🐊

“You’re so gross,” you mutter, but lowkey you kind of liked it when he talked like that. So maybe it wasn’t the best way for a man to talk to his girlfriend一it still made you feel some type of way.

“Eh, that ain’t a big deal,” Gator says dismissively, because he knows you and he knows that even as you turn back to finish rinsing your hair, you don’t want him to leave. So he doesn’t.

You’re in an old t-shirt and sweats, old clothing that you don’t care to ruin, which you did一there are drips and drabs of dark hair dye on the back of the shirt. The water was almost running clear when he’d interrupted you, so you flipped your hair back and bent over the tub again, tucking your chin to your chest as you continue to rinse your hair.

Gator doesn’t leave the room一you can feel his presence hovering around behind you, and then you can feel his hands on your hips as he pushes the t-shirt up and around your waist.

You angle the showerhead away for a moment, letting it hit the wall, to speak. “Gator, I’m in the middle of something.”

“I’ll be quick,” he says, and as you look back, arching forward more so you can see behind you through your legs, you notice he’s now on his knees behind you, face-to-ass as he curls his fingers into the waistband of your sweats. “Not too quick,” he mumbles; you just barely hear him over the rushing water.

“Gator…” you sigh, as he pulls your pants down over your hips, exposing your ass一fully, because you’re not wearing underwear. And you can tell he didn’t expect it, because he looses a long, low whistle.

“Shit, mama,” he says, shucking your sweats all the way to the floor so they pool around your ankles, “always thinkin’a me, huh?” 

Without waiting for an answer, he places one hand on your thigh, the other on your ass cheek, and crooks his thumb into your slit, holding you open as he leans in, letting his tongue explore your folds.

“Gator,” you sigh, but it’s much different this time, heavier, headier. You decide the water rinsing your hair is clear enough一it is, ultimately一and gently lower the showerhead this time, bracing yourself against the tile wall with one hand flat on it, the other reaching back to splay out on your other ass cheek, spreading yourself further open for him.

“Mm,” Gator says, humming, licking his lips as he pulls away from you. “See? ‘S like I said一always thinkin’a me. ‘At’s right, babygirl, I know it.”

You gasp quietly as he buries his face into you, licking and sucking at your folds before he pulls away with one final lick.

“Why?” you whine, not really meaning for that to be your question of choice, but he only stands up behind you, leans over you一enough that you can feel the pressure of his dick, not hard yet, but very much there against you一and presses a kiss to your spine just below the pushed-up hem of your shirt.

“‘Cause ya got me wantin’ ta try somethin’.”

“Right now?” you ask, and you can feel your cunt tingling a little after the short bout of attention he gave it.

“Right now,” he repeats, and moves back, away from you. “Strip.”

You push your wet hair back over your head, straightening up and turning to look at him as he undoes his belt and fly, the metal clinking a little as he pushes his pants down, then tugs off his shirt. You watch as he undresses to his underwear, and then makes a face at you.

“What? Ya get water in yer ears or somethin’?” He steps closer, gathering your dripping self into his arms, and lowers his face to yours, taking your lips in a sweet kiss that would get you to do almost anything he asked and then some. You part your lips against his, and the taste of your cunt on his tongue makes you shudder, like you’d forgotten he’d tasted you and the reminder turns you on more than you expected it would. “C’mon, princess, this is all part’a pamperin’ yerself. ‘Cept I get ta have some fun too, right?”

You huff a little, not too miffed, because Gator having fun usually means you having the time of your fucking life, but all you could think about was finishing your hair and then settling in on the couch with a facemask, a bottle of wine, and一oh, he’s tugging your shirt up, up to your armpits, up higher still, and you lift your arms without really thinking, letting him take the shirt off of you even as your hair fell against your bare back with a wet slap.

“You want me to count you bothering me as self care?” you quip, and Gator chuckles, kissing you again, and this time, your arms moved around him, hands smoothing over his back as you let him in.

“Goddamn right,” Gator purrs against your mouth, and any doubts or protestations you’d been considering fall by the wayside. 

And you know what? He’s right! You deserve an orgasm or two in the middle of your little routine.

“Fine,” you say, pretending like you’re just acquiescing, like it’s some great cross to bear that your boyfriend wants to have sex with you.

