Paul comes over to replenish the glass without asking, you and Steve were both two drinks and go kind of people (sometimes you'd sneak a third if he wasn't paying attention).

"I mean, sure -- I'm a step away from getting into a chair position. I'm making more money than I know what to do with. My dad is thrilled for the first time ever," he explains, always so expressive but you catch him nervously swipe through his hair, "But -- fuck...y'know?"

"I don't know," you laugh into your glass, "What do you mean, 'fuck'?"

"I'm gonna be thirty next year and like, what do I have to show for it other than --"

"Other than being a wealthy hometown high school basketball super star, swimming in pussy, who got a cushy office job two years after graduating because your daddy was tired of seeing you work at Family Video, and now is the director of sales at a big wig insurance company after only what -- seven years in the company? And wears designer suits and is still swimming in pussy?" you say in one breath. He sighs at you and leans his head into his hand, elbow resting on the bar.

"Sure -- I guess," he smiles, but it's a sad smile.

"What more do you want, Steve?" you ask with a shrug, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here."

"I don't know," he shrugs, "I mean look at you -- every time you come back you have a new story to tell me, something exciting that happened to you. I have -- pfft -- 'They hired a new secretary! Here's the gossip about other people in Hawkins I learned from my mom! I'm still sort of a loser!"

"I mean sure, yeah, you're a loser," you agree, "But not, y'know, not like -- in the bad way."

He tosses you a look but you smile back at it, making him smile back at you. This time it's genuine, you figure the whiskey is helping. Steve sits back up to full height and leans back in his bar stool, knees splaying out. If he took his suit jacket off you'd swear he'd look like one of those 1950's husbands whose a little annoyed that dinner isn't ready yet -- your thighs press tight together.

"I think you sound bored," you suggest, "Like you need something different."

He drums his fingers on the bar, staring at them while he speaks, "I have some options I've been thinking about, but I don't know. Don't wanna make a fool of myself if it doesn't work out."

"Don't wait too long," you say with a shrug, "Another ten years will fly by like that." You snap your fingers for emphasis.

"What happened with Andy?" he presses, sipping his whiskey to down the rest and putting the empty glass on the table.

You 'ugh' under your breath and take a big sip of wine before you feel him tug at the end of the stem, "Sloooow down. Don't wanna to have to carry you out of here."

"You couldn't carry me, Harrington," you say flatly.

"We both know that I can carry you, but okay," he says with a quirked brow, unimpressed with your attitude. The memory of him hoisting you up against the shower tile in his bathroom with your fleshy thighs wrapped tight around him flashes through your mind. Hot breath and hot water running all over you while he grunted into your ear with each desperate thrust. Steve notices your cheeks heat up -- he knows what you're thinking about, because he is too. A satisfied smile settles onto his lips.

"Alright, settle down," you say, pushing your glass a little away from you towards Steve while his next whiskey arrives. You aren't sure if you're talking to him or to yourself.

"I just..." you breathe out of your nose, "It wasn't working out. I was tired of taking care of him."

"Oh, you broke up with him?" Steve confirms.

"Yeah," you sit back a bit, furrowing your brow, "Did you think he broke up with me?"

"I don't know, you seemed really sad about it!" Steve says, his hands outstretched, "I thought he left you."

"He didn't," you say, "I left, but it's still a bummer. Thought maybe he could've been it, y'know? But, thinking back it would've been -- I don't know -- it wasn't going to happen."

"He didn't want to get married?" he asked, a little surprised.

"I don't think that was in his five year plan, he barely took me out to dinner," you complained, "I was paying for everything 'cause I had a better job."

Steve crossed his arms while you talked, frowning while you continued to ramble about Andy and the break up.

"I just felt like I was putting a lot of effort into him, and I wasn't getting anything in return," you shrug, "And like, that's okay. I'm so used to doing that but...I don't know, I think I just would like for someone to take care of me for a change."

You pause, considering what you said and shake your head, "That sounds so selfish, oh my god."

"I don't think it sounds selfish at all," Steve shakes his head, "I think you're sort of asking for the bare minimum -- I mean fuck, he didn't take you out to dinner? I've taken you out to dinner and you've never even been my..."

