Eyes Up

𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: snapshots of you, an innocent senior at hawkins high, and eddie, the no-good weed dealing perv. 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: perv!eddie munson (stranger things 4, 2022) x fem!reader 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: innocent!reader, dubcon, coercion, trading sexual favors (nudity) for drugs, male masturbation, daddy kink, some degradation, corruption, names (princess, baby, slut, good girl), fingering, drug use, angst, fighting, injuries, unprotected sex, p in v sex, praise kink, overstimulation, premature ejaculation 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: finally compiling this and making it an official series! <3 love me some perv!eddie lol let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist for this story!

𝟏: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟐: 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝟑: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝟒: 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝟓: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐬𝐦 𝟔: 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞 (𝐧𝐨𝐭) 𝟕: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝟖: 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝟗: 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎: 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠

Hiya! I'm excited to announce my first ever kinktober event! All works have been written by me, and will either be a full fic or a short drabble, depending on inspiration. Each individual fic will have its own tags and warnings, and their respective beta readers will be tagged.

Works will by default be written as F!Readers, however if you'd like, I will make a separate M!Reader version for any day of your choice.

Essential Information-

My event-specific tag is #notyourfuckingkacchan kinktober!

Each fic will be anywhere from 500 - 2k words.

Please, please reblog and comment to spread the the word! I try to follow every person that reblogs my work!

♡︎Day 1 - 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮

♡︎Day 2 - 𝐂𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚

♡︎Day 3 - 𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐄𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮

♡︎Day 4 - 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩/𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮

♡︎Day 5 - 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐄𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚

♡︎Day 6 - 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢

♡︎Day 7 - 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮

♡︎Day 8 - 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐚 𝐀𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐰𝐚

♡︎Day 9 - 𝐒𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐄𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚

♡︎Day 10 - 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲/𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢

♡︎Day 11 - 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐄𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚

♡︎Day 12 - 𝐏𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚

♡︎Day 13 - 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚

♡︎Day 14 - 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠/𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮

♡︎Day 15 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮

♡︎Day 16 - 𝐓𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐄𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚

♡︎Day 17 - 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚

♡︎Day 18 - 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢

♡︎Day 19 - 𝐕𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚

♡︎Day 20 - 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐚 𝐀𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐰𝐚

♡︎Day 21 - 𝐂𝐮𝐦𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧/𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮

♡︎Day 22 - 𝐍𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚

♡︎Day 23 - 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮

♡︎Day 24 - 𝐌𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐳𝐮𝐤𝐮 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐲𝐚

Wildcard characters!

♡︎Day 25 - 𝐏𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚 𝐈𝐢𝐝𝐚

♡︎Day 26 - 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐊𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚 (𝐒𝐡𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐚)

♡︎Day 27 - 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐘𝐮𝐧𝐨 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐥

♡︎Day 28 - 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠/𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐈𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐨 𝐊𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐢

♡︎Day 29 - 𝐃𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠/𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐞𝐧𝐤𝐢 𝐊𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢

♡︎Day 30 - 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐰 𝐉𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐣𝐚𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬

♡︎Day 31 - 𝐂𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐘𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐔𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐢

2022 © not-your-fucking-kacchan — please do not copy or translate my work. Likes, reblogs, and comments are more than welcome

◃ 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

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eddie drops in on steve more consistently after that. he doesn't really have a reason, he just... does.

it's his weekly routine for the next year and a half. every friday night he checks in on the king. it's always a nightmare; eddie supposes he has one every night. at first it's just variations of being killed by that creature, then it's ones of barbara holland dragging him to a watery grave, then it's billy hargrove beating him half to death before turning on a gaggle of little fucking kids (that one eddie leaves before it ends. he couldn't keep watching, ignored the guilt in his gut that harrington would've had to).

it gets worse after the summer of '85, once starcourt burns down. robin buckley gets added to the mess that is steve's brain and, fuck, eddie thinks if he has to watch her and steve get tortured one more time he'll lose his shit. logically, he knows he could just choose someone else, or better yet, stay in his own fucking head, but it always feels... wrong. like he's leaving steve to deal with these nightmares alone even though the guy never knows he's there.

plus, through the dreams, he kind of grows to like the guy. he seems... nice, beneath all that bravado he'd had once upon a time, though selfless and heroic to an absolute fault. he's always throwing himself in front of someone in his nightmares, never running away from danger unless he's alone and it's for definite that no one else will get hurt. always screaming at russians to hurt him, not her. telling billy hargrove to punch him, not the kid. screaming into the air why not me, why couldn't you have just taken me? i'm so fucking sorry...

he doesn't see him much in the daylight hours. him and buckley work at family video, he finds out, and he goes by every now and then to rent a video and just... check on them. especially after those nights where he has to watch them be beaten to death through a vent. he and robin strike up a semi-friendship through his taste in cinema, but he never really speaks to harrington himself. though he catches how jumpy he is, how tired he always looks, the way he won't move from robin's side after a particularly bad night, their hands intertwined under the counter.

and then he goes into his third senior year, and he sees them. has to do a fucking double take and pinch himself to make sure he's not walking because, holy shit. those are harrington's kids. huddled together at a lunch table- dustin henderson, mike wheeler and lucas sinclair. eddie has to sprint out of the cafeteria to throw up, because he's seen those boys die in so many awful ways by now, that even just seeing them makes him queasy.

despite this, he feels some sort of weird... pull, towards them. one that makes him slam himself down at their table, grinning, to ask: "you kiddies know anything about a little game called dungeons and dragons?"

(they did, he knew they did, because he'd listened to steve pour his heart out over henderson's body, once. listened to him beg for the kid to just wake up as he laid motionless in these weird, dirt tunnels, that he'd play 'that dungeons nerd game' if the kid just woke the fuck up.)

(he hadn't.)

bakugou x reader x deku

summary: after a 3 year hiatus from dating, you get more than you bargained for. A dating app match and a chance encounter start you on two simultaneous journeys, one with the number one hero: kind, caring, exhausted, and one with the rival he'd outgrown.

authors note - poly ending, no infidelity. smut, bakugou and deku will both dom, reader subs. reader's parents are dead and she's raising her little brother, she's ~28, Midoriya and Bakugou are both 30. some childhood bullying mentions, brief scene in a police station, f!reader. part one. part 2

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” You lean against a chain link fence outside of your little brother’s school. “Kaoru’s young, and he needs me.” 

“Listen,” Your best friend says, dripping syrupy sweetness, “You’re gonna get cobwebs up there if you don’t-” 

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly, as kids start pouring out of the double doors at the front of the school. “What matters is that Kaoru’s not ready for me to date, he needs stability. After everything that’s happened, I have to be there for him.” You hear a rush of static, meaning your friend was sighing deeply into the phone. 

“I know you care about him.” She says softly. “I just also care about you.” 

“Thank you,” you catch your brother out of the corner of your eye. “Call you later, Anna.” You hang up quickly, reaching for your brother's backpack. “Hey squirt,” you sling it over your shoulder, “How was school?” He frowns, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Fine.” He shrugs. “I have homework.” 

“You wanna grab a snack?” You offer, and he gives you the ghost of a smile. 

“Ice cream?” He asks, and you pretend to think about it. 

“How about tacos?” You counter, touching his shoulder, and he lights up. 

“Yes!” 

__________

You go through a normal routine, takeout aside, logging back on to work while your brother plays some video games in his room. A text pops up from your friend. 

Anna: matchmaker$.com 

Anna: get you and Kaoru a rich sugar daddy

You sigh deeply, glancing over your shoulder when you hear a sound. Your brother has peeked around the corner, tentatively standing at the edge of the kitchen. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks wide eyes as perceptive as ever. 

“Tired from work.” It’s not a lie, exactly. You lean back on your stool, stretching. “You wanna sit down for a bit, give those eyes a rest?” 

“Sitting close to the tv doesn’t hurt your eyes.” He mutters. “Mom just said that so we’d watch less tv.” You laugh, the memory of your stepmother, half frantic in the kitchen as the two of you had your eyes glued to the series finale of Avatar the last Airbender, so engrossed you didn’t realize you were moving closer, washes over you like a gentle wave. 

“She did, yeah.” You pull a stool out and he joins you, resting his arms on the table. “What’s up?” You ask, sensing the tension rather than noticing it. 

“I have friends.” He says. “Just a couple, but um, I like them. They’re nice to me.” 

“Are kids at school not being nice to you?” You immediately cut in, something simmering near the surface evident in your tone. 

“They are!” He flashes his hands, “Calm down. They’re mostly, mostly pretty nice.” He adjusts his glasses. “I just mean, you don’t have friends.” You swallow. 

“I have Anna.” You offer, and he shakes his head. 

“I know people your age usually have more people than that,” He argues, “And you seem lonely. I dunno.” He looks away. “I just, I wanted to ask if it was my fault.” 

“Oh.” Your mouth drops open. “I’m, first of all,” a smile spreads across your face, you can’t even tell if it’s genuine, “First of all, I’m not lonely, I have you, and you are more than enough for me.” He doesn’t let that lie, squirming away from your attempts to hug him. “But um, you know, I see Anna about once a week, maybe once every two weeks. I um, I know people at work-” 

“I didn’t mean friends like that!” He blurts. “I meant like,” he blows out a long breath. “I just don’t want you not doing things because of me. I don’t um,” he looks like he’s struggling for words, this time, when you reach out to touch him, he takes your hand. His palm is clammy. “I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do things. The reason your life is different.” You press your lips together. The unspoken hangs heavily in the air, that your parent's death had changed everything, that you’d dropped out of grad school three years ago to take care of him, that you’d left a promising career track, friends, a boyfriend, all in a different city. You wonder if he understands this, or if somehow, he just senses the little ticking clock that haunts your dreams reminding you that you’re not spending your twenties like the girls you see on Instagram. That you’re not drinking wine on an island in Greece, that you’re not dating, let alone engaged, and that you don’t have a gaggle of girlfriends to post pictures with. Your account had laid dormant for so long you’d forgotten the password. 

“My life is different now,” you squeeze his hand. “It’s true. There’s no getting around that, but honestly, I’d rather be hanging with you,” you elbow him, grinning, “than on a date with some loser who probably has stinky socks.” Your brother wrinkles his nose. 

“Ew. Boys don’t grow out of that?” 

“Unfortunately.” You have a vivid flash of the pile of laundry your ex had left in your apartment. “They do not.” 

“Ok but promise,” Kaoru holds out a pinky finger. “Promise you’re not gonna miss things because of me, in specific?” There’s a gap between his front teeth that means occasionally sometimes the s sounds coming out of his mouth have a slight whistle. 

“I promise.” You reach out and link your pinky with his. “I do.” You put him to bed, and offer to read him a story. Kaoru was 9, and technically your stepbrother, with your father having remarried after your mother left him when you were a child. Still, the resemblance was uncanny, the same face shape, same cheekbones, same light in his eyes at the promise of a story. He’d shunned the idea of being read to, recently, though he’d fallen back into it when you’d first moved back home after his parents had passed. You’d spoken with his doctors, it’s natural for trauma to make children regress, they’d told you. He’d wet the bed for a full year, something you’d never spoken to him about, instead, you’d begun to wake up early and change his sheets while he took a sleepy shower. You’d read to him then, and tonight he lets you do it again. 

“Read me the Deku one,” he begs, flopping hard on his mattress. 

“I absolutely cannot again,” you say, eyeing the Deku plush, the Deku posters, and the Deku pajamas he’s wearing. “How about the funny alien one, are we down for that?” 

“Fine,” he sighs deeply. “I guess it is funny.” 

“The True Meaning of Smekday,” you start, “Chapter three.” He scoots under the covers, and he’s fallen fast asleep by the time you’re four pages in, but you finish the chapter before you turn the light off. Smoothing his hair and tucking him in. 

Was it that obvious? You wonder. The lonely ache that tears at your chest start to awaken now as you pad through your empty childhood home. You trace a framed photo of you in your prom dress, your date had gone on to study software engineering, and he was working for some hotshot startup in Silicon Valley. Your ex in New York had moved on painfully quickly when it became obvious you weren’t moving back. You flop hard on the couch and open your texts from Anna. 

Anna: matchmaker$.com 

Anna: get you and Kaoru a rich sugar daddy

You: it looks like an escort site

Anna: it’s not!!! 

Anna: I know someone that works there, she’ll hook you up 

You sigh deeply. Your cousin Anna was a moderately successful influencer, who had on multiple occasions claimed to be taking you out to lunch only to try and haggle a free meal in exchange for clicks. 

Anna: for realsies. You can’t get the signup link from just anyone, it’s exclusive. 

You: aaaaa are you sure?

Anna: ARE YOU ACTUALLY CONSIDERING

Anna: SHUT UP IM FILLING IT OUT FOR YOU RIGHT NOW

You: ANNA NO

You: Anna, please. Let me. 

Anna; You have fifteen minutes. If you haven't submitted it, I’m gonna do it for you.

You sit straight up on the couch. 

You: Deal. 

Anna: AMAZING 

You pull up the application she sent you on your laptop, and rub your eyes, filling out the questions to the best of your ability about your moral leanings, whether you want children, or you smoke, and then pause, hovering over the final question box. 

Is there anything else we should know about you?

You swallow, hands shaking, and text Anna asking for an extension before going to your cabinet and taking a bottle down, pouring yourself a glass of scotch before sitting back on the couch. The cursor blinks. You take a deep breath. 

Is there anything else we should know about you? 

Moved back home to raise my younger brother after his parents died. Don’t know a lot of people in the city. 

You bite your lip and take a huge gulp of your drink. You delete that. 

Is there anything else we should know about you? 

You pause, staring at the screen for a full five minutes, completely paralyzed, torn between hiding your baggage to make yourself palatable and laying it all out on the table. You down the rest of your drink and then type quickly, before you can stop yourself. 

After my father and stepmother died three years ago, I moved back to this city. I left everything I’d built, relationships, a job, and half a graduate degree. I haven't been on a date in three years, if I was ever competent in bed I’d definitely forgotten anything I knew, and from what I remember of sex I probably remember even less about flirting. I know people feel bad for me. I know it’s pitiable, I know that’s how people see me. 

But what you should know is that I don’t regret it. I can’t bring myself to. Not for a single second, and sometimes that makes me feel bad like I’m not mourning the right way, that it’s fucked that I’m happier now than I ever was on my own, that tragedy gave my life purpose. But it’s the truth, and you should know it. 

You hit send then, refusing to let yourself edit anything else, letting your application zoom off into the internet before flopping back on the couch with a loud groan. 

____

You’re spooning ravioli onto your brother’s plate when your phone buzzes loudly. You jump a mile, you only ever got texts from work or Anna, and both of those had their special text tone. You glance at it. 

UNKWN: Hi y/n! This is Zaire, your matchmaker from the MatchMaker$ service! 

You choke on your orange juice. Your brother notices, raising his eyebrows. You cover to the best of your ability waiting until he’s retreated upstairs to answer.

You: Hi Zaire! This is fast I didn’t expect to hear from you so quickly. 

Zaire: well, Anna put in a good word for you

Zaire: But honestly you scored with such a high percentage of answers with this person I couldn’t let a second go to waste! 

Zaire: don’t let this offput you, but he hasn’t had a lot of matches. I’m going to send you his profile, scrubbed of all identifying information, and you let me know if you’d like to meet up, we will arrange it so you know you’re safe. 

You: aaa ok 

You: suppose it couldn’t hurt to read!

Zaire: That’s the spirit!!

Zaire: MI.exe 

You flip through your file after your brother’s gone to bed, family-oriented, absent father, strong value system, intense career, you squirm a little at the idea of going out with someone who’s so much larger than you, 6’4? However, with that being the only potential red flag you feel you have no choice. 

You: I’m in! I’d like to meet him. 

Zaire: Incredible - first dates are usually just one step above casual, feel free to gut-check your outfit with me, that’s what I’m here for! I’ll make sure neither of you is overdressed. 

Zaire sends you details, a restaurant downtown, a dress code, a time, and the menu in advance, and asks if you have any allergies. You float through your week, banging your head on the cabinet when you open it to get cereal for your brother. He asks you a question though, that catches you off guard, a couple of hours before you leave. You’re attempting an eyeliner look when he comes in and sits on your bed. 

“Can I,” He starts, “How um, how do I, can I ask you something?” You nod, glancing over your shoulder with concern. 

“Anything.” You answer, and he nods. 

“I um,” he fidgets. “How do you stand up for someone else, when you’re smaller?” You put your eyeliner pencil down and come to sit with him on the bed. 

“What’s up?” You ask, leaning back on your palms. 

“There’s a kid in my class,” he mumbles, fixing his glasses, “Some of the older kids pick on him, and he’s told the teachers but they don’t care.” He looks away. “I wanna help, but I uh, I dunno.” 

“Hey, squirt,” you elbow him, “I’m proud of you. For wanting to help, even though I can tell you’re scared.” He nods, fidgeting. “You can’t get into a physical fight, alright, that’s not a good idea.” He looks a little dejected, nodding. “But you’d be surprised how many people back down when you stand up for yourself verbally, most kids are all talk. You can also offer the kid they’re picking on comfort and friendship, and that’s ultimately more valuable than any fighting you could do for him.” 

“Yeah?” Your brother lifts his head. 

“Yeah, be nice to the kid.” You stretch a little, “You can do so much by just being sweet to people, listening to them, making them feel less alone, and they’re less likely to pick on you if there’s two of you.” He nods like he’s thinking about it hard. 

“O-okay.” He adjusts his glasses. “I’m gonna think about that.” You watch him leave, struck for the millionth time by how you’re so unsure about anything you tell him, how much of parenting is stumbling around in the dark pretending you know where you’re going. You’re still thinking about it as you wave to Kaoru and his babysitter, as the uber takes you across town, as you find a small patch on your legs you forgot to shave. You’re a few minutes early, heart racing, considering texting Zaire, considering texting Anna, considering running into the woods and changing your name. You take a deep breath, and no matter what happens tonight, you remind yourself that you’d have Kaoru. That you’d have that house, and the stability that comes with monotony. 