“That’s my girl,” Gator whispers against your mouth, then hums to himself, looking past you into the bathtub. The showerhead is still going, a little water pooling at the drain, but no residual hair dye is clinging to the sides of the tub. “Get on in,” Gator says, stepping back from you, but not before giving your ass a sharp little slap, making you jump, startled, and laugh.

“You asshole,” you accuse him, and he just shrugs like Yeah, ya caught me.

Pulling your wet back against his front, he places a soft kiss onto the top of your shoulder and eases you toward the tub.

“I’m comin’ in with ya,” he says, “it ain’t only gonna be you givin' me a show. Well, not only.”

You let him help you step over the side of the tub, then look back at him as he shoves down his boxer briefs一pretending not to admire his cock, like you always do, the slight curve and the velveteen skin and the deep slit in the tip that makes you want to suckle it for hours on end一and then he steps in behind you.

“If you just wanted to shower together, why didn’t you just say that?”

“‘Cause that ain’t what we’re doin’,” he says, and this time, this close, your gaze on his face, you notice the way he’s eyeing the length of the showerhead’s hose, the way it stretches all the way to the bottom of the tub. The way you could sit down and still have it in your hand.

It clicks at the same moment Gator smirks at you, pressing you even closer to his front, your skin slipping together as he hugs you from behind, his nose and lips pressing into your cheek as he grins against your face.

“You know I’ve done it before, right?” you ask, coy.

“Yeah? Well never wit’ me, so,” he says. “C’mon, sit yer ass down.”

Moving with him, you let him situate himself first, and then settle between his legs, his cock pressing between your bodies as he has you lean back against him. He snaps his fingers, pointing, and you reach for the showerhead as he indicated it, handing it to him as he rings you with his arms, one already palming at your thick thigh, the other angling the spray of water down between your legs, not letting it wash over you just yet, other than the slight gush of water from it forcibly hitting the bottom of the tub.

“Since yer an expert,” he says, “why don’tcha fix the settin’s how ya like?”

You laugh, and his lips trace over the back of your shoulder, not quite kissing you but just tickling you with his mouth, as you fidget with the dial adjusting the spray of the water until it’s cascading out, a thick stream that you already know and love.

“Noted,” Gator says, and then wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you back against him. You feel his heated skin against yours, made even warmer from the water, but that becomes less of a concern as he angles the showerhead down between your legs, letting the water wash over your mound, his hand lowering from your stomach to your pussy lips.

You sigh preemptively, because you already know what’s coming and still, as he gently eases your folds apart, exposing your clit, just barely peeking out from its hood, he moves the showerhead to a slightly different angle and then you’re tipping your head back against him because god, it just feels so good.

“Gator,” you stammer out, your hands moving unbidden to your tits, cupping them, playing with them, tweaking your nipples as you feel him hook his chin over your shoulder to watch you. His cock twitches against your back and you squirm against him, turning your head a little to face him. Your tongue plays over the underside of his jaw.

“Like this, babygirl?” he asks, and you nod, hips kicking as he moves the showerhead closer, still angled above your mound, the deluge running down between your labia. “Mind if I…?”

“Fuck me?” It’s you finishing the sentence for him but also asking for what you want, and he chuckles quietly before turning to give you a peck on the lips, even though he can barely reach at the awkward angle.

“Thought you’d never ask, angel,” he says. He watches another moment, unmoving behind you, as you tug at your peaked nipples, the pebbled skin darkened from the attention, from arousal, and then he nudges your wrist with his and you take the shower head.

The water washes over your legs and his as he helps you lift up, slippery hands on your slick hips, guiding you up and back just enough to let his swollen head press against your wet slit一and then you roll your hips down on him, letting him spread you open on his cock, his rigid length pressing against your walls again and again as you bounce on him, slow and uneven, until he’s fully seated in you, and you’re filled to the brim.

Gator maneuvers your legs so they’re on the outside of his, pressed against the sides of the bathtub where you sit, and then his hands are back on your thighs, spread apart just by virtue of how he’s got you atop him.

“Fuck一oh, fuck一that’s real nice fer me,” he groans from behind you.

“So full,” you mutter. “Take一it?”

He knows what you mean, and his big palm skims down from your elbow to your wrist, wrapping around the handle of the showerhead and taking it from you as you return your hands to your chest. You’re completely at his mercy now, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for long一to the contrary, he returns the showerhead to its former place, down between your legs, the thick stream of water heavenly on your mound and on your clit, down over where he’s entering you, soaking his cock and balls in more ways than one.