You're both quiet for a beat while he trails off, neither of you looking at each other. You reach for your wine and he moves the glass away just as your fingers graze the stem. You lift your butt of the stool and pluck it out of his hand, taking another - smaller - sip. He looks at you like a disappointed father.

"Maybe I wanted to try it? Ugh, you're right Manhattan, you're so selfish," Steve teased.

"You don't like Malbec, Stevie," you swirl the booze in your glass, "That's why I order it."

Steve knows that's why you order Malbec, that's why he kept ordering whiskey -- you don't like it, but he'll know you're getting a little drunk if you ask for a sip of his drink. That's when he knows it's time to take you home, he'd sleep with you another night. He doesn't want you to get too drunk tonight, something about your flushed cheeks. The way you look in those boot cut jeans -- especially when you excused yourself to the bathroom and he could watch you walk away. Whew.

Steve waits for the door to close behind you to hail down Paul to get the check.

"She's gonna get pissy that you're covering it," Paul said while passing him the bill for your drinks, "She told me not to let you pay when she got here."

"Paul -- What's she gonna do? Kill me?" he gestures his hand out while using the other to reach for his wallet. He pulls out a few bills, including a generous tip, and passes them to Paul indiscreetly.

"Steve -- come on!" He winces at your voice, "I told you last time I had it next!"

"My hand slipped -- suddenly the money just appeared in Paul's register, there was nothing I could do," Steve held his hands up.

"Paul!" you call down the bar, but the yell turns into a laugh, "You promised you wouldn't let him pay!"

"He threatened me within an inch of my life. Had to let the man do what he wants," Paul said, putting the cash in the register. You settle back into your stool and cross your legs again, smoothing your damp hands on your jeans.

"I'm gonna kill you, Harrington," you mutter to your knees.

"I feel like 'thank you' would've been a much nicer thing to say," he's always so cool when he talks. You envy how easy it is for him to be charming, to turn it on quickly. Sometimes he makes you feel nervous and seventeen again, even though you've done this so many times before. He looks at you over the whiskey glass while he sips it, eyes glittering behind his glasses. Neither of you have to say anything to know what happens after his finishes his drink.

When you left, he reached for your hand when the door to Porter's closed behind you. You didn't need the support, the parking lot wasn't icy or snow covered, you weren't drunk -- but you let his fingers lace with yours. He guides you deliberately to his car -- of course it's new -- a dark green Porsche 911. What a tool.

"You like my new toy?" he asked. It was easily the most expensive car you'd seen in Indiana.

"Steven," you're a little exasperated -- sometimes he was such a poor little rich boy, "Why?"

He shrugs, "Felt like it."

You let go of his hand to walk to the passengers side door, waiting for him to unlock it while you shiver. He notices you didn't have a coat on, shaming himself silently for not offering his trench for the short walk.

You both get in when he unlocks to doors and you eye the interior, the plush leather of the seats. You squint a little when you cast your eyes over to him, "I feel like you're compensating for something."

"Oh yeah?" he asks casually, starting the car and cranking the heat, "What am I compensating for? Wanna remind me?"

You cross your arms and don't answer because he doesn't have anything to compensate for. Steve Harrington was born blessed, if you were more religious you'd swear he was God's favorite.

"That's what I thought," he says with a grin while pulling out of the parking lot. His hand meets your head rest while he stretches his neck back to check for cars. The same hand falls to your thigh when you make it on the road, sliding his palm over the swell of it -- his fingers resting inside. He let his eyes glance at how your hips filled up the small passengers seat at a red light, your jeans tight over your thighs.

Steve gave you a soft squeeze when the light turned green, you put your hand over his hand at the gesture -- relacing your fingers. You don't notice the gentle smile blooming onto his face, too busy looking at Christmas lights on the houses outside.

You don't waste time when you both get into his house, slipping off your shoes at the entry way -- bolstering passed the darkened livingroom to the stairs in his mini-mansion. He follows quickly behind you, getting ahead of you to get into his room to turn on the bedside lamps.

"Are those new?" you whisper -- it's not like anyone is home, it's Steve's house, but the darkness makes you feel like you have to be quiet. He comes back over to you, quick on his socked feet and pulls you in for a feverish kiss.

"Yeah," he says between kisses, all harsh breaths and wet clicks, "I had a new -- mmm -- uh fuck -- new decorator come in."