Your first surprise is that while the restaurant is fully staffed, it’s empty. Someone takes your jacket, and you’re so surprised you let a hostess lead you across the room to the only occupied table. You don’t notice the softly crackling fires, the way the light gleams off the dark wood accents on the white walls, the way that even though you’re the only people in the restaurant, every place is set with full silverware and water glasses. You don’t see any of those things, because standing at the side of the table, at a stately 6’4, is the number one pro hero Deku. He’s bigger in person than he is on TV, in a mostly buttoned white shirt that’s impeccably tailored, and a gray suit jacket. You stop walking, surprised, and he touches the back of his neck sheepishly before striding over to you. 

“Hi,” he says quickly, “I assume, um, based on the reaction you know who I am.” You nod, swallowing in an attempt to bring more moisture to your mouth. “Is it a problem?” He towers over you. “Because no pressure, no problem, I can call you an uber, my treat, I don’t want you to think-” 

“It’s fine.” You squeak and then reach out a hand to him. He shakes it awkwardly. “I’m sorry, by the way, if that was weird, I haven’t um, well if you got my file,” you feel your face warm, “Then you know I haven’t been on a date in a while.” He laughs, and the sound is physically warming. 

“It’s not in mine.” He says, giving you a soft smile. “But actually, same.” he steps to the side and pulls out a chair for you, “Ah, please, I’m,” he looks nervous again, “Please, sit.” You do, smoothing your dress as he sits down across from you. “So I’m, I’m Midoriya Izuku.” He offers, and your face warms when you realize you haven’t introduced yourself. 

“Oh ah, Ln Fn.” You take a deep breath. “So you’re um, you’re a pro hero.” He nods. “I’m um, I work in marketing.” He nods again, as a waiter comes by and fills each of your water glasses. “Whatever I was expecting,” you laugh a little, stomach twisting with nerves. “It wasn’t this.” Midoriya nods sheepishly, eyes flicking from the way the firelight is reflecting on the high planes of your face, to the perfect double bow of your lips. 

“You seemed so earnest.” He says, taking a sip of his water. “I’ve been um, I’ve been in the database for a while, I guess I’m difficult to match or something.” He runs his fingers through his carefully parted green curls, “I mean, ah, I don’t want to insinuate that I’m difficult, I think I’m, um,” he thinks about it, “I don’t think I’m difficult.” He finishes lamely. 

“No I get it,” you say quickly, feeling your stomach roil with nerves. “This is weird, please, don’t worry we can um, we can be accommodating of each other’s inexperience, or I suppose, in my case, inefficacy.” He laughs again. 

“Ah, okay, cool. Good.” He scoots his chair in. “So you’ve been in this city for three years?” You nod. “What do you think?” 

“It’s much bigger than where I was,” you consider, as a basket of bread is placed in front of you. “I never thought I’d want to live out here, but I like it a lot.” He nods. “A lot changed in my life very quickly, I guess.” 

“Can I ask what made you want to date again?” His eyes are bright and alive, the same deep green color as his hair. “After three years?” 

“Oh gosh,” you fold forward, “So my father and stepmother passed when Kaoru was six, and um, the thing about grieving while caring for a small child is that you can’t be     externalizing those feelings all the time, even if they’re there.” You look down at your hands in your lap. “I think it was a bit freeing, to just stop all self-focus, and focus on him. He needs me, it’s been easy.” 

“So that’s why you didn’t.” He pushes gently. “I was wondering why you decided to meet me, tonight?” You let out a long slow breath. 

“Kaoru said something to me,” your hands fly to your face shyly, “About being worried that he was ruining my life, or taking things away from me because I’ve just been focused on him, and I um, I thought it’s true, I am lonely.” You pick the menu up, feeling self-conscious. “I feel worse that he noticed, I try to keep my problems off his plate.” 

“I’m sure he’d want to help you.” Midoriya offers, “What’s he like?” He asks and gets the pleasure of watching you light up like a firecracker. 

“He is the best kid,” you smile, exuding warmth, “He’s kind and patient, and so, so smart. He’s in advanced math this year.” You dig in your pocket for your phone instinctively. “Would you wanna see a picture?” 

“Yeah,” Midoriya leans forward in his seat, and the chair underneath him groans a little. You select one of him holding his certificate of excellence from coming third in the spelling bee and turn your phone around to show the pro hero. “He looks just like you,” Midoriya breathes, surprised. 

“He is pretty wonderful.” You put your phone away. 

“Did you have to think about it?” He blurts, and you raise your eyebrows, he adds more context, “Sorry if this is rude, I mean, did you have to think about leaving your old life to come here and do this.” 

“No.” The answer is easy. “It was muscle memory. He’s family.” Midoriya nods thoughtfully. 

“Did you always want to be a hero?” You ask and he nods emphatically. 

“From the day I could pronounce the word,” he thinks about it, “Honestly maybe earlier. I um,” he looks self-conscious again. “I had a pretty lonely childhood, I would have killed to have a sister like you.” 

“I am far from perfect,” something crosses your face, just a flash of darkness, a microexpression, but he picks up on it easily. 

“What’s up?”

“Oh, ah,” you lean back in your seat, “He asked about what he should do if he sees another kid being picked on.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m not sure I gave good advice.” 

“Can I ask what you said?” Midoriya glances down. “And um, I can order for you, if you’d like.” 

“That would be amazing.” You push the menu across the table. “And I said that sometimes offering the person being picked on comfort, and friendship, can be ultimately more powerful than getting into a physical fight.” Midoriya softens immediately, inching his hand across the table towards yours almost instinctively. 

“I agree.” He says quietly, and the waiter comes over. “We’ll have a bottle of the 2007 Pinot Grigio, and,” He turns to you, “Do you like fish?” You nod. “She’ll do the smoked salmon, and I’ll do the filet mignon.” The waiter bows and then disappears. 

“So tell me about you,” You say, feeling awkward, distracted a little by the way his smile is perfect and dazzling. There’s an odd feeling of comfort that comes with his presence, you find your nerves are slipping away. 

“Oh gosh,” he thinks about it, “Aside from work I have some video games I like, spending time with friends, work kind of bleeds into a lot of other parts of my life.” He shrugs. “Everywhere I go people know who I am.”     

“That sounds exhausting.” You give him a weak smile. “I’m definitely on the introverted side.” 

“Me too!” He blurts excitedly and gives you for the first time, a less practiced, less polished smile. It’s boyish and genuine, your heart does a backflip in your chest. The conversation continues, warmth creeping up your cheeks as food comes and goes, as the bottle of wine empties. His hand inches across the table, and lands less than a centimeter from where yours is resting, but you don’t touch, just sit there millimeters apart for the entire dinner. The light outside dies, and eventually, you sigh and check your phone. 

“I had to pay a babysitter,” you confess reluctantly. “I’ve got to be home before midnight.” Midoriya looks shocked, checking his own phone. 

“It’s so late,” He murmurs, “I hadn’t realized.” He stands then and offers you a helping hand out of your chair. “I’d meant to um,” he shakes his head, “I’d meant to tell you around nine, to ask if you had a sitter, or a friend watching your brother.” You shake your head. “But I lost track of time.” Without thinking, you slip your hand into his, and he pulls you slightly closer so that your shoulders brush. 

“We could share an uber home?” You offer. He looks embarrassed. 

“I have a driver.” He confesses. “If you don’t mind me knowing where you live, I’ll have him drop you off.” 

“Oh gosh, isn’t your apartment in the center of the city? It’s out of your way.” You turn to him, and he laces his fingers in between yours. 

“I really would just love to spend the extra half hour with you.” He says, looking sheepish again, “If that’s alright.” A slow warm smile, the kind of involuntary girlish reaction you hadn’t felt in years, spreads across your face. 

“I’d love that.” He squeezes your hand. 

“Good.” He helps you into your coat, even though it’s summer, the night air is cold. Before you can do anything, he presses some bills into the hand of the woman working coat check, and you’re suddenly struck by the fact that no bill had been presented. As if he can read your mind, Midoriya speaks up. 

“I paid while you used the restroom.” He slips an arm around your waist as the two of you walk out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. “I didn’t want to give you a chance to reach for your wallet.” You laugh. 

“I’ll get you next time.” You offer, and he rubs a circle on your waist. 

“No,” He murmurs, as the car pulls up in front of you and he lets go of you, opening the door. “I don’t think I’ll be letting you do that.” 

“I have to pay some time,” you argue, scooting across the seat and he laughs, getting in after you and closing the door. 

“No.” He says again. “You don’t.” He looks nervous for a single second before reaching a hand out tentatively towards you. Your heart thrums in your chest, and you slide across the expensive leather seat underneath it. He wraps a huge arm around you, and sighs. “It’s nice to be close to someone,” he says, the words falling from his lips before he can stop them, fuck, what an odd thing to say to a person, he probably sounded like some virginal-

“It is,” you sigh, relaxing against him, cutting off his internal monologue. He smells good, like sparkling citrus and pine, and he touches you so gently that your eyes nearly drift shut. “Sorry,” you look up at him, “I’m exhausted, and it’s only Thursday.” He laughs a little at that.

“Thanks for making a weeknight work,” he says, “I have a few things I gotta do for work this weekend.” 

“Oh, like saving the city?” You suggest brightly, “Rescuing damsels in distress?”

“There are a few kittens in trees,” He confirms grimly, “Someone gotta get them down.” You giggle, and the sound knocks the breath from his chest. “Or I’d want to see you again.” He blurts, and you laugh, looking nervous and shy. “Right away, I mean, but I can maybe, I could see you late on Saturday?” You nod. 

“Yeah, I could do that.” You hand him your phone. “Put whatever bat signal I should use to contact you in here.” 

“The bat signal is antiquated.” He tells you, pulling his sleeve back to reveal a silver chain bracelet. “This vibrates if they need me.” You look for a clasp on the bracelet and realize there isn’t one. He must never be able to take it off. 

“They can just call you? Any time?” You ask, and he shrugs. 

“That’s the deal. I don’t get a lot of private time, but uh,” he reaches out and cups your face, thumb sinking into the plush of your cheek. “Maybe we don’t have to talk about work right now?” 

“Maybe.” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his lips to yours softly. You feel a bundle of nerves burst in your stomach, but he guides you, one hand on your face, one on your hip. It’s soft, and a little sweet, but there’s a needy undercurrent, it’s been a long time since either of you has been touched. You’re not sure who initiates the movement, you’d both deny it if asked, but you slide into his lap, straddling him, and he guides the movement, hands flying to your back, squeezing you against him. 

“Wait,” he lifts you effortlessly, adjusting your weight on his thighs, before kissing you again, it’s tender and deft, and the car moves through the city, panes of light passing over the two of you. Your hands move up to tangle in his hair, and even at the slightest tug, he groans into your mouth, holding you tighter, hands squeezing your thighs, your waist, your hips. You keep kissing, feeling the hum of the engine radiating through your bodies,  you hold him tightly and he reciprocates until the car slows to a stop and he pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closed. You sit like that, in the quiet, for a full five minutes before he releases your thighs. You expect him to be embarrassed, sheepish maybe like he had been in the restaurant, but instead, his eyes sparkle in the darkness in a way that makes you feel very small and soft. He sits up and cups your face, pressing his lips to your forehead. 

“Can I give you my number?” You whisper, feeling silly, and he nods. You palm your phone to him and watch him text himself. He glances at your house, at the fence around the yard, at the porch with furniture on it. He struggles with something that it would take you time to understand. 

“Be safe, for me, huh?” He kisses you again. 

“I will.” You promise, not entirely sure what he means. He opens the car door for you, and when your feet hit the pavement it’s a hard rush back to reality. The light in your brother's room flicks off, and you sigh, before turning back to the car. 

“I’d walk you to the door, but uh,” He starts, and you shake your head. 

“It’ll be a bit before I’d want you to meet him, I just-” You manage, and he flashes his palms, cutting you off. 

“Of course.” He grins. “See you Saturday.” 

“See you Saturday,” you repeat, then nearly trip on the uneven sidewalk. Immediately you feel strong arms around your body and feel a strong breeze blow your hair back, as Midoriya catches you, and stands you back up, hands lingering on your waist for a second. 

“Breaking promises already,” He teases. “I said safe.” 

“Yes, yes sir,” you say weakly, opening your gate. “Night, Midoriya.” His cheeks go a little red, it’s been a long time since a woman even called him by his family name. 

“Goodnight.” You float up the walkway and into the house, and check in with the babysitter, getting yourself a glass of water before padding up the stairs to check on Kaoru. His fake sleeping is good, but not perfect, you see the white-knuckled grip he’s got on the stuffed animal that’s always on the floor when you come in to wake him up. 

“Hey squirt,” You say softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, and admire the care he puts into the performance. “How was it?” He rubs his eyes. 

“It was okay.” He mumbles. “I get scared when you go places.” You take his hand, rubbing a tiny circle in it. “I’ve talked to Patrice about it.” 

“Good.” Patrice was the therapist Kaoru spent an hour with twice a week, sometimes they’d talk, and sometimes he’d just color. “Are you anxious right now?” His mouth twists. 

“I don’t want you to think you can’t go out because I’m a baby,” tears, probably exacerbated by the fact that he’s awake well past his bedtime, start to well in his eyes. “But it’s hard.” His voice is small and pinched, you reach around and give him a squeeze, heart racing when you realize he’s in his Deku pajamas. 

“I promise.” You whisper. “I promise to always come home.” He nods, wiping his eyes, scowling. “You want me to read to you?” He nods again, and you get up and take the book off of the shelf. 

______

You’re sitting at your desk the next day when your phone buzzes, again with the generic ringtone that makes you jump. You avoid the odd looks from your coworkers at your borderline theatrical gasp and check to see who it is. 

Midoriya: I’m distracted 

Midoriya: that doesn't happen often, I’m trying to do paperwork and I’m thinking about you. 

You: oh dear 

You: perhaps you shouldn’t see me again

Midoriya: or perhaps I should see you sooner 

Midoriya: all joking aside I had a wonderful time with you. 

You: I did too!

Midoriya: did everything go alright with the babysitter? 

You: ah sort of 

You chew your lip, wondering how honest you could be without turning him off, without revealing more than Kaoru would want you to share with his hero. 

You: if I tell you something you have to promise not to be weird about it. 

Midoriya: deal 

Midoriya: but if this is about press coverage of me I promise I’m never dating whoever the magazine is printing me with 

You: oh oh no

You: it’s about Kaoru

Midoriya: Okay, shoot. 

You: he still freaks out a bit when I go anywhere, especially at night. Because his parents died in a car accident coming home from a date

Midoriya: ahhh

Midoriya: I understand

Midoriya: Can I say something maybe too forward to you? 

You: go ahead haha

Midoriya: you’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself to be a perfect parent, but not only are you not his parent, but the idea of perfection is also ridiculous 

Midoriya: you’re doing your best. 

You: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

You: that’s very kind of you.

Midoriya: you didn’t internalize a word of what I said, huh?

You: oh absolutely not. 

Midoriya: we’ll work on it. Saturday. I’m 90% sure I’ll have a few hours off. 

You: I’m looking forward to it. 

You put your phone down, hunching over your laptop, when it buzzes again, this time it’s a phone call. You swipe to answer, standing and bringing it to your ear, speaking in a hushed voice as you jog to the stairwell at your office for privacy. 

“Hello,” your voice is hushed. “Can I help you?” 

“Ms. L/n?” The woman at the end sounds bored. “We picked up your brother, this is the District four police station.” 

“Oh, my god.” Fear clutches at your heart. “Is he alive?” Your world shifts and the ground slides out from under you. 

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman says, “He’s alive, just started a fight with some other kids. You’ll have to come down and see if they wanna press charges.” 

“He’s nine,” you snap, suddenly on the defensive, “I, he’s-” 

“Ma’am you really oughta come down here.” You take a deep breath and hang up the phone. You barely grab your things, forgetting your jacket and clattering down the staircase, unwilling to wait for the elevator. You fly across town, and stammer your way through the front desk, so nervous you’re visibly trembling, but none of the cops will tell you where he is, they just direct you to a waiting area where there are two women already. They’re much older than you, with bleached hair and expensive outfits. 

“Are you his mother?” One of them snaps. “Tachi Momo,” she says, introducing herself angrily, “If your mongrel of a son put his hands on my child-” 

“And I’m Honda Yuki,” the other woman says, standing and turning to you, “And you bet your ass we’ll be pressing charges, there was a pro hero who saw the whole thing, your son antagonized and then hit my son,” she inspects you, you’re frozen, rooted to the spot, so angry speech is failing you. “Typical.” She scoffs. “Of course, have a baby out of wedlock and raise a delinquent.” 

“Shoulda let the state raise it.” The other woman says catlike eyes narrowed. 

“I’m his sister,” you snap, so angry you’re visibly shaking, “First of all, and second of all Kaoru’s the smallest kid in his grade, there’s no fucking way he antagonized your kids, he’s shy and intelligent, he’s,” you search within yourself, “And brilliant and kind.” You take another step towards them. 

“If you come any closer,” one of them says haughtily. “I'll have you charged with assault, my husband works for the mayor, you know, they don’t send siblings to prison together-” 

“No one’s goin’ to prison.” A deep voice cuts through the small room and you turn to see a huge hulking man standing in the doorway. He’s blonde, with a scar on the right side of his face and an extremely recognizable costume. Black and orange, with touches of green. He leans against the door frame and then lumbers forward. “I saw the whole thing.” He touches your shoulder. “Two older kids picked on the little one, he got a good hit in before I jumped in. Their kids are coolin’ off in the holding cell. Kaoru’s in a waiting room.” You whirl around, and he reads the desperation in your face, the fear, and softens. “Let’s go see him, yeah?” 