“Feel good?” Gator asks, though he knows. He can tell, because you’re already twitching on top of him, and start to really buck into his hand when he moves his fingertips between your legs, rubbing over your clit, pressing against you just so to slide your hood up and over your clit, making sure that your sensitive, puffy bead is getting the full extent of the water. He can feel it kick beneath his hands, feel your hot, wet little channel squeeze down on him, and god, even he has to admit that the warm rush of water cascading down over him feels good too. Nowhere near as good as your cunt, and he tells you so. “I feel fuckin’ perfect,” he murmurs against the sensitive spot behind your ear. “Balls deep in m’girl,” he says, and you clench up around him as his fingers slide over your clit. “Feelin’ her wrap all ‘round me like she ain’t never wanna let go.”

“Never,” you echo, and Gator makes a soft, amused noise.

“Never?” he asks.

“Never,” you affirm, and then he’s got his whole hand rubbing over your pussy, the pads of his fingers up to your clit and then back down to rub at the base of his cock, at his sac, and then right back up to circle your clit.

“Ain’t never gonna let ya go neither,” Gator says, and you feel yourself squeeze down on him, feel your walls rippling around his length, feel the way his chest presses into you like he’s getting there too, just from being inside you while you’re this worked up.

“Gonna一come, Gate一I’m一” you say, words failing you. It’s a combination of him engulfing you from behind, his hand on your pussy, teasing your slit as he slides it up and down; the heel of his hand pressing against your oversensitive clit; his thick cock already pulsing inside you, like he’s unable to stop himself from reaching his orgasm so soon; and the water, stimulating you the way no hand or tongue or cock ever could.

“Go on, babygirl,” Gator coaxes, egging you on. “Go on一ya gonna let me come inside ya?” he asks, and you nod, gasping, feeling your walls contracting around him, feeling him pushing at you from every angle inside your own body. He lowers the showerhead, the stream of water gushing right against your clit, as his fingers press hard into it, rubbing thick, two-fingered circles over you, and that’s what does you in一

You come with a shout, breaking apart on top of him, your cunt spasming around his length, pussy gaped around his thick cock, and you have some realization that you’re milking his orgasm from him too as you come, because you not only feel the warmth of the water on the outside of your cunt, but you feel the spread of his release inside of you, your entire lower half overwhelmingly hot as he fills you, so copiously that it leaks out, his pearly come floating down the drain as the water from the showerhead washes it away.

Eventually, you come down. He’s still inside you, your hands are still on your tits, pulling weakly at your nipples as your afterglow fades, and Gator lets the showerhead clatter to the tub, kicking it to the far end.

Mistake一it lands business end up, and it turns into a fountain, water shooting up and out of the tub, onto the walls, onto the toilet, onto both of you as you try to shield your face as Gator just laughs, his breath warm on your back.

“You asshole,” you say again, and gingerly ease yourself off of his cock, feeling his sticky come start to leak back out of your loose hole as you crawl forward and slam the faucet down, turning off the water.

You turn back to look at him, at the soaking wet bathroom you now have to contend with, and he shrugs. Again. Yeah, ya caught me. He would be so fucking infuriating if you didn’t like him a little bit.

“Hair looks good, by the way,” Gator says, pursing his lips and giving you an approving nod. You stare at him, half in disbelief and half in amusement. “Love the color.”

“Are you here to show the apartment?” he asks, polite but already impatient.

You blink. “No. I’m here to rent it.”

He glances down at a folded sheet of paper in his hand, the listing printed in neat type. “I thought the showing was at nine thirty.”

“It is. For me,” you say, checking your watch.

His eyebrows draw together. “Mrs. Shaw told me nine thirty.”

“No. She told me nine thirty.”

“So one of us is wrong.”

“Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms. “You.”

He looks down at his note again, mouth twisting when he sees the small “9 AM” written in his own messy handwriting.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Shit. Guess that’s on me.”

“Guess so.”

He looks like he’s about to argue anyway, but the bakery door swings open before he can. The smell of cinnamon and sugar rushes out, warm against the morning air.