His hands are wound in your hair while he keeps control of your head, his kisses go from fast and hungry to slow and controlled.

"I'll show you later," he mumbles against your lips. You nod in agreement, you did genuinely want to see. What fancy hotel was it based off of this time?

"This is okay, right?" he asks, pulling away, "I'm sorry I didn't ask I just -- old habits, I guess."

"It's okay, Stevie," you assure, his hands slipping out of your hair and onto your full cheeks. He squishes them together a little and smiles into a little chuckle. Sometimes you're so cute to him he can't stand it, he wants to eat you whole -- wants to keep you in his bed forever.

"Good," he mumbles again before settling back in for a deep kiss that leaves you moaning softly into his mouth, "Missed feeling you like this."

"You're so needy," you tease, his hands dropping from your face to your hips, feeling his own press against yours.

"Oh, you feel that?" he smirks, dick hard in his slacks -- straining despterately to get your attention.

"Needier than I thought," you scoff, "You gonna make it, Steve? You don't even have your jacket off yet."

"Watch your mouth," it's not mean when he says it, he likes when you tease him because you have nothing to back it up. You've never left unsatisfied -- even when you were on top calling him your 'sweet boy', you'd get in the shower after with your legs shaking. Shivering against him when he'd get on his knees and lick at your sensitive clit just to watch you leave hand print on the glass.

"You just sound so pretty, miss. I can't help myself," he'd say from below you, water droplets resting on his eyelashes while you gushed over his mouth.

Steve breaks away to take off his jacket and looks at it for a split second -- hesitating.

"You wanna hang it up, huh?" you know how he gets.

"Will you be mad? I just don't want it to crease," he pleads.

"You're gonna get the suit dry cleaned anyway," you say back, laughing.

"I know, I know, but I have to -- I just have to hang it up, I'm so sorry," he presses a chaste peck to your lips before disappearing into his walk in closet. You take your time getting undressed because you know he'll be at least seven to nine minutes while he puts everything back in the 'to be dry cleaned' part of the closet.

You keep your bra and panties on, white satin, a little lace. He's always a sucker for something angelic that's a little grown up -- but you guess you are grown ups now. It's weird to consider.

He emerges from the closet in his boxer breifs with a frown, "Why'd you take your clothes off without me?"

"You took your clothes off without me," you counter point, "Did you want me to just sit here and wait for you?"

"Kinda," he says with a half shrug, "Would've been nice."

You get a little giddy while he approaches you, his smile building when yours does. His hands skate over the flesh on top of your flared ribs, over to your back. His fingers gliding over the back strap of your bra before snapping it off of you, dropping it to the floor. He traces the indents on your skin from the clothing, red and raw. Big hands grope at your breasts before following the slope of your waist back down to your ass, filling his hands greedily.

"Missed her the most," another chaste kiss to your lips, "But I think you knew that." Steve had always thought he was a tits guy until he met you, maybe you were the exception. Maybe he liked all your parts.

"I knew that," you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, "Can you stop stalling, Harrington? This wine's gonna wear off soon."

With your hold on his neck, laying you back on the mattress was an easy feat. He spread you out wide, pushing your hands above your head while he settled his hips against yours. He couldn't help himself from starting to rut against you -- you were so warm, your pussy practically begging him to fuck you.

"Ooh," you moaned out against your better wishes, his covered cock giving you just enough friction in your panties to set you ablaze. You could feel yourself dripping into them, begging, waiting for him.

"You really want me tonight, huh?" he asked hungrily, knowing the answer.

"Y-yes, Stevie," you whined, letting go of his hands to let your nails graze down his back, feeling the length of him trapped in his boxers press against you.

"Oh-ho-ho, whose needy now, hm?" he teases in your ear, grinding mercilessly against you, his chest pressed up against yours while he keeps you pinned the the mattress.

"So quick with that tongue earlier, what happened?" he smirks, getting right in your face, brushing his nose against yours. You roll your hips against his, your thighs sliding against his hips as another mewl escapes you at the friction.

"Oh, I see. You wanna be good for daddy now, don't you?"

"Steven," your eyes pop open, your mouth gapes with a smile, "You can't just say stuff like that."

He laughs into a kiss on your neck, "C'mon, I think you liked it."