“Wait just a minute,” One of the women says, “You put my Rindou in a holding-” 

“Yeah,” Pro hero Dynamight turns around, an evil grin on his face, “Ya want a cell of your own, or are ya gonna keep your fuckin’ trap shut?” The woman looks scandalized but backs down immediately. He squeezes your shoulder. “This way.” You wordlessly, still shaking, follow him down a hallway and into a stairwell. He lets the heavy door shut behind you. “You want a second?” He asks quietly. “I can see your hands shakin’.” 

“Oh my god,” you choke out, covering your face with your hands and leaning against the wall. “He’s,” you try to take a deep breath, and find you can’t, your eyes well with hot tears, “He’s all I have.” You manage, before starting to cry, the endorphins of the last half hour breaking over you. “He’s,” you try again, “Please, he’s such a good, a good kid.” Dynamight stands in front of you, unreadable, arms crossed. You give yourself ten good seconds of breathing slowly before looking back at him. “Thank you, I can’t, I’ll never be able to repay you, you’re um,” you wipe your face, “Oh god you’re such a big deal I can’t believe you were there and you cared about some kid, I-” 

“‘S my job to protect people.” He interrupts you. “I was on patrol, just doin’ my job, they pay me enough you don’t owe me shit.” You shake your head, brushing off his words. 

“You don’t understand,” you nearly start crying again. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m a mess, I-” he hands you a handkerchief from his pocket and you wipe your face with it. It comes away sooty and stained with your makeup. 

“It’s alright,” he shrugs, “You uh, you got some,” he gestures to your cheek, where your tears have left a huge black smudge from your eyeliner. You rub at it hard, but it only spreads the makeup around. He takes the handkerchief from you, and holds your chin steady with one hand, wiping delicately at it with the other. He inspects you clinically, wide innocent eyes, pretty even when you were sobbing, and you’d been ready to go toe to toe with the bitchiest woman he’d ever met. He takes his time, feeling your pulse racing under your skin, measuring the way you’re willing to make eye contact, and decides you must not be starstruck at all. Good. “Got it.” He withdraws his hands and you sigh. 

“Thank you.” You take a deep steading breath. “Is he okay?” 

“Little black eye,” Dynamight confirms. “But he’s pretty chilled out, I uh,” he looks a little sheepish, fuck he’d have done more if he’d realized the kid had such a pretty legal guardian, “I got him a coloring book.” You light up like he said he’d handed Kaoru a million dollars. 

“You’re a lot nicer than you seem on TV,” you grant him a dazzling smile, “I’m ready, if you um, if you can show me where to go.” He nods, and leads you out of the stairwell, and further down the hallway to a room filled with kids' toys and books. Kaoru’s alone, sitting at a table. His glasses are gone, and he’s sporting a huge bruise below one eye, but he looks calm, though you can see puffiness in his face, he’d cried hard not too long ago. You push the door open and run inside, he gets up and you swing him off his feet, hugging him tightly. He holds you back, burying his face in your neck. 

“I’m sorry about my glasses,” he says, and you can hear how much he’s been crying in his voice. “They broke, I know you said if I lost them again-” 

“I don’t care.” You cut him off, “I don’t care, I'm just so glad you’re okay.” He nods, and Dynamight turns to leave, cursing himself for not finding a way to get your number. At that moment, a young woman pokes her head into the room. 

“Ms. L/n, we have some paperwork for you to fill out.” You sigh, putting Kaoru on the ground again. 

“Be right back.” You pat his head, and look to Dynamight, “Is it too much to ask you to wait with him for a few minutes, I-” 

“Not at all.” He interrupts you. “Get outta here.” You follow the woman out and spend the next few minutes signing Kaoru out. When you return, you hover at the door, listening to the conversation. 

“So if you’re fightin’ someone bigger than you,” you hear the pro hero say, “First of all ya should run, I don’t want your sister comin’ in and kickin’ my butt for givin’ your ideas.” You hear Kaoru giggle. “But if they got your back against a wall, whatcha gotta do is use their momentum against ‘em. Like this.” There’s some sound of movement, you assume a demonstration occurs. 

“Woah,” You hear Kaoru say. 

“But don’t pick fights or ah, if you do, you didn’t hear anythin’ from me, got it?” Dynamight rasps. 

“Got it,” Kaoru repeats, and that’s when you re-enter the room. You observe the scene, Dynamight is squatting on the rug, even bent like this he’s still taller than Kaoru standing up. 

“Hey,” He says, grinning sheepishly at you. “We were just-” 

“Don’t worry about it.” You wave to Kaoru, “Got your stuff?” He nods. “How about ice cream?” you watch your brother's face split into a smile. 

“Can Dynamight come?” he asks, tugging on your shirt, “Please, please, he deserves ice cream too.” 

“Ah,” you look over at him nervously. “I’m sure he’s very busy.” 

“My shift ended half an hour ago.” He admits. “I was on my way out when I heard those women talkin’ to you like that.” You swallow and squeeze your brother. “I’ll come with ya little man.” He reaches out and ruffles Kaoru’s hair. “There’s uh,” he says, “There’s a place around the corner, but d’ya mind if I change outta my suit? I don’t wanna attract too much attention. If a villain picks a fight with me you’ll get in the way.” You nod, but a few minutes later when he meets you in the waiting room, tall, broad, and handsome, you can’t imagine he’ll attract any less attention than he did when he was wearing his costume. His shirt is black, as are his pants, and the baseball cap he’s got on backward might obscure his identity, but his hulking silhouette gives him away completely. 

Kaoru chatters happily to him at the ice cream parlor down the street, and you can’t help but watch the way he nods, the way he engages the younger boy, swallowing his hand in a high five when Kaoru starts to talk about the flat teeth apatosauruses have. 

“They like plants,  yeah?” He says, and Kaoru nods, rewarding him with a gap-toothed smile. 

“I gotta pee,” Kaoru announces, darting off to the bathroom gleefully. You let out a long breath. 

“You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.” You say quietly, unwilling to make eye contact with the blonde. “I, I understand that you probably have important or cool things to do.” 

“What makes ya think I wanna go back to my empty apartment so bad?” He says, adjusting the baseball cap. “He’s a sweet kid.” 

“I’ll never be able to repay you.” You lean forward, and there’s something in the plainness of the statement that hits him hard. “Not ever.” 

“That’s my job,” he protests and you shake your head. 

“He’s my whole world.” Your lips twitch. “Fuck, and you know what, it’s not your job to stand up for people like me. I know plenty of people who would have let those bitchy moms lay into me.” His chest puffs out a bit. 

“Yeah, well, not on my watch.” He looks down at your melting ice cream. “If ya, If ya want. No pressure. I’d love to take you out sometime.” You couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d thrown the cone in your face. 

“What?” 

“I,” his ears color but he plows forward. “Think you’re really pretty.” He grins, some of his confidence returning. “Plus,” he looks over at Kaoru’s empty seat, “Can’t let spend all your money on Deku merch for the kid.” That makes you giggle. “Think he’d like a Dynamight plush? They’re sold out in most places but,” he grins, leaning back in his chair. “I know a guy.” 

“Do you?” You grin, leaning forward. 

“You got some ice cream on your face.” He informs you slyly, and you feel  your skin burn with embarrassment as he takes the upper hand again, “Nah,” he watches you wipe your mouth, “Not there.” You wipe your cheek. “Not there either.” 

“Where?” You whine, a touch of petulance to your tone. 

“Here.” He reaches out, and flicks a finger in your ice cream, smearing it on your nose. “See, you-” 

“Dynamight!” You giggle, unable to stop yourself from swatting at him. He grins widely, showing off sharp canines and his mean smile. “I can’t believe you just did that!” You swat at him again and he ducks it easily. 

He drives you home, and insists on it, patting Kaoru on the head before leaning against his car door. 

“So what about it?” He says arms crossed in a way he knows makes his muscles bulge. “Gonna let me take you to dinner?” You think about Midoriya, think about his soft smile, his intelligence, his dark, needy kiss. It’s been a few years, though, since anyone has asked you out, and the more you think about it the more you realize there’s no way he’s just seeing you, right, he’s the number one pro hero? 

“Yeah,” you grin, handing him your phone. “I’d like that. I have plans on Saturday, but maybe sometime next week?” He nods, texting himself on your phone as Kaoru dashes inside. “What do you want to do?” He shoots you a shit-eating grin. 

“Bring the kid. I’ll cook.” 

“You want me to bring Kaoru?” You raise your eyebrows. He shrugs, glancing up at the house. 

“I gotta figure you’re getting a babysitter for your plans on Saturday, that’s expensive but what I’m thinking is that Kaoru’s probably not used to you bein’ away, and you won’t be able to focus on me if you’re thinking about him. And I want you focused on me.” You can’t fight the soft smile that spreads across your face, and he’s got one to match, patting your shoulder. “I’ll see ya on Sunday. Cool?” You nod. 

“Yeah,” You feel the weight of the day fall off your shoulders. “Cool.” 

____

“You can’t be fucking serious.” Anna flops on your bed, watching you try on the dress you’d picked up especially for your date on Saturday. “Two pro heroes?” You sigh deeply, twirling a little, inspecting your body in the dress. 

“I am so nervous.” You confess. “For either of them, Anna, they’re tall and handsome and cool and I am this,” you gesture to your body, “The most action I’ve seen in years is from the vibrator in my desk.” 

“Oh god,” She rubs her eyes. “Well don’t say that to them.” 

“I wouldn’t!” You protest. “I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, I swear.” You rake your fingers through your hair. “I’m sure I can find a way for this to blow up in my face, like, absolutely positive.” She shrugs. 

“Or you could stop being anxious and enjoy the ride.” 

“I am incapable of that.” You lean into the mirror and blend your under-eye concealer a little more. 

“Shame.” She smirks. Shameful.”

hi! if you liked it, please rb. if you wanna be tagged in the next part, make sure you have your age in ur bio and send me an ask. I cannot keep track of comments asking to be tagged adhd too bad you Must Send Me An Ask! thank you.

part two

what are your guidelines for smut? like boundaries of what you will and won't write. also more generally, are you willing to write any of the characters you listed as trans men?

In all honesty, I’m willing to try anything! If I don’t like something in my inbox, then I just won’t write for it. I don’t kink shame, but I’m also not going to write something I’m not comfortable with, though I might not know yet if I’m comfortable writing for it until I try to first. I guess my big hard no is p3d0 stuff. I won’t write characters as underaged, all characters are 18+ consenting adults. I don’t mind trying new and different things, but I’d want to do research beforehand, as I like to do research on everything I write about.

I may not want to write a specific kink for a specific character if I can’t see it for that character. When writing, I like to do a deep dive into a character study and see if I can visualize that for a specific character. Everything I write is thought through. Like I believe that Aizawa would be a dominant personality in the bedroom bc he’s a leader for his students. He’s a good dom bc he anticipates what the other person needs and wants to push his partner(s) to be their best and reach their limits. I believe Dipper can be dominant bc he’ll do anything if he’s determined enough and he can be a great leader, but I can also see him as a submissive bc he’s still the shy, awkward nerd that he always was. The man is a switch. Bill won’t sub for anyone bc he can’t relinquish control and power. I make these points to say that, if I can see it for a character, I will write it for a character. I hope that makes sense and answers your question 🫶🏻

But if anyone would like to request anything, I’m always open to reading it! I will say, that it may take me a little while to get to a request bc I have a lot of projects in the works, I admittedly am a bit backed up on requests 😅, and I like to dedicate research to a topic I’m not entirely familiar with to do justice to it. But if you can be patient with me, I will do my best to meet your requests! 😁

Bibliophile Brew

Pairings: Bakudeku x barista!reader

Summary: When managing your parent's book cafe while they're away, you meet Wonder Duo Dynamight and Deku.

Warnings: SFW. No smut, but (bc I'm me) it may be included in part 2, so Minors DNI. Fluff, aged-up characters, minor SA mentioned briefly but not described (old perv gets handsy with a teenage barista), language, misunderstanding, eventual BKDK x reader. Lmk if I forgot anything!

I’ll release part 2 when this reaches 100 likes and 25 reblogs!

Word Count: 5.5k

God, the morning rush sucks. You wish something more creative or productive was swimming in your head while looking at the long line of impatient people crowding the cafe. You send a silent prayer that you don’t catch whatever illness plagued your morning barista that caused her to call out so suddenly before her shift that caused you to cover for her…on your one day off. Sometimes helping with running your family's business sucks.

"Thank you, and have a great day!" you say sweetly as you hand the customer their order before rushing back to the cash register for the next order. The entire morning was a back-and-forth of rushed orders, messily thrown together coffees, and half-listened to thanks. Luckily, most were your regulars, and you had a fairly solid routine down for the typical orders. It was all going very smoothly for a solo shift. Until near the end of the rush when some new people came in.

The dwindled crowd of customers parted like the Red Sea with the presence of a spiky-headed blonde with red eyes and a bubbly man with a black cap over a head of curly green hair. That man stopped to talk to a few of the customers who swarmed him, pulling the mask down his face and offering a dazzling smile. The other man's face fell into indifference while his partner busied himself with chatting, and he made his way up to the front of the line as the rest of your customers broke formation in crowding the other man. If you hadn't been so sleep-deprived from the closing shift the night before and running around the entirety of the opening shift, you might have recognized the customer in front of you and his friend as pro heroes number one and two in their streetwear, but you were dazed and too tired to realize that fact. You give your signature customer service smile—the exact same one that you give to all your customers—and then ask for his order. In a gruff, perpetually agitated tone, he recites his and the other man's orders. The rest of the cafe seems to be bursting with nervous energy, something you dismiss, thinking that maybe these people know each other (you don’t know them so can’t rule it out)—the green-haired man certainly is friendly enough with everyone to have so many connections—or maybe these men were idols—they both are by far pretty enough, and it's not like you'd know either way since your life was far too busy to keep up with the trending celebrities. But something about them does strike you as familiar...whatever, you don't have time to ruminate on that now.

You scribble down both orders and you utter the simple question, "Name?" without looking up while you're writing. A moment passes and you look up at the blonde, confusion hitting you at the shock on his face.

"You...don't know my name?" He almost scoffs while asking the question, and a huff of a breathless, disbelieving laugh passes his lips as if that explanation is utterly ridiculous.

"Umm," you felt stuck. If you answer honestly, you have the feeling that he would take offense. If you lie, well, you don't lie. You hate liars and you've learned that dishonesty has a way of making any situation worse. Not to mention, he would be expecting you to write his name on the cup, and you seriously doubt your ability to pull a name out of your ass and be right about it. "I—umm—should I?" Yeah, he seems mad, or at least, incredulous at the idea that you don't know who he is.

He opens his mouth to respond but before a syllable leaves him, the green-haired man comes behind him, patting him on the back while sending you a charming smile over his shoulder. He maneuvers to stand next to his partner, circling the three of you in your own conversation. "You can just put it under Kacchan," he says sweetly, smiling brightly. The blonde scoffs while the greenette pulls out 10,000 yen from his wallet and hands it to you. You scramble to gather his change before he waves off your slightly panicked monetary calculations. "You can keep the change."

"But..." you're dumbfounded while staring at the half-collected change in your hands. "But I can't—I mean, you're order was only 1,700 yen–"

"He said take the fucking change!" the blonde bursts out, crossing his arms with a scowl and sending your shoulders jumping from the harsh sound. "Just be grateful for it! Geez!"

“Kacchan!” The green-haired man pats the blonde's arm soothingly with a juxtaposed pointed look on his facial features.

"I-I am grateful!" you stammer, bowing slightly to the two men. "I apologize, I just didn't want to unwittingly take advantage and wanted to be certain. It-it was just a bit shocking, is all."

"Oh, no need to apologize!" The greenette man begins to ramble, shaking his hands in front of himself. "I really appreciate your integrity! It means a lot! Not a lot of vendors are so honest, so it is a really admirable quality! N-not that I meant that I don’t trust workers! I’m not making a generalization to your profession or anything! We're sure you work very hard and that it’s a difficult job! You know, you just hear all these horror stories about service industry jobs and the sort of nightmare customers you're sure to put up with. Not that anyone in here seems like a nightmare customer! Though, I am sure that you put up with plenty of those kinds of customers too...I'm sure that we seem like nightmare customers...Just ignore Kacchan, he's always had an--umm--explosive personality. But consider this as a tip. Not that--uhh--not that it looks like you need it or anything! This isn’t charity...It's more like an apology, I guess. The point that I was trying to make is please keep the change and please don't feel uncomfortable about it at all." He ends his ramblings with a somewhat nervous smile and a slight blush over his cheeks, which oddly enough, eases your own anxiety. You offer a shy smile and nod.

"Thank you, sir," you say as you put the change back into the till. You give them the receipt and move to make the drinks, finally noticing the amount of eyes that are on the two customers. Were they all watching?

You make the new order with lightning speed and accuracy, giving them their drinks with a sweet smile and a friendly, "Thank you, and have a great day!" The boys smile at you—well, the green-haired man smiles and the blonde offers a half-hearted nod of recognition—and you hop right back into your flow, taking the next customer while the blonde grabs the greenette’s arms to drag him away from heading to the door and instead taking the corner booth. You can't help but notice the number of people whose eyes are instantly drawn to the two, even as you're taking orders from your newly distracted patrons. Eventually, the crowd dissipates, each customer making sure to pay a visit to the corner booth before leaving. You can't help the way your eyebrows pull together at the way everyone is acting towards the two. You decide that they have to be idols or something, but it's not your place to ask or bother them about it. They're your customers, their business is their own.