"I don't really think you're the 'daddy', type," you say, your voice taunting.

"No?" he asks his voice is calm, but his eyes are challenging you.

"No, you're too nice," you smirk while he comes up to kiss your mouth, "You've never won a fight in your life. And you're what, almost 30? Who're you bossin' around?"

He watches you raise a brow when you say it, your lower lip tucking slowly between your teeth in a grin -- god he loves when you do that.

"Lot of secretaries to go through in the office, mmm," he hums when your lips graze his neck, your tongue striping up to his jaw, "Learned a couple things."

"You think I can't boss you around?" he asks, pressing up off of you and leaning onto one of his forearms.

"I know you can't boss me around," you say, your brows quirking while you push at his chest to get on top of him like you always do. Already soaking at the thought of him whining for you to fuck him, to cum all over him, grabbing at your thighs, hips, and ass desperately. His heaving breaths after finishing, resting his head on your stomach while you stroked his hair, feeling his lips press against your soft, pudgy, belly to let you know he's ready for the next round.

He caught your wrist as you pushed and pressed it back down into the mattress.

"Oh c'mon Stevie, I love hearing you beg for me," you tease before he presses his mouth against yours, noses squishing together. Over the years, Steve craved closeness from you -- pulling you flush against his chest when you were on top, wrapping his arms around your back. Clutching you, fingertips sinking into your cloud-soft flesh while you moaned into his ear.

"Think you can beg for me for a change," he mutters, pulling away as you reach to kiss him again. A little whine pulls from your throat and he purrs at the sound. Right where he wants you.

He gets on his knees between your legs and looks down at you, eyes roaming the expanse of your body -- your broad shoulders, soft skin, delicate curves and indents. His personal Aphrodite -- flesh turned fine art. All the Rennaissance paintings in the world couldn't do you justice. He stuttered the first time he saw you naked, overwhelmed by you and how not shy you were for him to see you. Steve let's a finger trail along the lining of your silk panties at your thigh, you shiver at his soft touch.

"Take these off," he says, but it comes out as a demand.

"So mean," you tease, tugging at the elastic and lifting your hips up to push them over your butt and thighs. He shrugs off your jest, grabbing your underwear when they get too far down for you to reach and throwing them on the floor. He's rough when he flips you over to your stomach, the flesh of your ass bouncing with the movement and he salivates immediately.

"I'll show you mean," he says, it's more playful than menacing. He brings a hand down hard on your soft body, ass reverberating with the action and you gasp -- tensing all around.

"Ow -- Steve!" you cry out, trying to catch your breath.

“Oh, shit,” he smooths over the pink handprint blooming on your skin, “I’m sorry.”

"It's okay, it's fine, just -- I don't know, warn a girl," you laugh. His hand drags over the curve of your ass to your thigh.

"Did you like that?" he asked, his voice dropped to his lower register and you inadvertently press your thighs together. Your face drops into your arms on the mattress, blushing.

"Is that a yes?" he asks, fingers snaking to your inner thigh and your hips roll slowly at the feeling. He hums when he sees you nod into your forearms.

"On your knees, baby," he suggests, tapping your thigh. You adjust onto your knees, forearms still on the mattress in a perfect deep arch. He sits back at first, taking a moment to marvel at your ass in the air -- committing it to memory. He keeps his hand on your inner thigh, massaging gently while you settle into position.

"Open up a little more for me," he's gentle, pushing at your flesh so you open up wider. You adjust and he grins, sliding his boxers off -- you whimper when he does.

"You okay?" his voice laces with acute concern, it wasn't a sexy whine or cry like you usually do. He stands up so he can soothe you from the side of the bed, his hand smoothing over your back.

"I thought you were gonna -- I didn't know we were immediately gonna fuck," you say, leaning your face to the side to look at him.

"Oh no - I wasn't just gonna - when have I ever just gone in and fucked you?" he laughs, "I just wanna jerk off while you sit on my face, is that okay?"

"So much for me begging for you," you smirk, "Sitting on your face, just like old times."

He huffs a breath through his nose looking down at you, his face unimpressed. He leans forward, face inches away from yours, "Who was just whining over the idea that I might not eat her pussy tonight?"

You burn at his words and he notices, "Was it you?"