With the sudden lull of having only a few patrons left, you start making the cleaning rounds, wiping down every inch of your parent's cafe with disinfectant, bouncing from table to empty table, picking up trash, and cleaning every surface. You try not to let your eyes drift to the mystery men, but you can't help the way your curious mind keeps drifting back to them. You could swear that they look familiar, though you're also sure that you would remember two handsome faces such as theirs.

While you're distracting yourself by cleaning the front glass on the display case, you feel an unnatural heat coming from behind you. Turning your head, you jump back into the glass case, startled by the blonde's sudden appearance and close proximity. You gather that this man isn't well-versed in social normalities, otherwise he wouldn’t be invading your space. He's not even phased by your skittishness, though you're suddenly sheepish about your dramatic reaction.

"Sorry," you stutter softly, nervously scratching a nail at the back of your ear. "Can I help you?"

"Sorry," he huffs, turning away instantly to pout at the ground.

"Umm, I don't—"

"For earlier," he interrupts. “It’s been brought to my attention that I was apparently being rude.”

"Oh no!" You wave off nervously, smiling sheepishly. “It’s really okay! No need to apologize.”

"SEE??" He snapped, whipping around to face the other man who was sitting at the booth shaking his head in his palms. The sudden shout pulls a small yelp from your lips in surprise. "I told you, ya damn nerd! Making a big deal outta nothin'!" You look away bashfully, your face hot when the few remaining patrons direct their attention towards the two of you. You turn to walk back behind the counter but you're stopped by an arm that reaches out between you and your exit route to lean against the freshly polished glass. You pout at the new smudges and meet his vermillion eyes with your own sad ones. His eyes study you for a moment, looking for something on your features. You felt like a bug under a microscope with the scrutiny you felt from his glare. "So, before...did you really not know who we are?"

"Umm," your eyes dart to the side, noticing the other man dragging his feet towards his comrade. You suddenly feel cornered, wishing that you could be back behind the safety of the counter. "I—sorry..."

"Hey," the emerald-haired man smooths, "no need to apologize. We should just introduce ourselves. I'm Midoriya Izuku, and this is Kacch—I mean, Bakugo Katsuki." Oh. Those were names that you knew. You stand stunned for a moment, tired eyes wide and a blush spreading at the embarrassment of not knowing before.

Bowing your head, you shyly say, "It is nice to meet you both."

While you're still bowed to the two men, a look passes between the both of them over your head. By the time you lift your face again, their eyes are back on you and your eyes are shifting to look at anything besides the bulking pro heroes in front of you as you give your name.

"It's nice to meet you, as well," Midoriya says while Bakugo folds his arms over his chest and nods in acknowledgment. "The tea was amazing, by the way."

"Thank you," you softly reply. "It's a fan favorite here. My mom taught me how to brew it perfectly."

"Well, it was delicious," he answers. "Your mother taught you well." Your lips turn up bashfully as you nod.

"I'll be sure to let her know, thank you."

"The coffee was good," Bakugo muttered. His voice was so quiet, you nearly missed it, already used to his typically booming voice since you met him the mere hour beforehand. You weren't expecting him to express his delight in the drink, and you could tell that he was one to withhold such approval. Your smile couldn't help but widen at his comment, instant pride filling your gut with flutters at the praise. While his words fill your stomach with butterflies, the brightened expression on your face sends the pro heroes' stomachs flipping.

"I-I'm glad you enjoyed it," you beam. A moment passes between the three of you, eyes flickering between one another before the front door rings with a new customer. "I-I should get back to work...but, let me know if you want anything." You smile sweetly and scoot away from the men, padding around the counter to welcome your new patron with a sugary, “Welcome to the Bibliophile Brew.” Katsuki smirks as he watches you kindly speak with your customer, turning to Izuku and leaning in to lowly say to him.

"I know what I want."

Some days you cursed yourself for being such a good daughter. Days like today when you sat crammed into a corner booth to keep an eye on the cafe while also juggling between the reading assignment you had for your college literature class and organizing the barista schedule for the next two weeks—a task infinitely more difficult now that you had two baristas out because of sickness. Thank God for Michi who agreed to take a couple extra shifts in their place, taking a bit of the load off of you!

While your new load of responsibility was exhausting, you figured that it was the least you could do for your poor parents who had to travel across the country to take care of your grandparents in their old age. You wanted to help your family as much as possible while your parents were away, meaning that for the rest of the summer, you’d be bouncing between your summer classes and managing the cafe. Luckily, you decided not to take on too many classes during the off-season, and what you did enroll in were all online courses, so you could focus on the classes in your own time—though that time was becoming less and less with the sudden boom in business the last few days. Word got around that your parents’ cafe was a hang-out spot for pro heroes—not true considering the number one and two heroes only came in that one time—but the rumor still helped business so you weren’t going to complain about the sudden influx of cash.

You also weren’t going to turn down more tips for yourself and your baristas. Apparently, someone had also posted a video of Deku’s rant on the difficulties of the hard-working service-industry employee and the importance of tipping—not what you thought was the intent of his rambling but you still appreciated the sentiment of it—and people just took off with it. You noticed an inflow of better tippers and friendlier customer-barista exchanges since then. The impact that a simple video with the Symbol of Peace had over a nation was astounding to you. It left you in complete awe of his incredible influence.

“Hey, boss,” Sukki’s voice called out, bringing you out of your Deku daydreaming, and reminding you of the focus you should be having on your mountain of work. Turning your eyes up, you take a look at Sukki’s concerned features through your reading glasses. Your mind immediately drowns in word, and you begin looking past her around at the café.

“What’s wrong? Something happened?” She’s place is a hot cup on the table in front of you.

“Nothing happened,” she says. “Everything is running smoothly. Almost perfectly.”

Your brows pull together and confusion. “Then—”

“So smoothly in fact,” she interrupted, kneeling at the side of the booth, and looking up at you gently, as if speaking with a toddler, “that we don’t even need you here.” She gently prize the schedule paper from your white-knuckle grip.

“But—”

“How much sleep did you get last night?” Ooh, you did not want to answer that. However, you didn’t have to verbally answer since the way your face contorts into a cringe is answer enough. “Go home, get some sleep. Me and the girls can figure out the schedule for you.“

“But you shouldn’t have—”

“And you shouldn’t be working yourself like this. It’s unhealthy.” You want to argue, but you can’t, so instead you pout.

“Why did you bring me a coffee then?”

“It’s hot chocolate. I don’t like giving you any sugar, but I also know that you need a treat, it’s better than another cup of coffee.”

“So you're trying to make sure I crash on sugar, then?”

“At least you may actually get some sleep, then.“ You snort and roll your eyes, trying to hide your touched smile behind the lid of your cup. Suki has known you since your high school days, having started as a classmate, then best friend, which led to being coworkers, too. Because of this Sukki would take care of you, whenever you would be teetering on the edge of burnout, which was often as of late. He struggled to take breaks for yourself, fearing that your responsibilities will pile up, and you’d eventually let everyone else down.

“Can I at least finish the reading?”

She takes a moment to consider this before sighing. “Fine. But if you’re staying here, you’re not working.” She swipes the handwritten schedule from the table and holds it out of your reach. “And I am taking this. Now, finish your homework, so you can go home and sleep.” You offer her a two-finger salute as she walks away, mumbling about how she doesn’t understand why you’re still handwriting your stuff.

After a while of reading, the words begin to blur together, and your eyes grow heavy. The hot chocolate—half drunk and lukewarm now—seems to be the only thing your tired eyes could focus on. For the past moments—God only knows the true measurement of time, but it only felt like a mere few minutes—your gaze had been trained on your abandoned beverage instead of the words dancing over the numerous pages. You didn't look away from the abnormally interesting cup until a tall figure plopped into the booth seat across yours, a large shadow being cast over the object of your attention. The sudden presence drew your eyes to your unexpected visitor and to say you were shocked by the identity of your mystery guest would be an understatement. You gape at the green-haired pro hero sitting across from you, smiling brightly, his eyes sparkling underneath the curls falling in front of them.

"Umm..." You look around, wondering if you were seeing things correctly or if you had actually fallen asleep in the booth and were now dreaming. But looking around the cafe, everything seems normal, except for the amount of eyes on you and your surprise guest. Your eyes fall back into Deku as you swallow thickly. "Hi?"

"Hey!" he beams, the freckles and dimples on his face becoming more apparent with the brightness if his features as he spoke. "It's nice to meet you again," he says sweetly, and you can't help the way your stomach flutters or how your heart picks up pace, a flush filling your cheeks.

"Yeah, it's nice to see you, too," you reply. "You here for another matcha?"

He chuckles a bit, flattered that you remember his order from his first visit. "Well," he states, leaning forward with his elbows on the tabletop, his voice lowering, "I couldn't think of anywhere else I could get tea as delicious as yours."

You didn't know what his was about that compliment that sent your heartbeat racing. Maybe it was his pretty virescent eyes trained on you or maybe it was the hush in his voice that made it feel as if his words were meant for you and you alone, but whatever it was, the comment had your face flaming.

"Thank you, Mr. Deku," you bashfully say. "I'm not sure I'm deserving of such high praise."

"You are," he states matter-of-factly. "And you can call me Midoriya. I doubt that I'm much older than you are, and I'm definitely not old enough for 'Mr.'" He teasingly cringes at his own use of the title, causing a giggle to slip from your lips. You don't notice the pride that puffs out his chest as he watches you laugh, knowing that he caused such a sweet sound to bubble from your throat.

"Sorry," you say, your tone much lighter and relaxed after your small giggle fit. "I won't make that mistake again, Midoriya."

"Please don't," he chuckles. He nods towards the book sitting on the tabletop with your hand resting atop the open pages. "So, business or pleasure?"

"School, actually," you answer, tucking your bookmark between the pages and closing the book to offer the pro hero your full attention.

"Oh, then both." You giggle again and he can't help but join you until Sukki stops at the table with Deku's tea and a second hot chocolate for you.

"Your tea, Mr. Deku," Sukki says tightly, obviously starstruck and nervous, it reminds you of Deku's early interviews where he seemed so frightened of the camera. It only worsens when he flashes her his number one hero smile, followed by a sweet and peppy, "Thank you!"

Sukki squeaks a bit, face flushing, and she bows slightly as she utters, "Umm, my pleasure, sir!" When she straightens her spine she gives you a pointed what-the-hell-is-happening-here look which you answer with a subtle I-have-no-idea shrug. You decide that you should get some answers.

"So, is there anything I could do for you, Midoriya?" He stops to look you in the eyes, the cup stalling in mid-air before completing its journey to his lip. He chuckles and sets the beverage onto the countertop.

"You assume I have an ulterior motive for being here?" You shrug, not wanting to offend him with an accusation, but that's exactly what you were implying.

"I'm just curious why you want to sit with a stranger."

"But we're not really strangers, you call me Midoriya now." You raise an eyebrow at the evasiveness, and he relents with the simple motion. "Okay, I'll admit that I didn't just come here for the tea." You fake gasp, dramatically smacking a hand to your chest in faux disbelief. He rolls his eyes. “I came to apologize.”

Your nose wrinkles at that and you can’t help the disbelieving chuckle that escapes your lips. “For what?”

“For that video,” he answers simply, obviously. “I’m sure you’ve seen it by now.”

“I mean, yeah, but I was there so I didn’t really have to watch it,” you giggled a bit. He didn’t seem to find it as funny as you did though.

“I’m sure it’s made things more difficult around here, too, though. Right?” You watch the crinkle of his brow, realizing how much he was internalizing any slight inconvenience he may have caused you.

“Business has actually been great since the last time you were here,” you beamed, trying your best to ease his misplaced guilt. “And the tips are better, too.” He seemed to perk up at that.

“Really?” God, this grown man was practically a puppy dog wagging his tail in front of you. It takes everything in you not to giggle at the thought.

“Really.” You shrug. “There's nothing to apologize for so don't worry about it.” He looks a little shocked at your response, the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks brightening with pink. He smiles at you gently.

“Well, good. I’m glad," he says sweetly, flashing his signature adorable smile. "I--well, I also wanted to make sure that you weren't having any issues. I know how some, umm, super fans can get outta hand with people they see me in a video with. Speculation can get out of hand."

“Oh," you respond, slightly taken aback. "No, I haven't had issues. Do people actually harass random video extras though?" Izuku snorts a bit at your choice of words, causing your brow to twitch and your head to tilt in confusion. Clearing his throat, he presses his lips into a disappointed line, nodding in confirmation.

"Unfortunately, yes," comes his mirthless reply. "Don't get me wrong, I love all my fans...but some of them make it a bit difficult to love them all equally."

You can't help the giggle that bubbles past your lips, the tingling sound building into your lovely laugh. "Y'know, it's okay for you not to like everyone, Midoriya."

"Oh, the nice guy in me disagrees," he sasses back, smirking to himself as he makes you laugh again.

"It's also okay to not apologize for every minor inconvenience you may or may not cause someone," you accuse pointedly. He at least has the decency to look slightly embarrassed for the point you're trying to make. "And I hope you didn't make the trip here just to check on me. I'm sure that there are more important things that deserve your attention, and I'm sure this is time you could have used for yourself."

"Well, as long as we're pointing fingers, you're allowed to take time for yourself as well," he retorts smugly. You suck a harsh breath before you bite your bottom lip sheepishly.

"How'd you know?"

"It looks like you've been overworking yourself," he answers matter-of-factly. "I'm assuming this," he starts, thumbing the book's pages that rest in front of you, "and this," he gestures to the cafe, looking around at the bustling space full of patrons who are beginning to take notice of his pro hero presence, "are responsible for your lack of self-care."

"I think you're forgetting that anything can be a form of self-care," you point out. "This can be self-care," you say holding up your cup of hot chocolate.

"A lukewarm beverage is self-care?" He raises a pensive brow.

"You're one to talk, Mr. Pro Hero Deku," you snort. "You're spending your free time here. I wouldn't exactly call that self-care."

"Well...what if I told you that this is what I wanted to do for my free time?" he shyly answers, suddenly sheepish. "If I'm honest, I kinda wanted a do-over at meeting you."

"You...did?" He nods, and you stare for a moment with wide, ruminant eyes. "How come?"

"Well, that first meeting was such a disaster," he chuckled. "It's not exactly the kind of impression I wanted to leave on such a beautiful person." He bashfully flirts, his cheeks dusting pink over the constellation of freckles over his face, and it's a whole new type of flustering when a big, beefy hero like Deku looks at you so adorably through his thick lashes with a ducting of blush gracing his freckled cheeks.

You feel your own cheeks flush at the sight, squirming in your seat and bringing your hands up to cover your burning cheeks, mumbling, "Oh...Oh! God, I'm too sleep-deprived for this kinda conversation." Your blush only worsens when he chuckles and coos at you.

"Well, m-maybe after you get a good night's sleep, we could have that conversation then," he offers. "Perhaps with...dinner while we talk about it..."

"Are you...asking me out?"

"I was trying to," he chuckles softly at himself.

"I think that I'd really like that," you answer, your face heating as a shy smile graces your lips. The greenette's face lights up in an elated grin, jade eyes sparkling with glee.

"Yeah?" You nod sheepishly. "Can I walk you home?" He asks sweetly. You nod, shyly avoiding his eyes as he snickers. You silently pack your belongings, your eye flitting toward an elated and shocked Sukki who watches from behind the counter, the coffee pot in her hand drifting away from the cup in her other hand to spill on the floor. For some reason, the sight puts you a bit at ease as you allow Midoriya to lead you out the door, his hand affectionately resting on the small of your back as if the rest of the cafe wasn't watching the scene.

Taking a deep breath, you pinch the bridge of your nose and steel yourself before fixing the offending table with a hard look. Your day was going so well, especially after your walk with Deku Midoriya the night before. You walked into work moments ago with a good night's sleep, wonderful memories of your day before, and brighter outlook on life. However, that sunny demeanor was promptly killed the minute you walked into the shop to see a sobbing teenage girl in your office being comforted by Sukki who then explained the situation in hushed tones. The righteous fury in you burned as you looked at the handsy customer leisurely sipping his beverage as if he hadn't assaulted a young lady. Turning to the teary-eyed employee you offer a sympathetic look and gently smile at her. "Amai, how about you stay in my office and take a break? I'll handle this." Making your way over, you grab an empty cup and lid from the counter.

"Hello, sir," you say in an overly sugary tone. "Hope you're enjoying the coffee. Here's a to-go cup so you can enjoy it on the go. Have a lovely day. Buh-bye now."

"What? The fuck you talking about, girlie?"

"Well, see, you broke our number one rule by harassing one of our beloved staff members," you continue in a tooth-achingly sweet customer service voice, despite the pure condescension dripping from your honeyed timbre. "Therefore, you are no longer welcome here. So, leave while I'm still being nice. Oh, and don't come back again, 'kay?"

"Look, tits—"

"That is not my name," you snap, niceties long forgotten. You also noticed the small audience that had begun to gather, the surrounding dining area falling into a slight hush with only scandalized whispers being exchanged between the audience. "Though you don't even deserve to know my name. However, if you must address me at all you may do so by calling me 'ma'am' or 'miss', but you will not address me or any woman in that manner."

He tsks and rolls his eyes at you. "You don't even know the whole story. That bitch was asking for it."

"Really?" you ask, voice coated in sarcasm. "The teenage girl was vying for the attention of some fat, old fuck like yourself? Hmm, very interesting. In that case, maybe I was too quick in my earlier words. I was being far too kind in letting you leave gracefully and quietly. So, instead, I will be calling the police. Please, sit, finish your coffee, and wait for the cops to haul your ass off."