You nod with an embarrassed smile, "If you're a good girl, I'll let you be the boss next time. I'll teach you a few things, yeah?"

"Steeeeve," you whine while your skin is in flames, "You can't say that."

He gets on the bed behind you, one hand on the bend of your hip, the other with his fingers sliding against your open folds -- finding slicknes without surprise.

"Can't say what?" he asks with a smile, "Can't call you my good girl?"

Your hips push back on his fingers when he says it and you scold yourself at your body's betrayal. You hear him tutt behind you and you clench around nothing at the sound, "Sure feels like I can."

He slides under you like a well versed mechanic, arms and hands immediately wrapping around your thighs, stifiling their nervous jiggle. He guides you down to his mouth, your posture changing while you sit further up and back so you can see his eyes and he can see all of you. Your hips wiggle as you feel his breath on your opening.

"Are you excited?" he asks, you nod and he can't hold out anymore at the sight of your smile. You feel his tongue drag, poking between your folds once you relaxed -- his fingers reaching to keep you spread open to start.

Your smile transforms to a pornographic gasp, head immediately thrown back as his tongue stripes you again. Your hips rock against his mouth, Steve smirks to himself into the next lick, flicking over your clit and a peal of mewls escape your lips.

He feels at home here, your full, thick thighs keeping his ears warm in the December weather. This big cold house suddenly feeling full with your voice moaning his name. He didn't need the whiskey if you were offering to quench his thirst like this.

You feel his tongue lap at your opening, the thick, wet, muscle pushing in past your walls trying to desperate to out maneuver him. His face was coated in your juices, dripping freely own onto his chin and cheeks while he fucked you with his tongue. He watched as your hand reached down to tease your clit, he caught it in his, pushing it up to your breasts.

"Play with your tits f'me baby, let me watch," he says, scooting up a bit.

"But Steve I --" you huff, desperate for some extra stimulation.

"I'm getting there, if you'd just be patient for like, twenty seconds," his voice sounds like he's back at the bar, admonishing you like you're rushing him to get out of the bathroom.

"You're ruining the mood," you cross your arms over your chest, pouting.

"Aww, I'm ruining the mood?" he mocks, a fake frown matching yours. He slides a finger slowly past your tight walls and you falter a little but hold to your convictions. He holds eye contact with you through his glasses, pushing a second finger in to meet the first.

Your mouth gapes, eyes pricking with tears as your walls close down hard on him, "Am I still ruining the mood, baby?"

A silent cry rattles your chest, falling quietly out of your open mouth. Your eyes close tight while he snickers, pumping his fingers in a steady rhythm, "It's all better now, isn't it?"

His voice makes you dizzy, he used to talk to you like this when you first started fucking. Cocky and confident -- certain he was making you feel good, and fuck he was. What did he ask you to do before? Your brain was racking for the command, but too overwhelmed with pleasure when he hooked his fingers to find your g-spot.

"Stevie -- oh fuck, fuck, please more," you whine out, you sound pathetic but you can't even find your self to care. It feels like a roller coaster reaching it's peak with every curve of his fingers teasing your spongey center. 'Play with your tits f'me baby, let me watch.' There it is, that you could do. You palm your breasts, pulling and pinching at your hard nipples looking down at him over your belly pooch. He winks when his tongue finally makes contact with your clit and you shudder instantly. You gush over his fingers, taken by surprised by your own orgasm -- already feeling the second one building.

"That's my good girl," he purrs beneath you, "Stay just like that, okay? I'm not done."

You gulp, feeling his soft kitten licks back on your clit start to ramp up to fast flutters -- Steve didn't want to start you back up slowly. Your breath had barely steadied before it picked back up again, flexing your core to keep yourself hovering above him. Your hand reached down to his hair, tugging while your thighs tensed.

"Ride my face, baby, come on," he encourged, "You've never been nervous to do it before."

"I --," you hesitated, "I didn't with Andy -- it's been a while."

"What?" he asked, surprised, pushing up so his full head peeked out from between your legs, "Are you fucking with me?"

"He...ugh, Steve," you leaned your head back and then turned it back down, mumbling, "He said I was too heavy."

Steve's eyes furrow, mouth open, unsure at first how to respond -- aghast, "This guy sounds like a fucking loser. You're not too heavy -- god -- who says 'no' to that? What's wrong this this guy?"

Steve shakes his head and pushes back down, "Sit on my face, baby. Fuckin' suffocate me."

You don't have a choice, he pulls you down onto him, your knees sliding further apart and you can't help but start grinding your hips against his tongue. The whole act sounds as lewd as it looks, wet and sticky as he captures your slit in his mouth to suck on it. Spreading your ass in his hands to spread you further apart, moaning low into your pussy so you can feel the vibration through your core.

"Ohmygod, ohmygod, ooh daddy just like that," the words just pour out of you while you start reaching your second peak, hips writhing onto him with your back arched. Steve grips your ass cheek hard before smacking down on it with a loud 'thwap!', satisfaction burning in his stomach -- daddy, daddy, daddy. The same hand reaches for his neglected cock, covered in pre, leaving a patch of cold liquid on his hard, muscled stomach.

Steve feels your hips hump his mouth in quick succession, his nose bumping your clit rapidly. Your moans get shorter and higher with each flick of his tongue against you until they're just huffed breaths.

"Mmm, come on," he nods up at you, "You can do it, angel."

You nod back, face contorted while tears stain your cheeks, the next roll of your hips his mouth makes contact with your clit again. You see stars, you cum so hard you swear you're pissing. You can hear Steve's grunts under you, collecting your slick to add friction to the fist he's fucking behind you.

"Get on your back," he demands, "Need t'fuck you, holy shit."

You get on your back, looking up at him now on his knees, both of your eyes lust blown in the low light. You weren't a stranger to his cock, but every time you saw it you couldn't help but feel spit build in your mouth. It was angry tonight, tip red and leaking, veins pulsing while he stroked himself looking down at you.

"I don't know, Stevie -- it might be -- it's too much," you say, thighs pressing together to protect your sensitive cunt.

"Two is nothing, honey," he shakes his head opening your legs up, crawling over you to line his tip up with your entrance, "You've given me four in less time."

You whine like a child, but you don't stop him when he slides the tip against your entrance, building up the slickness to slide over his cock. When his tip pops in you hiss, back arching to feel another inch push into you.

"Oh, that shut you up, huh?" that voice was back again, Steve was starting to feel so confident, you might as well start calling him Manhattan. He pushes deep into you, all the way to the hilt -- your legs springing up against your chest automatically -- heels hitting his back.

"You feel so good, Stevie," you moan into his mouth while he leans in to kiss you.

"Pussy's fucking made for me," he rasps while his thrusts pick up, forceful and deliberate. Steve loves fucking you because he knows how well you can take it. You were built sturdy, plush, soft -- he loved how it felt to slam into you. He'd heard it on the radio, some cheesy line 'more cushion for the pushin', but fuck if it wasn't true.

Steve knew he wouldn't last long inside you, your pussy tight and wet -- hugging him in place, resisting his exit. He filled you completely, your eyes rolling back the second you felt the hair at the base of his cock tickle your skin over and over again.

"Steve, oh god Steve," you moan through gritted teeth, tears back to rolling down your cheeks as your nails dig into his back, "Just like that daddy, fuck me like that."

His mouth falls open at your words, the girls on his desk never talk like that. He can't fuck them how he wants to, never throws them around. They don't look at him the way you look at him, soft and pretty. They don't wanna wash his hair for him in the shower after, and kiss the freckles on his back. He doesn't wanna make them dinner after, or give them a ride home. He doesn't blush the way he does when it's you that calls him daddy. When you call out his name. When you look up at him with those eyes. When you hold his hand in the car. When you tease him for coming to Porter's early. When you call every time you come home just to see him when you could see anyone else.

Steve's hand finds your jaw but you guide it to your throat while you bounce against his thrusts, he chuckles wickedly, "When'd you turn into such a whore?"

His fingers press down expertly on your neck while you attempt to moan out an answer that he doesn't wanna hear. He just wants to keep watching your fucked out face and body while he drills into you deeper. His voice lilts into a mocking coo, your cunt drools.

"Just for me, isn't it?" he asks down at you through his glasses, and you nod quickly in his hold, "They're not fuckin' you like this in the city, huh?"

"Had to come all the way back to Indiana to get this dick, didn't you? All the way back home so daddy could fuck you just how you like it," he huffs, feeling himself get close.