"Why you—" His hand raises, poised to strike you while you stand emotionless with a fixed, unmoving stance. Before he gets the chance to slap you, a grenade-gloved hand catches his wrist.

"Touch her and you lose it." It's safe to say that both you and the offending customer are shocked by the tall blonde practically made of muscle standing between you and the now stuttering mess of a man. "What? Why suddenly so quiet after spewing such shit?" You're surprised that Dynamight's sharp glare isn't literally cutting the man down in front of you. "Apologize." The man's eyes shift towards you, the venom in the gaze when looking at you, however, is not quelled by the threats of the pro-hero.

"But...she's—" The grip around the man's hand becomes increasingly tight, interrupting whatever insult on the tip of his tongue with a pained grunt.

"Apologize."

He spews his false apologies with tearful pleads accompanying them before Dynamight drops his grip and sends the sniveling man scrambling on the floor and running out the door. The small crowd claps and cheers for the hero before dispersing back into their own activities. He shrugs off the praise, grumbling about how useless the crowd of people is, watching while an old perv nearly puts his hands on you.

"Thank you," you say as he passes you, seemingly lost in his own complaints over the situation. Stopping with his back to you, Dynamight takes a few deep breaths to calm himself before turning back to you.

"You got a mouth on you," he simply says, his tone almost bored.

"Oh," you say, blushing. "Umm...thank you?"

"It's a compliment," he assures matter-of-factly.

"Oh!" you drawl, recognizing the actual weight of the stone-cold Dynamight giving someone a compliment. "Then, thank you!" You flash him a glowing smile, a sign of your gratitude, but you fail to recognize the damage you've inflicted upon Bakugo's poor heart, causing the normally stoic hero to lose his breath, flush invading the apples of his cheeks.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm just doing my job," he grumbled, awkwardly crossing his arms and looking away. You tilt your head at the sudden aggression in his tone. He takes a moment to calm down with some calming breaths before he peeks at you from the corner of his eyes. He huffs before mumbling out, "Y'know...if you wanted to thank me you could join me for dinner." For some reason, you found his roundabout offer oddly adorable for such an explosive man.

"Are-are you asking me out?" you ask, smiling sweetly as you watch the tips of his ears brighten with a red hue.

"Yes or no?"

"Hmmm," you hum pensively, your finger tapping on your chin in thought. You mentally cackle at the way he groans impatiently, embarrassingly. Giggling, you finally decide to put him out of his misery, "Yes, I'd love to." His face proudly morphs into one of triumph.

"Good," he nods. "Be ready by 7. I'll pick you up." With that, he marches out the cafe doors, and you don't miss the "Fuck yeah!" he shouts once he's outside, startling a few unsuspecting bypassers.

You giggle as you watch his figure swagger down the street. Sukki comes up behind you, clearing her throat. "Did Dynamight just ask you out?"

"Mhmm," you hum out, biting your bottom lip giddily.

"After you agreed to go out with Deku?"

"Mhmm—oh," you blanch. "Oh, shit!"

If you enjoyed, please consider helping me buy a coffee ☺️☕️ Thank you!

Next >

💕

Hello, can I get a short fic a/b reader who's dating Deku, but both are unaware that Bakugou likes reader also? Reader isn't a fan of Bakugou and always complains to Deku about how he kisses his ass too much and lets him get away with ish. Reader is definitely more sensitive/indignant than Deku tbh.

*ahem* this took embarrassingly long. But,, here. I like it <3

Bakugou X Reader X Deku

SFW, mild angst

Contains: yelling, insults, implied self harm *briefly at the end, very vauge*, bakudeku if you squint, references of suicide *in refrence to middle school Deku*

    Katsuki Bakugou was not jealous. Bakugou was confident and was going to be a top hero, and top heroes didn’t have time to be jealous. And, above all that, he was not jealous if stupid Deku. 

    Sure, maybe he was mad that dumb Deku got a partner before he did, but it wasn’t personal. Bakugou definitely didn't think about you. He didn’t think about the way your hands would look in his, the way it would look when his much larger arm rested around your waist. He didn’t think about sparring with you all the time, the way your body would look glistening in sweat as you cave him all you had. He only thought about sparring with you because he wanted to kill you, you were just another extra… right?

    But you were soft, delicate even. But, you also were assertive, not all peppy like the other girls. You were always looking for a fight. You wanted to protect people, not just save them. You weren’t afraid to kick Mineta in the balls (both sets), and you weren’t afraid of hero work. You never hesitated to jump into the fight. You were heroic- worth Bakugou’s time. 

It made sense you would like Deku more than him, it made sense Deku would get you. Deku was going to be a pro hero too, and with the way All Might dotes after him, he would be a hell of a hero too. Deku was smart, he was kind, and he was a decent fighter. He was everything that Bakugou wasn't. 

Because to you, Deku was a hero. He was going to save the world one day. But Bakugou was just a villain who managed to fool everyone into letting him be a hero. To you, Deku was kind and caring; Bakugou was just loud and violent. When Deku was emotional, Bakugou was just loud. He was a prick to you, and he knew it-and that destroyed him. 

***

“Hey Kacchan! Come hang out with us tonight!” Deku stood over Bakugou's desk, freckled face glowing as he smiled. Bakugou noticed your presence behind Deku. You were trying to hide your annoyance, Bakugou noticed. 

“No way would I ever hang out with you losers.”

Kirishima grabbed Bakugou’s shoulders, squeezing him playfully. “C’mon Bakugou! It’ll be fun.”

“Fuck off, shitty hair. I’m not going.”

Deku looked defeated. You knew how badly he wanted to hang out with Bakugou again. You didn’t see why of course- Bakugou was a jerk and wasn’t worth your boyfriend’s time. But, alas, you would do anything for the green haired boy.

You gave Bakugou a side glance, “Everyone is going- it would make you lame if you were the only one who missed.”

Bakugou looked at you, both angered and intrigued. “Huh? What did you say to me?” He rose from his seat, leaning around Deku to see you closer.  You looked him in the eyes, not intimidated or threatened. Deku looked vaguely panicked next to the both of you.

“I said you would look like the class loser to skip. It’s just a group hang out, Kacchan.” You teased his nickname, knowing it would set him off. 

Bakugou tried to leap forward to you, sparks setting off from his hands. “Shut up, dumb bitch!” 

You were about to hit him first, before Deku grabbed you to hold you back, his large arms containing you. Kirishima held down Bakugou, having to harden his arms to hold the explosive boy back. 

Deku drug you off somewhere, whispering in your ear in an attempt to calm you down. Kirishima sat Bakugou down. “Dude, you have to accept that she doesn’t like you.”

Bakguou rolled his eyes, looking out the classroom window. He knew you didn’t but he wasn’t going to accept it. 

“You have to move on. It isn’t manly to fight a girl.”

“It’s plenty okay to fight her, she started it!” Bakugou sat down in his seat, mumbling angrily. “and I don't like her- she's just as shitty as all of you extras.” 

Kirishima looked Bakugou up and down, seeing through his bullshit. “Whatever you say, bro.”

Bakugou let out a ‘tch’, thinking back at your interaction. He never wanted to actually hurt you, maybe playfully rough you up, but not genuinely hurt you. He never meant to yell at you either, you clearly preferred softer guys anyway. 

***

“You really shouldn’t fight Kacchan so much-”

You snapped your eyes to Midoriya, blood still boiling. “And why is that?”

“He didn’t do anything.”

“He did everything. He’s a jerk.”

“He’s going to be a hero just like us, Y/N, one of the best-”

“Not with the way he treats people. He’s going to be a shitty hero-”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know Kacchan the way I do.” Midoriya tried to reach for your hand, but you swatted it away. 

“Do you even know him? He bullied you in middle school and was never really your friend as a kid. Honestly, Izuku, I don’t know why you kiss his ass so much, he will never respect you back and is always going to make your life, everyone’s life, hell.”

Midoriya’s jaw dropped at your words, unsure of what to do. You had never been this mad at him, or at anyone. Small fits of anger were a normal occurrence for you, but normally a minute alone and a kiss to the forehead would put you at ease- but this was beyond Midoriya. 

You crossed your arms, walking away from Midoriya. He ran behind you, trying to catch up. 

“Wait, Y/N, you can’t just leave.”

“Yes I can. I can’t be around that blond headed shit stick anymore or I’ll fight him.”

“You would win-”

“Don’t kiss my ass now, Midoriya.”

Midoriya looked to the ground. He really wanted to support you, but he also knew that he respected Kachan. To him, Bakugou was a hero, someone he looked up to. Bakugou was powerful, his quirk was amazing. He had the talent and skills to become a hero. He was someone who demanded authority and respect, he was a talented hero. He was amazing. 

“I’m sorry, just don’t go yet-” he peaked up at you, your body leaning against the wall, head in hands. 

“I won't go anywhere.”

“Good. Perfect.” Midoriya walked to you, pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms to rest on your waist. He placed soft kisses on your hairline. 

“I’m sorry I got mad.” Your voice was not much more than a mumbled, muffled in his shirt. 

“It’s okay. I’m sorry Kacchan doesn’t listen.”

You tensed, aggravated Midoriya just wasn't getting it. 

“Why do you respect him?” You peeled back, looking up at him. Midoriya’s arms stayed firm around your waist. “To me, he just seems mean. I mean, the kid bullied you your entire life. He told you to kill yourself ‘Zuku. Why do you keep pining after him?”

Midoriya blinked. “I don’t know. I just think hes going to be a great hero, and I admire that.”

You let out a defeated sigh. “So is Todoroki, and he’s nice to you!”

“I do respect Todoroki-”

“Not as much as you respect Bakugou.”

Midoriya stayed silent. You were right, he just didn’t agree with you. He was someone of reason who tried to work his way through things logically, but your view of Kacchan didn’t make sense to him. Yea, he was sort of loud and abrasive, but that was just one of those things about him, like how Todoroki is blunt and Iida is controlling. It wasn’t bad, it was just part of him. He knew that he didn’t have the best relationship with Bakugou in the past, but things can change; people can change. It was all water under the bridge now. You were all going to be heroes soon, none of that middle school stuff mattered, not to Midoriya anyways. 

“Let's just go back to class. We can worry about this later.” You started to pry yourself out of Midoriya’s grasp, his arms only pulling you in closer to him. 

“Thank you for trying to listen to me. I promise Kacchan wont lash out to you again, okay?” 

You nodded, not really believing him. Most of the time, you were the one who pissed Bakugou off first anyways. Midoriya placed a chaste kiss to your lips, letting his hands fall from your waist to find your hands. He placed a small kiss to your knuckles, watching your grow pink with the familiar blush he loved to see. 

***

Bakugou watched Deku kiss you, his arms holding you close. It made him sick. You should have been in his arms, his hand on your waist, his lips on yours. His hands tightened into fists, small burns forming on his own palms. He knew he wasn’t what you wanted, he knew you weren’t ever going to like him, but he couldn't stop pining after you. He couldn’t stop daydreaming about you, how he would treat you, the places he would take you. 

When you walked back into the room with Deku, both of you avoided his traveling gaze. You shot him a fast glare before Deku could usher you both back to your seats next to each other, Iida immediately lecturing you. 

It was the first time you saw Bakugou without his angry scowl, but rather, a sad frown. 

🥰🥰

Masterlist

As requested, here is a masterlist of everything I have posted so far! ❤

Because it needs to be said, no one has my permission to translate or repost my fics anywhere.

Key:

🔥 - smut

❤ - fluff

💀 - angst (always with a happy ending because I am soft)

💫 - my favorites

Keep reading

classified | eddie munson x reader

summary at your wits end, you put an ad in the classifieds for a special kind of tutor. Eddie finds it and takes you up on the offer. (nsfw) [13k]

contains smut (18+ minors dni!) – p in v sex, oral (f receiving), lots of praise, virgin!reader, fem!reader, hurt/comfort. eddie's a sweetheart, fluff, first time turned something more (?).

author's notes this one's a long one! the idea made me laugh and then it took on a life of its own. I want to say this is meant to be somewhat lighthearted and is not a suggestion that anyone should be having sex if they haven't already – your body's yours, baby, do whatever you want! no one should ever make you feel rushed into anything!!! anyway Eddie is an angel and I want one. bye!

-

Eddie's not sure why he's reading the newspaper. Boredom, perhaps; he's been waiting for Wayne to get home from his shift for over an hour. He's thought about calling the plant, but the walk from the couch to the phone seems to be the perfect amount of time to convince himself that he's probably on his way home already.

It's the Hawkins Post. It gets delivered by a snot-nose boy on a bike every week, thrown far too hard at their tin front door. Wayne reads it some weeks, others it gets used to wrap his lunch. Apparently this one he'd read it, flicked through the pages half-heartedly before leaving it open on a centrefold about the local elections. Trust Wayne to get bored of small-town politics, Eddie thinks.

So he picks up where Wayne left off, slowly pulling the pages apart, skimming stories about the endemic of teen pregnancy, or columns about the rejuvenation plans for downtown Hawkins. 

Finally, he reaches the only bit of the newspaper that Eddie has ever found interesting: the classifieds (and, on the back of the classifieds, the call-girl ads).

He skims them, eyes brushing past ads for cleaners, dog walkers, nannies. Finds the ones hidden at the bottom – the letters written in code, ads for attractive female friends and women seeking younger men. He's never actually interested in them, but they provide a glimpse into the underbelly of Hawkins, a small town that is, for all intents and purposes, entirely normal. But nowhere is ever truly normal, and Eddie likes to seize the opportunity to pry into the scandalous goings-on of his boring hometown.

He's reading one about swingers when the one beside it catches his eye. It's plain – whoever paid for it kept their costs to a minimum. All it says is:

WOMAN, 23, SEEKING FIRST TIME.

He stares at the bold ink, the statement in all caps that, despite being maybe the lowest cost ad in the whole paper – it's in a box about three inches tall in the very corner of the page – jumps out at him anyway. Underneath the title, it reads: young woman looking for judgement-free first time. Min. age 22, max. age 28. Must have experience. At the very bottom, in almost imperceptible print, is a phone number.

Eddie hadn't realised how close his face was to the page until he hears the familiar sound of Wayne's car pull up outside. He throws the paper down onto his lap and sighs before scrambling around to at least try to look casual, and not like all the blood has rushed to his face. In the few seconds he has between the sound of Wayne's car door closing and him coming up the stairs, Eddie tears the page out, folding it quickly and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans as he stands.

The door opens just as he gets to his feet, and Wayne comes trudging in with his steel lunch pail and heavy boots.

"Hey, Wayne," Eddie says, breathless, trying his best to sound level. Wayne eyes him as he closes the door, before turning to dump his stuff on the table.

"C'mon, kid, you promised me a burger."

-

The piece of newspaper stays in Eddie's pocket for three more days.

Wayne had been late getting home – something came up, but Eddie wasn't listening too hard, brain on that stupid ad instead – so their weekly trip to Benny's had run until the early hours of Friday morning.

And then Friday was work and Hellfire, which Eddie still leads despite having graduated two years ago, and this time the kids kept him going for hours. By the time he got home he hadn't even thought about the page before crashing into bed.

And then Saturday is family day, as Nancy puts it. Eddie had woken up late, rolled out of bed into the freshest clothes he could find, and into his van to act as bus driver for the morning. His little gaggle of unruly teenagers crammed into the back of it one by one, laughing and teasing and shouting. Steve's home became louder and still, Eddie relished in that feeling of peace he gets once a week with all these misfits he calls friends.

By Sunday morning, the newspaper had been long forgotten in the pocket of his jeans that he'd left in a pile on his bedroom floor. He's laid on his back on his bed, head dangling off the edge, puffing mindlessly on a spliff he'd rolled for himself two days ago that had also been forgotten. The room's a little fuzzy round the edges, just the way he likes it, the sunlight creeping warm paws up his arms. It smells funny in here, he thinks, so he turns over, pushes himself off the bed, and reaches up to open his window. On his way back to his bed, he trips on something, landing with a huff as his ribs hit the corner of the mattress.

"Fuck," he hisses, reaching down to pull the culprit off the floor. It's just an old pair of jeans, so he throws them into the corner, out of the way, and resumes his position, splayed out across the bed.

From this angle, with his head hanging upside down, he spots something by the pile of denim he'd just discarded.

His brain's ticking over slowly under the haze of being stoned, but after a second he realises what it is, and clambers all too quickly off the bed and across the room.

Maybe it's that haze, coating his brain with thick fog; maybe it's the fact that, in the year since he graduated, he's had to settle for quick fucks behind the Hideout after a gig; or maybe, just maybe, it's dangerous curiosity.

Whatever it is, something motivates him to move through his room, down the narrow corridor into the kitchen. There's something hijacking his limbs, and it reaches up to the phone on the wall. With eyes on the page in his hand he spins the dial, listening to the tone as it rings, rings, rings.

The longer he stands there, the more convinced he becomes in his intoxicated miasma that this is some kind of prank; he's going to be met with a stupid kid on the other end, laughing at him for bothering to call at all. 

When he finally decides that this is just that, a practical joke, the line clicks. There's a low buzz on the other end, so low he thinks maybe the line just went dead, but then a voice.

"Hello?"

He's taken aback by the sound of it, but not so much that he doesn't notice the sleep coating it. Despite his stupor, he can't help but apologise.

"Shit, sorry, did I wake you?"

"Who is this?" You're sharper now, coming to, and he kicks himself for fucking this up already.

"Oh, shit, uh, sorry. I called about… I got this number, uh, in the paper."

"Fuck," he hears you whisper. He's not sure if he was supposed to hear it. He feels bad.

"Sorry, I'll go, this was-"

"Look, I put that age range in the ad for a reason. I'm sick of gettin' calls from middle aged men, I-"

"I'm twenty-three."

You're silent on the other end for a moment, but he can hear your breath hitch.

"Well, shit," you finally say. "Y'don't sound it."

He laughs an awkward, stilted laugh, unsure what to say.

"Sorry, I've had so many guys – men, old men – callin' me up, tryin' to flirt with me down the phone, I just… The ad was a mistake, clearly."

He likes the way you talk. You've got a pretty voice.

"Uh, thanks," you say.

Shit.

"Fuck, sorry, did I say that out loud?" Moron.

You laugh, the sound fizzing down the telephone line, and it eases some of his insecurity.

"I'm sorry," he says, starting fresh. "I'll leave you be, have a good-"

"Wait," you bite, and he can hear you shuffling around. "Wait just a sec, I- fuck, where the fuck is it? I… Sorry, can you just wait for a second?"

"Sure, sure," he murmurs, trailing off when he realises you've set the phone down. He listens to the faint sounds of you rummaging around and swearing under your breath. He must look like an idiot, stood in his kitchen, smiling at his phone, waiting for a stranger he found in the paper.

He hears you coming back, footsteps getting louder, before you pick the phone back up.

"Y'still there?"

"Yeah," he laughs. You speak to him like he's an old friend and it keeps catching him off guard.

"Okay," you say. "Here's the thing. I put that stupid ad in the paper because I was sad, and my life has been a misery since then, because literally every guy who's called me has been, like, at least forty, which some people are into I guess but I'm not, and- Sorry."

You're rambling, stumbling over your words even though he can tell you're trying to be professional or something. He stays quiet and hopes you'll keep going.

After a beat, you say, "I guess, 'cause you called, you'd be up for it?"

"Uh, well," he stammers. "That's kinda why I called. Care to explain what it is you want, exactly?"

He's not sure where the sudden confidence has come from; maybe the weed's wearing off.

"Okay, yeah," you breathe. "So, uh, my plan, I guess, was that I'd… You'd take, uh, my virginity."

You almost whisper the last part, like it's some kind of slur, and Eddie can't help but laugh on the other end.

You start to sound exasperated, frustrated, so he tries to claw you back.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just so… frank."

"Well, bein' all coy about it hasn't really worked out for me so far."

Can't argue with that logic.

"Okay," he says, trying to ignore the excitement bubbling inside him. You're a stranger, he's a stranger, and this whole thing is kind of weird. Shit, he thinks. Am I a perv?

"How do you want to do this?"

"Well," you start, sounding like you've got this part planned out. "First I need to know you're not gonna murder me or something, so I'll give you an address near my house but not at my house, and we can meet there whenever… and, uh, what year were you born?"

"What?"

"Just… So I feel a bit more sure you're actually twenty-three."

"Hah, okay. 1965."

"Okay, sweet. You got a pen?"

"Shit, yeah, one sec."

His eyes dart around the room. With the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he moves as far as the cord will let him, to a drawer by the front door. At the back there's an old pencil and some scraps of junk mail.

"Got it!" he declares, too enthusiastic but it makes you giggle so he laughs too.

"Okay," you start, and you tell him an address he vaguely recognises, closer to the nicer side of town, halfway between here and where Steve's house is.

"It's a park, kind of. It's pretty public anyways, so if you were, y'know, planning to kill me or whatever, don't bother."

"I'll take that off the to-do list," he tells you through a smirk.

"Very funny," you say, your sentence half-formed like you can't find the words to finish it. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Eddie. Munson."

"Okay, Eddie Munson," you say before telling him yours and deciding that you'll meet him later that day. You tell him it's easier that way, that you can't bear to have to wait all week, sitting on the nerves that might make you change your mind.

That's exactly what Eddie does all afternoon. You'd decided on six that evening, when it's still light but late enough that you both have time to back out, and so he sits, stoned out of his mind on both weed and the phone call, feeling something he's rarely felt before.

It's like cola in his gut, bubbling and frothing every time he tries to move. Is this what people feel when they say they have butterflies? Because it doesn't really feel like that; it feels instead like the madness inside him is floating upwards, fizzing around his heart, prodding and poking at it at uneven rhythms. His mind is reeling, too; he hadn't really thought this through at all. What if, even after that call, you're still planning on playing some kind of trick on him? What if this is an elaborate scheme to publicly humiliate him? Maybe you get a kick out of that kind of thing.

There's another thing, creeping around at the back of his mind, lurking. It's that horrid hopefulness, the what if that feels so far from likely that if he lends too much time to thinking about it, he feels stupid.

What if you're great?

He shakes himself out, standing up off his bed. He'd been lying there for the past two hours, sobering up, dwelling on every detail of the call, lingering in particular on your voice and your laugh and the way you say sweet so often.

He doesn't know who you are. He didn't recognise your name when you told him, even though you're his age. He didn't recognise your voice either, but he likes it, and he wasn't lying when he (accidentally) told you it's pretty.

He looks at the clock beside his bed. The red numbers flicker as they change to 16:52.

One hour.

-

He's early.

It's ten to six, and he's early.

The sun's low but not gone yet, and the park you sent him to is actually kind of nice. He's in his van, waiting until it's a socially acceptable time to get out and wait for you. What is the socially acceptable time to get out and wait for the girl you've got an agreement like this with?

Before he can decide, he sees someone. They're in jeans and a jacket, red Chucks and hair lifting up in the breeze.

Without thinking about it too hard, he opens the door and hops out, slamming it a little too hard. The person looks over, catches his mop of hair over the top of the van, and stops walking.

"Eddie?"

He hears you call his name over the sound of his boots crunching on the ground as he rounds the front of the van. He looks over to find you, the person he saw walking over, looking at him with your hand at your brow, blocking the sun.

You're pretty – really pretty. He still doesn't recognise you, but he has decided that's surely for the best.

You don't recognise him, either, but he's hot. He's not what you expected; truthfully, you really had expected someone older, lying about their age to get in your pants, someone you'd have to turn down in this very public space, going back to your apartment alone and unsatisfied. This is not what you had in mind at all, but you're not mad about it.

As he comes towards you, you watch the way he walks, chest-first like he's exactly where he should be. His hair's long and a bit wild but it matches his style – ringer tee, messy black jeans, obnoxious denim jacket. He's got his hands in his pockets but when he lifts one out to wave at you awkwardly, you see the rings and know you're a goner.

You wave back, laughing lightly as he nears you. He's taller than you so you really have to squint to see him against the setting sun.

"Hey," he says softly. His voice is even nicer in person; he does sound older than he is, and he has an air of maturity about him, like he's too sure in himself to be 23, but there's also a boyishness somewhere underneath that endears you.

"Hi," you reply. "You're Eddie, right?"

He looks around himself, head whipping back and forth.

"No, doll," he says, looking at you with a blank face. "I'm Keith."

"Oh," you say, trying to hide the flush in your cheeks and the way your face drops, but then he laughs and reaches out to hold your shoulder.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke." He squeezes. "Yeah, I'm Eddie."

You choose to ignore the overly familiar touch and the way it sends your knees all funny, and instead you laugh, a little awkwardly, and hold out a hand.

"Nice to meet ya," you say, firm.

He looks down at your hand as he drops his own from your shoulder. His eyes move between it and your face, but he shakes it anyway.

"Well?" he asks, and you watch as he smirks, staring you down, his hand still in yours.

"What?"

"Do I look like a serial killer? Scared I'm gonna murder you?"

With those final words he pulls on your hand, bringing you closer to himself. His confidence is only making that funny feeling in your knees worse, but what you don't know is that he's bluffing; before you stands a terrified boy struck dumb by a pretty girl.

"Hm," you hum, dialling up the dramatics to ponder his appearance. You take the chance to scan your eyes up and down his body, taking in the scuffs on his shoes and the pretty silver chain around his neck. From here you can smell weed and cigarette smoke, pretty aftershave and something deeper. "I don't think so."

"Damn," he quips, finally releasing your hand to run his own through his wild mass of hair. "I was really tryin' to look scary."

"You didn't do a very good job," you tell him, laughing softly, and he looks at you with a smile.

"Oh well," he says. "Maybe next time."

Ignoring the way that makes you feel, you take his hand again. It's your turn to pull him, dragging him behind you. The move startles him and he drags his feet for a moment before catching up, refusing to let go of your hand when you try. He swings them between your bodies theatrically as you walk him across the park, through a line of tall oak trees and onto the street on the other side.

"So," he says, drawing out the word. "We goin' to your parents' or somethin'?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head slightly with your eyes on the ground. You drop his hand and stuff yours back in your pocket. "I have an apartment, up by Main Street. This's just a shortcut."

"Oh."

You don't say much more after that. The walk is short; you were right, this is a shortcut to Main Street, one even he didn’t know about. It takes you past Steve's house, and Eddie prays he doesn't happen to be looking out the window at this precise moment.

You live above the pharmacy. You scramble with the lock for a moment, so he stands behind you, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around; it's quiet, the usual lull of a Sunday evening, the sun lower than before. He looks at the back of your hair and the way the light catches in it, hears the low curses under your breath as you struggle with the door. And then it's open, and you're inside in the dark, and he has to bring himself back down to Earth.

Your apartment is small. Behind the door there's a narrow staircase, and at the top another door. It brings him into your living space, which is cramped but clearly well-loved. You offer him a drink and step into the kitchen when he says yes.

He lets his eyes pass over the room. The ceiling is low, reminiscent of his own home, though the walls are more solid than the trailer. They're painted a muted, pale blue, a colour he's sure you didn't choose because you've covered as much of them as you can in things: paintings, framed photographs, postcards. The furniture is more to your taste, he assumes. It's all soft, rich greens and pinks.

You bring him a beer as he sits on the couch, sinks into the cushions, toes off his boots.

"Thanks," he says as you pass him the bottle and take a swig of your own. You take your own shoes off and leave them by the door, hanging your jacket on a hook there too.

"So," you begin, padding back over to him and sitting on the opposite end of the couch. "I don't know how this works."

"Well," he says, turning to you with one arm up on the back cushions, "I can talk you through it, but I need t'know where you're at."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, how far have you gone before? How far do you want to go today?"

"Uh-" You shuffle, squirming into the couch, clearly looking for the right words. "I've never… This is as far as I've ever got."

He breathes a gasp though he's trying to hide it, trying to stick to the agreement of judgement-free. "You've never been kissed?"

You just shake your head and the way your face creases, brows turned down, makes him ache.

"Okay."

"And I want to go all the way," you say quickly, all in one breath, finding your words. "Not too far, no extra shit, like, kinky shit, but the standard."

"O-kay," he says again, smiling this time. "So you know it's not as easy as… As in and out, right?"

"Yes," you spit. He flinches. "Sorry, it's just… It's hard not to feel a bit, like, insecure about all of this. Makes me a bit defensive, I guess."

"It's okay," he soothes, and his tone really does make you feel better. "No judgement here. I'm not new to sex, but I'm just as new to this whole… situation as you are."

"Okay," you sigh.

"Why don't we just chat for a bit? I'm not in a rush if you're not."

"Yeah," you agree. Eddie is easy, you're finding; no dancing around the point, but you feel you're being handled gently. Exactly what you want.

"So did you grow up here?"

Okay, so maybe the 'chatting' suggestion was a bit of a façade for the fact that Eddie has found himself fascinated by you, even in the short time he's known you. Sure, it's only been ten minutes if you're not counting the phone call, but there's something about you that piques his interest. And, if he's honest, he's not sure why he wouldn't recognise someone his own age in Hawkins.

"No, no," you say, leaning over to put your beer on the table. You wipe your mouth quickly with the back of your hand. "I'm from Illinois."

"Why are you here then?" He takes your que and puts his own beer down too, deciding that being intoxicated probably isn't the best idea.

"I dunno," you say, sighing again. Your shoulders go lax as you let yourself sink backwards and look up at the ceiling. "I wanted to go somewhere new, but not somewhere big. And the middle school here was hiring a tech assistant, so I applied."

"And you got the job?"

"Uh-huh. I start in September, figured I'd just move here early, try to find my feet."

"How's that going?"

"Alright, mister questions." You laugh as you say this and sit up, looking at him again with a smile. "It's going okay so far. People are friendlier here, but I haven't exactly found my people yet."

He hums, nodding, and you say, "My turn."

He looks up at you. "Do your worst."

"Did you grow up here?"

"Kind of. Somewhere near here, til I was eleven."

"Why'd you move here?"

"Hah." He goes all rigid and awkward at your question, shrugging his jacket off with his eyes on the ground. You take note of the ink you can see crawling up to his neck under the collar of his shirt. There's something else there, too; something pale and stretched, like a scar.

"It's complicated." That's the answer he settles on, keeping his cards close to his chest. "But I moved in with my uncle when I was in middle school. Been here since then."

"Is that why you're still here? Your uncle?"

"Kind of, but that's also complicated."

"Wow, okay, is everything complicated with you?"

"It doesn't have to be," he says. It throws you for a loop, the way his voice has dropped, fried and kind of… sexy?

You find him looking at you, and suddenly he feels really close. You feel this urge to climb out of yourself, away from this situation that isn't for you; it's never for you. No one has ever wanted to get this close.

"You okay?" he asks, his friendly tone back.

You're grateful he seems to be able to read you so quickly.

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's okay. If you want to, y'know, stop this at any point, just let me know, okay?"

"We haven't even-"

"Will you?" he presses.

"Yes," you promise him. He looks back at you like he's waiting, yearning for something and you don't quite know what.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Mm-hmm."

"Why are you so far away right now?"

He's gone soft, leaning forward toward you, his arm still up on the back of the couch. Your eyes flicker to his fingers and the rings on them, the way they're sparkling slightly in the dipping sun coming through the window.

It fills your mouth with glue. The combination of his proximity and the question leaves you breathless.

"I just…" he continues. "You're hiding from me over there."

He's got a sticky smirk on his face, like he knows the answer and knows you don't want to tell him. He shuffles forward ever so slightly, letting you breach into his space if you want to.

You do, you really, really do – he's a kind stranger, doing a kind thing for you, even if it is a bit odd. You want nothing more than to relinquish yourself to him, and yet you can't.

There's a momentary staring contest between the two of you. The couch feels miles long and yet he's closing in. You feel suffocated.

"I'm gonna come to you," he says after a minute. "Is that okay?"

All you can do is nod at him. It's like your body's on fire, affronted at the idea of being touched by him and yet harbouring some primal urge, deep under the surface, to let him do it anyway.

He pushes his jacket onto the floor with his elbow as he moves himself down the couch toward you. Your eyes follow his arms and the way they stretch, and then the way one of them lifts. He plants his hand firmly on your knee and it burns through the denim of your jeans. You can't tear your eyes from it, staring blankly at his fingers, the way the tendons flex when he squeezes.

"We don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna do, okay?" he tells you. He's watching you, how you're watching his hand, how your hair still lights up in the sun. You're sweet, and pretty, and most of all he longs to know more.

"I'm gonna talk you through it," he continues, "kinda like a teacher, if that's what you want."

When you don't reply, he calls your name softly, and says, "Is that what you want?"

You look up at him and nod again.

"I need to hear it, sweets."

You tell him yes, that is what I want, trying desperately to keep your voice as level as possible, not letting on that it kills you every time he uses a petname like that.

His fingers dance up your thigh and back down to your knee, a repeating pattern that sends you dizzier the closer he gets to you.

"Eddie?"

His hand stills and he looks at you.

"Yeah?"

When he responds, you feel his breath on your face. He's close enough, now; you can really look at him, at the crow's feet by his eyes, the freckles across his cheek, the bend in the bridge of his nose that looks like maybe he broke it once. His eyes are really pretty, browned sugar and syrup, flitting around as he tries to read you.

"I've never been this close to anyone before."

He's watching your eyes as they move over his face, admiring the slight sense of awe in them.

"That's okay."

There's a sudden absence on your leg where his hand leaves it and it aches, like the bone is realigning. You swallow a whine and close your eyes when his hand finds your cheek.

"I'm gonna kiss you now," he whispers. "That okay?"

You nod again and he lets the pads of his fingers smooth backwards into your hair where they take root, his thumb beside your eye. You feel him pull you in and his breath on your nose and then the strange sensation of his lips.

It's new but not unwelcome. He's soft with it, light as anything and quicker even, gone before you really know it's happened. Some kind of sudden urge takes over, though, because you don't like how quick it was, so you chase him. You plant your lips back on his, firmer than he had, your nose nudging his as you get the angle right. This one's longer and it startles him; you have to pull back when he starts laughing.

"Alright, alright, slow down," he says as you sit back, deflated. "You liked that, huh?"

You nod, giddy, desperate to feel it again.

"Can I show you somethin'?" His hand is on your neck now, burning its fires once more, and you can barely concentrate on him.

"Yeah," you breathe, a sigh of relief as he comes closer again. But as you close your eyes, expecting his mouth on yours, you can't help the whine that escapes when he misses, landing beside it. You feel him chuckle, a puff of air out of his nose, before he dots more kisses along your jaw. It feels nice, gentle and slow, like he's scared to break you if he goes too fast or comes on too strong.

The whine, lingering in your throat, moulds into something like a sigh – or even a moan – when he makes it onto the column of your throat. You swear you feel his teeth graze the skin there, lips following them over your pulse. His kisses turn hotter, heavier, and you can't help the way you keen into him. Without thinking about it, you paw at his shoulders and let your back arch as you breathe thick pants into the air of your living room.

When he pulls back again, you whine his name, gripping tighter where you've pulled his shirt into your fists. He laughs at you, head tipped back, as he smooths his hands up and down your arms; the gentle touch makes you relax and your hands unfurl.