"Yes, yes -- had t-to come back for you - oh fuck, fuck," you whine out, raspy and nasal from lack of blood flow.

"Who fucks you like I do, hm? Who else is makin' you come like I can?" he eases up on your throat, moving back to your jaw -- leaning in to give you a sloppy tongue kiss into your gasping mouth. You tighten again over him, gushing whatever creamy spend you had left in you, gripping his shoulder tightly while your eyes pinched closed.

When you're nose to nose again you look up at him, "Nobody, Stevie. Just you, it's just you."

He growls at the confirmation, his hips stuttering -- 'Nobody fucks her like I do,' ringing in his head while he feels his vision start to go white.

"Baby, baby," he starts, his voice softening, "God, fuck -- can I come in your mouth?"

You nod and he groans, panting while your wet walls keep his cock warm and tight inside you. Steve slows his thrusts which just makes the feeling more intoxicating, your sticky thighs meshing with his soaked hilt. You whimper and cry with every push into your overstimulated cunt, your legs almost giving out from being pressed against your chest.

"Jesus Christ. Gonna come in your mouth," he whispers into your neck, "Feels -- oh shit -- fuck, it feels so good in your pussy, though."

Steve knows he can't hold back, quickly pulling out of you while you shoot up onto your elbows. He pulls your head forward with one fell swoop of his big hand, your mouth and thrat sucking in his cock in a vice grip. You can feel the warm liquid start shooting into your mouth immediately, but it doesn't stop you from obediently sucking on it. He's peak caveman brain while he watches you, your eyes shining up at him while he holds his weight up on your head -- grunts and snarls coming out of his mouth while he finishes thrusting into your face.

You take your mouth off as he softens and swallow, gingerly sitting up slowly. Your thighs ache, you're exhausted. He sits down onto his calves, both of you panting on the center of the bed.

"Let me -- let me get you some water," he huffs out, sliding off the mattress into the attatched master bathroom. He's only gone for ten seconds, passing a clear glass into your shaking hand. You sip slowly to start before gulping it down.

"You okay?" he asks, leaning over to kiss your forehead, "You're quiet."

You nod, taking a deep breath and letting it out, "That was...insane."

He laughs, it makes you laugh, and he lays down onto the mattress to stare up at you. You look down at him, offering Steve a weak smile before looking back at your empty water cup. You slide off the bed like he did before, putting the glass back on the bathroom counter, peeing, washing your hands, and walking back out.

You let out a tired sigh, reaching for your clothes strewn about by his dresser -- sliding on your panties.

"What're you doin', Manhattan?" he asks, sitting up, "Got somewhere to be?"

"I'm getting dressed, Steve," you explain, putting your bra back on. Steve's chest hollowed, normally you'd have some pillow talk after -- talk it out. He still had to show you the new house decor.

"Hey, stop," his voice is soft as he waves his hand at you, "You don't have to do that."

"I gotta get home, Steve," you assure, "It's getting late."

"You..." he trails off before taking a deep breath, replenishing his confidence, "You could stay. I can drive you back in the morning."

"Steve..." you start, shimmying a little to get your jeans over your hips and thighs, "I never stay. That's not us, that's not what we do."

"It could be..." he suggests, his voice cracking a little, "Please?"

You stand there, in your bra and unbuttoned jeans, your tummy poking out where the zipper is undone. Your bra suddenly feels tight and uncomfortable, your underwear constricting you under the jeans that feel a size too small.

He looks you over, watching you contemplate it and gets up out of bed to meet you by his dresser. His hands reach to each side of your face, warm and big. His fingertips graze the hair at the edge of your scalp, pinkies and ring fingers on the back of your neck. He tilts your head up slightly to look at him and your heart hammers, more than it did the first time he started kissing you in his car. Steve's heart matches your cadence, remembering how nervous he was the first time he talked to you -- desperately wanting you to be impressed by him.

"I --" you start blushing, he's never looked at you quite like this, "I don't have anything to wear to bed."

"I don't want you to wear anything to bed," he says, leaning forward to capture your lips in his while you both step awkwardly as a unit back over to the bed, "It'd just get in the way in the morning."