"Good, huh?" His words are viscous, thick with want, but he daren't go too fast.

"Mm-hmm," you agree, nodding, breathing quick. Now that he's stopped, you have time to consider that, actually, you might be a bit overwhelmed; without thinking about it you sit back, returning to your comfortable distance by the arm of the couch, watching as his face falls.

"Sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I just-"

"Yeah, take a second."

"Mm-hmm, just need a minute."

You watch him stiffen, awkward in the wake of the moment, and take the chance to admire him a bit more until you sense his eyes are back on you, and suddenly you feel very small.

"You alright?"

You nod, looking back at him, finding his face all soft and concerned, turned down so it makes you twinge.

"You're being so nice to me," you say. It comes out more as a breath, a string of words tied together with insecurity, all in the same exhale. You're not even sure you said it at all, but his face twists into something like shock.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh. "I dunno, I… You're just being very… kind. Are you always like this?"

He seems taken aback by the question. His hands are in his lap where his left fingers toy with the rings on his right. He looks away from you to stare instead at the beer on the table and the drop of condensation running a race down the neck of the bottle.

"You've really never done this before, huh?" he asks you, and now it's your turn to be taken aback.

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're getting at," you say with perhaps a bit too much venom.

"No," he responds, stern. "I'm just… Finding it hard to believe. I'm sure it's true," he says quickly when you open your mouth to fire something quick at him again, "like, I know you're not lying, but it's so surprising."

"How so?"

He sighs this time. He twists in his seat to face you, bringing one leg up under himself, the other dangling off the edge of your couch. "I'm gonna be honest with you right now, if that's okay."

"Okay."

"'Cause I feel like that's the best way to do this whole… thing, right? Nothin' in it for you, really, if we're not honest, or whatever…"

For the first time since you met him in the park, he's showing his nerves. It gets him all wound up, stumbling through sentences like the words are quicker than he can keep up with. It's endearing, really; nicer in some ways than confidence.

"When I saw that ad it obviously caught my eye, I mean, I called, but I just didn't know what to expect, obviously, and you're… Well, you're… normal? So far, anyway." He huffs the last three words out in a laugh, but you don't return it.

"What does that mean?"

"I just think I expected someone who puts an ad like that in the paper to be weirder, or something."

Your gut twists. Red flares of anger lick up your insides, popping and wheezing in your throat.

"What the fuck, dude?" 

You stand, backing away, feeling that familiar creeping isolation; distance, walls up, get away. His face has dropped to something wider, fear in his big stupid brown eyes and mouth agape.

"I didn't-"

"I'm not weird for being a virgin. And just because you think I'm 'normal' doesn't mean this-" you gesture between the two of you with both hands, "-should be surprising."

"No, shit, sorry," he pants, desperation oozing, "fuck."

"I think you should go," you finally say. Your arms are across your middle, hands gripping your forearms. You don't dare look at him, even when he says nothing.

You flinch when you feel him come nearer. He steps over the threadbare rug on your floor and over to the corner where you've parked yourself.

He calls your name and you despise the way you soften at the sound of it.

"I'm gonna touch you, 's'that okay?"

You scoff, turning away from him.

"Stop fucking patronising me, Eddie."

"I'm not patronising you. You wanted me to talk you through it."

"Yeah, that. Not this."

"This is part of that."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Well this isn't getting me very turned on," you spit, turning back to look at him, your arms still crossed over your chest and the rising fire of anger flares when you find that cocky smirk on his face.

"Will you come sit down with me? Please?"

His hands are hovering awkwardly between the two of you, forbidden to come any closer but refusing to give up completely. You offer him an olive branch, dropping your own arms and taking his hand in yours.

He walks you back to the couch and sits beside you, turning your hand over in his on his lap. You both watch it, the way his thumb grazes your palm, tracing the lines up and over.

"Sex isn't just sex, you know," he says frankly. "Even when it's like this."

"I know," you whisper, eyes transfixed.

"It's about all the emotional shit too, and I'm gettin' the feeling there's a lot of that to get through."

"Mm-hmm." It irks you, the way he seems to know you without really knowing you. "You sound very wise."

He laughs at that, and you find yourself grateful for the reprieve, for the way the tension seems to lift just a little.

"I'm just being honest," he admits through a laugh. And then he turns to look at you, dipping his head to meet your gaze because you won't look up. His gaze on you is oppressive, unfamiliar, but you don't dislike it.

"You're really pretty, you know."

You just look at him.

"Hm?" he tries, dipping even lower to catch your eye properly. "It's true."

"A boy's never called me pretty before," you admit, words too quick for you to call them back. This is dire, this hole you're digging; after all this time, being honest is still so difficult, though it seems to come so easily to him.

"That's a crime" he says. And then he does that thing, the one you've read about in books, daydreamed about, thought about late into the night. He brings his hand to your face and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, a light pressure but enough to move you to look up at him, sat upright, with your mouth dropped open in shock.

It's just as electric as you'd imagined; more so, even. Two points of contact. Who'd have thought it?

"I'm sorry I said something stupid," he tells you. "It was dumb."

You giggle as his fingers shift across your skin. Soon enough he's holding you in his hand again and you feel yourself leaning into it, again.

"Thank you for apologising," you say. "I think I can forgive it for now."

"Good," he says. And then, more coy, the act dropped for a moment, "Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes, but…"

Just like before, the words stall in your throat.

"You can tell me what you want, you know. It's why I'm here." Christ, his voice is like honey when he's this close to your face.

You pull a long breath in through your nose and close your eyes.

"I have this… fantasy," you begin, and you hear (and feel) him chuckle.

"Go on."

"I guess it's not really a fantasy, just something I've always wanted to try…"

"That's the definition of a fantasy."

"Hey," you scold, opening your eyes and swatting him on the arm softly. "You wanna hear it or not?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says, laughing again. "Continue."

"Can I sit on your lap?"

"Is that it?" he asks, laugh lingering, threatening to fire up the heat in your cheeks.

"Yes," you say pointedly. "I wanna try it."

"Go for it, baby."

He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the nickname; in fact, he smiles, grins almost. He moves his hands down, leaving your face for now so he can hold your waist as you move onto your knees and lift one over him.

It's funny, you think, how hard all of this feels; really, this is a very normal thing for two 23-year-olds to be doing, and yet something within you makes it feel mechanical, intentional. Perhaps you just need practise.

"Okay," he says as you settle, your hips halfway down his thighs. "You gonna get any closer, or am I gonna have to lean over an' break my back?"

"Am I okay to get closer?" you ask, not taking much notice of how your fingers are dancing around his chest, toying lightly with the chain around his neck. Maybe it does come naturally after all.

"'Course you are, here-"

His big hands pull you in by the waist so that you're seated on him, hips to hips. Your faces are closer now, too, so you can admire those lovely crows feet again and the bend of his nose.

"Gonna kiss me, Munson?"

"O-kay," he says, smirking again. "I like the attitude."

"Oh, for fu-"

He shuts you up with a kiss, takes your breath away like they all say in the magazines; this kiss brings the fire up to the hilt, pulls on the smoke and the kindling and sets everything ablaze. His lips move against yours like molten gold, hot and rich and bright, quick but tender all the same. You feel the heat of his stuttering breaths on your cheek and lean inwards, arching your back slightly, until you feel him moan.

It's a sensation you could get used to, for sure. It's fizzy vibrations on your lips, makes them tingle, all electric. And then, before you can really know it's happening, you feel his tongue on yours.

You're not even sure when you opened your mouth for him. But it's there, the new feeling. It feels wetter, less familiar, but it pulls an involuntary moan out of you and you arch your back even more without thinking.

You get into it, into the rhythm, and let your mind wander to the friction between your hips and the pressure of his fingers under your ribs. They're skirting the hem of your top, his ring finger dipping beneath it onto the skin of your waist. And then you think about it too much, take notice of it too acutely, and you're pulling back and panting, looking down at where his hands are.

"All good?" he asks in a voice that's new to you; it's lazy, his words fuzzy, like he's just woken up. You look up at him and his eyes are hooded, lids low, and he's wearing a dopey half-smile.

"Yeah, just… Feeling lots of things," you say; it's all you can think of to explain this.

"That's kinda the point," he reminds you, and then he's doing that thing he showed you earlier, kissing slowly across your jaw and down onto your neck. It feels just as nice the second time; nicer, even, because you're letting him do it and you're letting yourself enjoy it.

His fingers venture upwards, more of them sliding under your top, until he pulls back and says the fateful words you knew would come soon: "Can I take this off?"

His lips are still on your throat, so he doesn't see the way you wince. When you don't reply he comes back up to look at you. You turn away.

"Hey," he coos, one hand leaving its treacherous territory to hold your head again. "What's up?"

You huff. "No one's ever seen me… naked before."

He smiles, which vexes you. "I'm here 'cause I wanna, baby."

The fucking nicknames.

"I know, I just… Can you just-"

You hold his hand in yours and move it away from your skin, hold it in both of yours to keep it away from you. He breathes an apology but you continue.

"This whole thing, me never doing this before or whatever, I think it's probably got a lot to do with me not really liking this-" you look down at yourself as you speak, "-very much."

You see him take this in, how it melts his features and widens his eyes.

"Okay," he finally says. "We can take this slow, yeah? You wearing a bra?"

"Yes, Eddie, I'm wearing a bra."

"So let's start there. Top off first, and you can see how you feel."

"Okay."

You let go of his hand and he takes your shirt in both. You close your eyes as you feel him lift the fabric, bunch it around your breasts, your que to lift your arms. You do it for him and he pulls up, tugs it messily over your head and throws it somewhere across the room.

"Shit," he hisses.

"What?" you say in a panic, worried something somewhere has gone horribly wrong.

"Look at you," he croons. "So pretty."

The insecurity evaporates, coming off you like a heavy mist, as he dips his head to kiss your collar bones and across the swell of flesh beneath. He takes his time, sometimes pulling the skin between his teeth but never for long enough to leave a mark. At some point he nudges you back and reaches over his head to pull his own shirt off; before he commits, he looks at you. You nod.

This is the most flesh-on-flesh you've ever felt before. It's nice; you're both warm, and he hasn't once mentioned the eighteen thousand different flaws you know are on your upper body.

His is covered in ink – pretty, often in swirling patterns and on his arm there are bats. But between them, there's confirmation of your earlier suspicions: he's got scars everywhere.

You trace them with gentle fingers.

"Don't ask," he says, laughing awkwardly.

"Okay."

You lean back in to kiss him. You’re a lot less confident than he is at initiating, but soon enough you get the hang of it, and he lets you. He doesn't take the reins; instead, he gives himself to you, lets you find your feet by yourself.

You attempt to copy him, kissing his jaw and then his neck, and you enjoy the way he sighs and relaxes under your lips.

As you move further down, teeth grazing his collarbone, he says, "you wanna move? Couch isn't exactly ideal."

You finish your work with a peck to the bump of his shoulder and say, "Sure."

There's some awkward shuffling, and standing in your bra and jeans is somehow more vulnerable than sitting on him, but nevertheless you take his hand and lead him through the door to your bedroom.

He doesn't have as much time to take this room in as the last one, because he wants you on the bed more than he cares to admit. When you flick on the bedside lamp, finally acknowledging how dark it's become now the sun's started going down, all he really notices is how warm the room is.

"Here," he says, manoeuvring you as he pleases. "Lay back, yeah?"

You do as he says, sitting facing him and pushing yourself back so you can lay down with your knees up. 

And then it happens: one of the many cataclysmic revelations of the evening.

"Good girl."

Again, you gasp, looking up at the ceiling.

"Good?" he asks.

"Really good," you tell him. You haven't really noticed that your hands have laid themselves across your chest, but he can't stop staring.

"That's it, see? Love when you tell me what you like."

One of his hands joins one of yours where it's fidgeting with your bra, and the other smooths down one of your legs, urging you to straighten them. You do, and again he says those fateful words: "Good girl. Gonna take these off, yeah?"

"Wait," you snap, sitting up and letting his hand fall so you can lean back with your weight on yours. "Can we do it together?"

"'Course."

"And can I… Can I undo yours?"

"Shit, sure you can."

You sit up and he takes your hands in his bigger ones, moulding them so you're tracing your fingers down the plain of his chest and stomach. You follow the dips and creases, the taught skin of his scars, and finally reach his belt.

He's mumbling nonsense at you, too caught up in everything to keep up the teacher façade, pinching your fingers between his so you can pull the leather through the buckle and get to his zipper.

When you unzip and brush something hard, he drops his hands and tips his head back in a sigh. It's an unfamiliar feeling under your tentative hands but it's not unknown.

"Wow," you breathe, not really meaning to say it out loud.

"Shit, gotta get these off-" He pulls back from your wanting grasp to shuffle out of his jeans, leaving his boxers in place for now. One step at a time.

"Your turn," he declares, smiling, jeans and socks gone. He reaches over to you again to return the favour, undoing buttons and the zip and his wide hand on your hip urges you to lift off the bed so he can pull the denim down your legs.

There's no turning back now; you can never again wonder what will happen the first time someone sees you (nearly) naked.

You've thought about this before, turned an infinity of possibilities over in your mind, but this was never one of them. Not one of them included a pretty boy, standing before you, just as exposed as you are, pawing at flesh and telling you you're beautiful.

His lips ghost over you, beginning at your shoulder and creeping lower. When he reaches the middle of your chest he looks up at you, the angle a little awkward. You nod.

"What're you doing?" you ask him, moving backwards again as he crowds you.

"I'm gonna take this off," he says, tugging lightly at the band of your bra, bringing himself level with you so he's breathing the words into your ear. "And then I'm gonna eat you out."

He may as well be a fire-breathing dragon. His words claw at your scalp like flames and fill your lungs with heat, pulling a sigh from within. You lean back, lying flat on the sheets, and let him have his way with you.

But he doesn't move, first admiring the way you respond and then waiting, lingering above you, too far away.

"What?" you hiccup, looking at him, confused.

"Need you to tell me this is what you want," he tells you.

"This is what I want," you repeat back to him. And then, taking the plunge, you add, "I want you to eat me out, Eddie."

You relish in his response, the way you can almost see him shiver, bare shoulders twitching and chest deflating with a shuddery exhale.

"Christ, yes, okay."

His fingers inch around your back so you arch it, letting him toy with the clasp of your bra. He gets it undone quicker than you expected, and you can't bring yourself to focus on where it goes once it's off because he's got his mouth back on your skin and now he's biting marks in places that would make your past self blush.

You feel his teeth on the swell of your boobs, first the left and then the right, and the rough pads of his fingers over your nipples.

"Shit," you hiss, and then, "no, shit, don't stop," when he halts for a second.

"Feel good?" he asks, muffled with his teeth grazing the stretch of skin across your ribs.

"Yes, yeah."

Gripping the sheets, you arch again, keening into him, chasing the buzz of his lips and the goosebumps they leave.

His fingers leave them, too, especially when they dance over your sides, that bit that makes you feel hollow if you drift over it the right way.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, lifting his head to look up at you from where he's sunk to his knees. You're staring at the ceiling, too preoccupied to meet his eye, and the sight makes him huff a laugh.

"Yes," you respond too quickly.

As you feel his fingers curl around the elastic, he says, "Okay, you're gonna have to give me a hand, alright? Tell me if it feels okay or if you want me to move. Or if you want me to stop, obviously."

"Yes, yeah, fuck, please Eddie-"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, pulling the material down over your knees and feet. At this rate, your bedroom floor must look like an explosion at the laundromat; dirty laundry everywhere, clothes all over the floor.

You're not sure why you're thinking about the logistics of tidying right now, though it doesn't last long, because the cool air on your core is a shock that jolts every limb.

Although he's wedged between them, you seem to have an instinctual reaction to the sensation of being exposed, your legs trying to close around him. His firm hands pull them apart, his fingers grasping the fat of your thighs, and then his lips.

They're on the softness between your legs first of all, nipping and pulling the skin between his teeth as he moves upwards. And then you feel them, the strange, wet contact. There's a feeling, something you think must be his tongue, licking upwards, before it makes contact with your clit.

The pressure is a thunderbolt to the centre, a shock that sends you arching off the bed with a gasp. Your grasp on the sheets tightens for a moment until you feel the roughness of his hair instead; without thinking, you've moved both hands to claw and pet at the crown of his head, earning a muffled moan when you tug ever so lightly.

He calls your name, pulling back, his words heard through cotton wool ears. "You're sure you haven't done this before?"

"Fuck, yes, Eddie I'm sure," you pant in response, desperate for the sensation of his mouth on you again. He obliges your unspoken craving, licking upwards again before settling comfortably at your clit. His firm hands dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs until one of them doesn’t, and before you can think too hard about it, you feel it just beneath his mouth.

The new feeling of his rough fingers on your cunt sends your eyes rolling back; you can't help but squirm and it's driving him wild, the way you're listening to him, the way you can't help but move, the way you're tugging at him without realising.

The gnawing tightness in your core nosedives when he slips, warm breaths replacing his mouth and fingers. You whine like a petulant child, making a noise you didn't know you could.

"I'm gonna use my fingers," he tells you, the distance between him and your cunt not enough to save you from the maddening huffs of breath as he talks. "Have you ever had anything inside before?"

It's funny, how nervous he sounds despite the fact he's knelt the way he is between your knees. His mouth was just all over you, and yet he's still a boy, turned stuttering by sex talk.

"No," you pant, "no, never."

"Okay, it might hurt, alright? You just gotta tell me to stop and I will."

"Okay," you agree.

He settles back into position, his weight rested on his elbows and his face and hand inching closer. You feel it, the stiffness of a finger, but the feeling is unusual and a little uncomfortable.

"You gotta relax," he tells you. "You overthinkin' it?"

"No," you bite defensively.