"Please stay," he pleads again, pressing a gentle peck on your lips, "Please -peck-, please -peck-, please -peck-. "

"Okay, okay," you laugh, "Are you sure?"

"I'm begging you," he smiles, leaning his forehead against yours. The tops of his frames hitting your brow bone. He lets go of your face to make work of the top of your jeans, shoving them back down until they pool at your ankles. He unhooks your bra, a little too expertly, and snaps the band of your satin panties before rolling those down too. He moves down with them so he can skate his hands over your thighs and leave a warm kiss on the flesh over your hip bone -- apologizing to the bruise he left there earlier.

"Can't believe you kept your glasses on," you tease, "Dweeb."

He comes back up, sliding his glasses off smoothly, like he did in the back seat of his BMW five years ago, "I like being able to really see you."

"Am I blurry without them?" you asked, trying to take them out of his hand. He snatches them out of your grasp, hiding them behind his back.

"Not really," he says, walking over to the bedside table and placing them next to the lamp, "You told me they made me look handsome back in - think it was -- '94 maybe? -- So I just wanted to keep them on for insurance."

You look down at the floor, "I always think you look handsome, Harrington."

You feel his hand at the back base of your neck and turn to see him behind you, "Come back to bed."

He gets under the sheets and both duvets and turns down the covers next to him, slapping the pillow you're going to sleep on to beckon you forward. You want to roll your eyes but you can't force down the giddiness building in your chest -- sleep over!

You maneuver over to your side of the bed, slipping under the covers while he turns them back over you to tuck you in. Fuck are the sheets nice, they had to be some luxury brand you can only order through a catalog.

Steve clicks off his bedside lamp, leaning over you to click off yours and you catch the remnants of his cologne on his skin. It's not long before you feel his hand skate over you under the covers, sliding over your belly, up over every curve and bump on your body before resting a warm hand on the side of your breast. He hums sleepily and pulls you close to him, pressing his chest against your shoulder. His hot breath fans against your neck where he's settled his head.

"Isn't this nice?" he asks. You nod, turning onto your side to face him while his hand splays across your back to pull you closer. You slide a hand under the pillow, and savor the coolness on your hot skin. Steve looks at you with soft eyes, studying you.

"Can I tell you something?" he asks, "Or, well, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, of course," you say, looking at him, trying to read his expression.

"Remember -- ah fuck, okay I'm doing this," he says, trying to psyche himself up, "Remember when I said I had some options? To make changes?"

"Yeah, I remember. You can't wait when those opportunities come, Harrington," you lecture, "I've fucked myself so many times with that."

"There's a position in the New York office," he blurts out, "In the head quarters that they're eyeing me for."

Your heart races, "Okay."

"And I'd be...I don't know, sort of demoted but I'd get a huge -- like, huge fucking pay raise," he explains, "And I -- I wanna take it."

A beat passes while he tries to figure out what to say.

"And maybe, I don't know -- maybe we could try this out? Like for real? Instead of just fucking around every Christmas."

You consider it, heat blooming in your cheeks -- the good kind. Your heart starts to swell -- not Steve Harrington asking you out when you're twenty-nine. Sixteen year old you would be screaming.

"What do you think?" he asks, he swipes his hand through his hair and even in the dark you know his cheeks are pink.

"I don't think it's a bad idea," you say, "I think it's the excitement you're looking for -- New York I mean, not me."

"I think you're really exciting," he leans in to kiss you with a grin.

"And I think," he presses his lips against yours again, "I'd do a pretty good job at taking care of you, if you let me."

You laugh through your nose, blushing hard while he kisses your cheek, "That sounds nice, doesn't it?"

"It does sound nice, Steve," you agree, but you don't want him to feel too good about it. You had a reputation to uphold, still. He leans back to look at you, thumb caressing your cheek as your lids fall half down your eyes, "I think I'd really like that."

"You wanna shower? You too tired?" his voice his so gentle you start to melt, but exhaustion weighs heavy on you.

"Too tired," you say, nuzzling forward into his neck -- your head now partially on his pillow.

"We can talk about it more in the morning, yeah?" he asks, a hand reaching up to smooth over your hair.

"Yeah," you said, your breath steadying, "I'll see you in the morning."

He knows you don't like eggs for breakfast but it's all he has in the fridge. It's fine. He'll just order in.

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