"It's okay."

You huff and lie back, dropping your shoulders.

"Do you ever…"

Another sigh.

"Do you ever touch yourself?"

There's a momentary flush of embarrassment, a conditioned response to being asked about this kind of thing, but you're here, in this position, naked, so you may as well be honest.

"Yes."

"Okay, what do you think about? When you do?"

"I, uh…"

"It's okay," he says quickly, "don't tell me. Just- just think about it now, right? Somethin' that turns you on."

Something that turns you on? What's turning you on right now is the handsome guy between your legs. His pretty inked skin, the stretch across his shoulders and the ripples in his back. His wide, firm hands, those obnoxious rings, the way he keeps telling you you're a good girl.

It swims in your mind, the vision of him cooing sweet praises, the fizzling memory of those words in his voice.

"That's it, you got it," you hear him tut, as though he can see inside your mind, read your thoughts. It pulls apart the tension in your core and across your shoulders, and then it's back, that feeling, the warmth and the fire, and you sink deeper into the pool of euphoria.

With one finger already half-way inside, he adds a second, his eyes trained on your face in case it's too much. But it's not; of course it's not. He knows he's good, but he doesn't think he's made a girl this happy in his whole life.

You feel it soon enough: there's a fizzing current that licks up from your cunt and into your gut where it lights your nervous system on fire. It runs laps around your body, pinpricks in your fingertips and behind your ears. You grasp at the sheets again, pulling, pulling, pulling, reaching for whatever you can to keep your body from floating away, because it really feels like that's about to happen; either that or you're going to implode, pulling the room and everything else with you like a black hole, hungry for more.

You barely notice the pants, your whiny moans and the repeated prayers of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, before you're coming apart. He's still going, riding you through it, basking in the sound of his name as it crawls from your mouth. So far he's kept his composure, ignored the searing pain under his boxers, but he doesn't think he'll hold out much longer.

"That's it," he coos, slowing down, rubbing soothing circles into your hip. You're panting, your breath hot and skin even hotter, and you can barely hear him when he speaks. The words carry, though, somehow; his praises of you did so good, and you're driving me wild, and, worst of all with the way it slaps you silly when it comes, I need to be inside you.

You sit up at that, holding yourself up on wobbling elbows to look at him. He's still knelt between your knees, hands resting on them, looking back at you with eyes turned dark and glistening skin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and it takes you a minute to understand that he's waiting for your answer.

"Right," you breathe. "Yeah, okay." You scramble to sit up and twist yourself so you're lying the right way but he laughs and it makes you go cold.

"Chill out, take a minute, yeah?"

His hand hasn't left you; it's on your ankle now, rubbing those same circles over the bone.

All you can say is, "That was insane."

He laughs again, a softer noise this time, and says, "It was, huh?"

"Yeah." You flop back, head in the pillows and eyes on the ceiling above you, your own fingers tracing up and down your stomach.

He watches you from the floor. You're all flushed, glowing something rosy and sprinkled with dewy sweat. And then he watches your fingers, their absentminded journey up from your belly to the dip between your boobs, and back down. You repeat it over and over, and though it's an innocent, repetitive stroke, it's not helping the pressure between his legs.

"I'm gonna take these off," he tells you, giving your ankle a comforting squeeze and tugging his waistband with his free hand. "That okay?"

It dawns on you, as you look at him, that not only are you lying naked in front of a stranger, but that you are about to see that stranger's dick. A stranger who responded to your stupid ad in the paper, who's agreed to this for some stupid reason, and who is stupid handsome and stupid nice.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He says your name again and it sounds so pretty when he does, and then he says, "We can stop if you want, you know. You don't have to do anythin' you don't want to."

"No, I want to," you say. "I just… This is a lot."

"Yeah," he says with a smile, that one that drips with charm and tugs at your gut. "But you're all good. Done so well so far."

Your body keens at the praise, your back lifting off the bed and it's then that you notice the feeling of want biting ugly marks into the pit of your stomach. You look at him, and he looks back at you, and all you can feel is a gnawing emptiness, a need to be full.

"Let's do this," you declare, sitting back up on your elbows and watching him with needy eyes. He sees it, the darkness that has settled in your irises, the itchy fidgeting of your hands on your sheets.

"Yes, ma'am."

Slowly, he stands and tugs his underwear down his legs and onto the floor. It all feels very real, now that he's stood before you like this.

He laughs at your wide eyes, trained on the straining erection he just let loose. You've never seen a dick in person before, and to be truthful you're not sure you've ever really seen one in a photograph or a video – the adult section at the rental store isn't exactly somewhere you often find yourself – so you have nothing to compare this to, but objectively it looks quite big.

"Will it fit?" you say before you can stop yourself. It comes out a squeak and makes him laugh yet again.

"Yes," he tells you, "it'll fit. But thanks for the ego boost."

He's on his knees on the bed beside you now, moving towards you until he can use his hands to move your legs apart. He settles himself between them and sits back on his heels, leaving one hand on your left leg and using the other to take one of yours. He intertwines your fingers, squeezes, and pulls you to sit up.

"Here," he says, bringing your hand to sit flat on his ribs. He's controlling his voice as best he can, hoping it doesn't sound as desperate as he feels right now. He can't help but stare at you, at how you're looking at him. 

"I'm gonna show you how to touch me, okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe. His hand moves yours down until it reaches patchy hair and then he curls your hand around his dick, his own hand still holding yours.

It's a new feeling, sure, but you're mostly enjoying the short hisses of breath he's letting out. When you move upwards without his help he almost moans, and you decide you'd like to do whatever it takes to make him do it again, and louder.

"Shit, okay, wait. Here-" He brings your hand away and lays it flat, palm up. "Spit."

You look up at him and find his wide brown eyes looking down at you, waiting.

So you spit into your palm, and he brings it back to himself, and moving is easier now.

"Fuck, okay… Yeah, just like that, that's it, shit-"

He drops his hand from yours and leaves you to find your own way, so you copy his pattern of up and down, slowly, twisting your hand as you go.

"Here, move your thumb over the- Fuck-"

You do as he says, perhaps too eager to please, and watch in awe as the muscles in his abdomen tense and he leans forward, resting his weight on one hand planted right beside your hip.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," he says, taking your wrist and pulling you away, ignoring the way you whine.

When he says, "We can worry about me another time," you try to ignore the brief fluttering it elicits deep within your chest somewhere. Dwelling on things said in the heat of this moment isn't fair, you decide; he surely doesn't mean it.

With warm, now familiar hands, he helps you lay back down.

"You got condoms?"

"Oh." You don't, and the truth you're about to tell him is mortifying. "No. They all expired a few months ago."

"That's fine," is all he says, and the fluttery feeling returns when he doesn't ask any follow up questions. No judgement, as promised. "Just wait here."

His hand leaves you at the last possible moment. As he moves off the bed it runs smooth down your leg and over your foot, like he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear. You watch him hop awkwardly across the room and into your living room, the sight a refreshing injection of humour, helping you relax into the mattress again. He comes back with his jacket in one hand, which he drops on the floor after rummaging in the inside pocket and pulling out a red foil square. 

He pulls it open with fingers that you realise are shaking slightly, and you wonder if he's really nervous, and if so, if he's as nervous as you are.

It takes a few seconds but soon enough he's rolled it on, breath stuttering and dry, and then he climbs back to you and his hands return to your body almost as quickly as they left.

He's hovering over you now, his long hair tickling the sides of your face and the tops of your shoulders, all the places the sun hits on hot days. You're too caught up in watching his every move, too keen to really realise what you're saying before you ask: "Will you kiss me again?"

He smiles and dips down wordlessly, letting his lips slip against yours. It brings back the fluttering and the fizzy feeling, the craving for him. As your tongues move as one, you feel his hand by your thigh, and when he pulls back he says, "You ready?"

You nod, and then, remembering what he said earlier, cement it in words: "I'm ready."

"Alright, I'm gonna go slow, okay? It's gonna stretch more than earlier, but you just keep me clued in, yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a new sensation at your core, of wetness and something rigid. He's moving against your folds, finding no purchase in the remnants of earlier on, but then he nudges your clit and you jolt upwards and that's when he finds what he was searching for.

He nudges in quickly at first, enough to make you whine a pained sound. He matches it with a low grumble, a vibration right by your ear.

"You okay?" he's quick to ask, head rising to look at you.

"Yeah, yeah, just- slow, please."

"I've got you."

He doesn't move for a beat, eyes trained on the scrunch of your nose. He kisses it and feels you relax, so he keeps kissing, quick flashes over your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Each one brings new relief and as your back hits the bed again, he eases himself in a little more.

The stretch is definitely different; more. There's a burn, but it doesn't completely hide the wave of pleasure you get in the fullness.

"Gonna go a bit more," he tells you, and he does just that, going half an inch further, still watching for any sign of discomfort.

When you bring your knees up by his hips, he knows you're past the worst of it. He chants praise, telling you that you're doing so well, taking me so well as he keeps going, all the way until he's seated inside you, up to the hilt. You breathe in a gasp, filling your lungs, realising you'd been holding your breath for too long. And as you open your eyes, you find him staring down at you with concern and something else.

"You good?" he whispers with his face so close you feel the words as they settle on your cheek.

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

He punctuates this with a kiss, and then another, over the hill of your jaw and onto your throat. Your hands claw up his back, pulling him in until you're sure that if he were any closer, you'd fuse into one.

"Okay," he finally says, lips against the peak of your shoulder. "I'm gonna move. I'll go slow at first."

"Okay."

The feeling of him pulling out is new and nice, but it's nothing compared to the opposite. The combination of the two, the repetitive motion he picks up, is something you want to chase forever.

As he moves, he quickens, trying his best to keep his eyes open and attentive; it's difficult, though, when you feel this good.

"Christ, you're so fuckin' tight, shit-"

"Eddie, this feels amazing, uh-"

Your stomach twists into a coil again, quicker this time, and tightens as he picks up the pace. Above you he's all guttural moans and pretty groans, his lips grazing your cheek each time he moves, and soon his thrusts become too much. You're panting his name and he's panting yours, and along with the sound of skin on skin, that's all you can hear until he speaks gravel-churned words into your ear.

"Shit, 'm so close, fuck- Gotta get you there, baby, huh? C'mon, need you to come for me."

His words are joined by sloppy fingers between your bodies. They fumble in the dark, prodding your belly before finding slippery purchase on your clit. Sparks light up your body and all you can do in response is let it arch into him with a yelp of his name.

"You close?" he asks.

"Yes, yeah, shit, yes," you splutter back. It's like a chase, and you're catching up, quickly, quickly, quickly.

All of a sudden there's a white-hot flash that burns every inch of your insides. You tense, your body yawning open for him, wide and wanting; he doesn't relent, thrusts harder than ever, chases you in return as he feels you tighten around him. You release, the coil snapping, and he brings the pace down to see you through to the end.

There's cotton wool in your ears again but you make out his praises: "That's it, that's it, atta girl… C'mon, I've got you, you did so well."

When your breathing turns regular and your eyes ease open, you feel a warm knuckle on your cheek. He's still going slow, rutting in and out of you with ease now, and when you finally look at him he asks, "Gonna keep goin', that okay?"

You nod, throat closed for the time being so you make it as certain a nod as you can muster. His thrusts become quicker again, and the more he speeds up the sloppier he becomes. You feel sensitive, too warm but also too desperate to see, hear, feel him come undone inside you. It's not long until your wish is granted; soon his groans turn to whimpers and whines, and he calls your name as he shudders to a violent halt. It's intoxicating, experiencing this from underneath him; if this is what everyone's been talking about all these years, you understand why.

The room sways and whistles as he rests his weight on you. His breath, right beside your ear, is like a hot, damp rag, pulling at your sticky skin and the thrum of rushing blood. You hear him groan and then the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. The bed bounces gently as he huffs and flops down beside you, and, god, you wish so badly that you could keep those flutters under control because his clammy hand finds yours between your bodies and it's nice to feel the affection he's so devoted to giving you.

Sighing, he says, "Shit."

You laugh, scrunching your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "shit."

He squeezes your hand.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah. Really liked it."

"Okay for your first time?"

"Yeah." You turn onto your side to face him, looking up at his face. There are a few curls stuck to his pretty pink face, and you admire the bob of his throat as he swallows and the squeeze of his hand in yours.

"You're really pretty," you tell him. You're not sure if this is the post-O haze the magazines talk about, or if it's some kind of clarity, or if it's just that you have this boy in the palm of your hand and you suddenly can't bear the thought of letting him go. Instead you want to plant anchors, heavy lines that will keep him right where he is.

He turns his head to look at you and you see him flush even more.

"So are you," he whispers, with another squeeze and a kiss to your forehead.

There are a few minutes of quiet after that. The light outside is gone for good, so he's glowing a low golden in the light of your bedside lamp. He kisses you again with a fondness that surely shouldn't come with this exchange, which you had rationalised as just that: a transaction, a mutual agreement to get something done.

You see him open his mouth, as if to speak, but close it again, so you reach a tentative hand up and brush some hair from his eyes and trace your knuckle down his temple, urging him.

"My friends," he begins, hesitant, "they're having a party, next weekend. Steve, he only lives round the corner, we passed his house on the way here... You wouldn't wanna come, would you?"

"With you?" you whisper into the fizzy darkness.

"Yeah." He smiles, eyes fluttering shut under your sweeping fingers. "With me."

"Is it a date?"

"It can be, if you want. Or we can just, y'know, go as friends, or whatever."

"No one's ever asked me on a date before."

He smiles, and it's soft and curled with an affectionate pity; one that says I'm sorry, that's not fair, it's nothing to do with you.

"Well, wanna come?"

"I'd love to."

He pulls your hand up and brings it to his mouth, where he kisses your knuckles. Goosebumps raise across your thighs and arms, and you realise you're cold.

He seems to sense your discomfort because you feel him shift beside you. He pulls you up with him and helps you climb off the bed on wobbly legs.

"I should pee," you tell him, heeding the warnings of girlfriends past.

"You should," he says, a little deflated.

You don't move, though. To move would be to acknowledge the end – the end of the transaction, of the favour. It's not something you want.

"I, uh," you begin, stumbling, "Don't- Do you want-"

"I can go now, if you want-"

"No, no, it's okay, I mean, you can go if you want, that's fine, I just-"

Your eyes are darting all over the carpet, skimming discarded clothes, so you don't notice him reach up until he's touching your face, holding it in his palm.

"I'll stay, if you want me to."

"Yes, please."

He smiles at you, sticky with fondness and you can't help but smile back.

"I'm gonna shower," you tell him, leaning further into his grasp.

"I'll be here."

-

"Munson! You made it!"

In the middle of the busy room, there's a tall guy, broad and burly, like all the jocks you went to high school with. He's startlingly pretty, with golden hair and honeyed skin, a wide, bright smile plastered across his face.

He steps on unsure feet over to Eddie, who is stood partially in front of you; you're cowering behind him, willing the courage to lift you and push you into the arms of strangers. For now, holding his hand will do just fine.

"Hey, Harrington," Eddie greets, meeting him in one of those boyish embraces. You look around, taking in the faces; it's not the level of the high-school parties you used to go to, and definitely not the circus of the frat ones you've sometimes found yourself at, but it's busy enough. Where the guy – Harrington – came from, in the living room, there's a circle of people who are all smiling in your direction.

"Who's this?" The guy is looking at you over Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie tells Steve your name, and then turns to you. "This is Steve."

"Hi," you say to him, smiling, trying your best to hide the cruel nerves.

"Nice t'meet you!" he beams back. It's infectious; your smile turns firm and genuine in return. "Here, come meet the gang."

"C'mon," Eddie whispers to you with a kiss to the crown of your head. He pulls you through the entryway, into the large living room, following Steve. He drops your hand to give and return hugs, saying hello to each person. You stand and watch, unsure of what to do, until one of the girls – the first one Eddie greeted – appears by your side.

"Hey," she says, perhaps a little too close.

"Hi."

"I'm Robin." She sticks her hand out and you shake it clumsily.

Eddie's back, with his hand in yours again, on your other side. He calls her Rob and tells her your name, and then does the same for each person – Nancy, Jonathan, Will, Mike, Max, Lucas, Dustin, El – too many for you to remember tonight, but you have a feeling you'll see them again.

"Hi, guys," you return with a wave.

Everything settles after that. You take a seat next to Eddie on the couch, legs up and over his own, making conversation with Robin who you like a lot. Nancy comes over and introduces herself again and you find you like her, too.

And then Steve appears, having disappeared twenty minutes before. He's a little drunker, and he hands you and Eddie a can each. You take it gratefully and open it, taking a swig.

"So," he begins, sitting on the opposite side of the circle to yourself and Eddie. "You from Hawkins?"

"No," you tell him, and repeat the story you told Eddie.

"Sweet! So how'd you meet?"

You turn your head to look at Eddie and find him having done the same thing. His eyes are wide, just as wide as you're sure yours are.

"Uh," you begin, drawing out the sound to buy yourself time. 

"I did her a favour," he says, to your surprise, turning back to look at Steve with a sickly smile. "Just somethin' she'd put in the paper."

"That's so cute," Nancy says from behind you, her words chased by Robin adding a sarcastic, "Adorable."

The conversation moves on after that, and you turn around to Eddie again. He's looking back at you, his face pink and a smile tugging at his mouth. Before you can stop yourselves you're laughing, bursting into happy noises, bent double giggling.

He gives you another kiss, on the cheek this time, and quickly you settle back into conversations. The night is long and for the first time in a long time, it isn't lonely.

-

Hello! This is SO long - it really did take on a life of its own. I considered splitting it but couldn't find somewhere to do it, so I hope you enjoy this absolute beast nonetheless. I love you!