Dorothea Shaw stands there with flour dusted across her apron, cheeks flushed from the ovens. She’s in her late sixties, with silver hair pinned up in a bun that always comes a little loose by midday and soft pink lipstick that never quite stays on the edges. There’s a kindness in her eyes that makes everyone call her “Mrs. Shaw,” even though she always insists on Dorothea.

“Oh, you must be the two I spoke to on the phone,” she says cheerfully. “I didn’t realize it would be a couple.”

You and the guy both start to talk, overlapping. “Oh, we’re not—” “No, we just—”

Dorothea laughs, waving a hand like she’s already made up her mind. “You young folks don’t have to explain yourselves to me. Come in, come in, let me show you the place.”

She ushers you through the side door of the bakery and up a narrow staircase that smells like sugar and yeast. The steps creak underfoot, the paint along the banister chipped from years of use. She keeps talking as she climbs, her voice bright over the hum of ovens below. “I’ve known Steven since he was knee-high,” she says with a fond glance at him over her shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day he settled down.”

You raise an eyebrow. The guy (Steven, apparently) flushes pink and gives you a helpless look. “It’s, uh, not exactly like that,” he mumbles.

Dorothea just smiles knowingly. “Sure, sure. I’ve heard that before.”

The apartment opens into a cozy living room where morning light spills across faded floral wallpaper and lace curtains move with the draft. A corduroy couch sits against one wall, a crocheted blanket draped neatly over the back. There’s a short wooden shelf lined with old cookbooks and a square television with a crooked antenna. Everything feels a little worn but loved, the kind of place that’s been lived in quietly for years.

Dorothea gestures toward a small archway. “Kitchen’s through there. Gas stove still works if you’re patient with her. I left the table too, it fits right under the window.”

You peek inside. The kitchen is narrow, tiled in pale yellow, with a single sink and a fridge humming softly. 

She continues down the hallway, showing two small empty bedrooms across from each other and a bathroom at the end. The fixtures are old porcelain, the mirror spotted, but everything smells like soap and lemon polish.

“There’s even a second bedroom,” she says warmly. “Perfect for when the baby comes.”

Steven coughs, nearly choking on air.

You glance at him, deadpan. “Children aren’t part of the plan yet.”

Dorothea chuckles, eyes twinkling. “Still in the honeymoon phase, then. That’s sweet. Plenty of time for that down the line.”

His head snaps up. “Please—”

She waves him off, smiling. “Oh, hush. I’m only teasing.”

Then she names the rent. The number sounds unreal, the kind of price you’d only hear from someone who values good tenants over money. You and Steve both pause, sharing your first real look of agreement.

You clear your throat. “Would it be all right if we talk about it for a minute?”

“Of course, dear,” Dorothea says, folding her flour-dusted hands. “Take your time. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

You both step out onto the landing. The air smells like fresh bread cooling below and a hint of rain outside. You can hear the old radio from the bakery drifting through the floorboards. Steven sticks his hands in his pockets, shifting awkwardly, still a little pink from the “settling down” comment. He looks over at you, sheepish.

You stay quiet for a second, both of you standing there with the soft hum of the bakery radio beneath your feet. The landing is narrow, lined with worn wallpaper and a window that looks out over Main Street. The sun is climbing higher now, catching the edges of the guy’s hair and the faint blush that still hasn’t left his face.

“So,” you say finally. “Steven.”

He looks up fast. “Just Steve.”

You nod. “Okay, ‘Just Steve’.” You give him your name, offering a quick, polite smile.

He repeats it softly, like he’s trying it out. Then he clears his throat. “So, uh, about the apartment.”

You glance back at the door. “Yeah. The price is… kind of hard to ignore.”

He nods. “It’s a good deal. Way better than anything else I’ve seen. I mean, I work at Family Video, so it’s not like I’m swimming in cash.”

You huff a small laugh. “Record store on Main. Same situation. I can pay, but it’d be easier to split it.”

Steve leans against the wall, crossing his arms. He looks thoughtful, not cautious, just measuring the idea. “There are two bedrooms. If you wanted, we could…” He hesitates, searching for the right phrasing. “We split the rent, utilities, all that.”

You tilt your head, he sounded like he had thought of this long before he messed up the showing time. “Did you already have a roommate in mind?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Sort of. I figured Robin might move in, but she’s still living at home. Doubt she’d care either way. She’ll probably be around a lot, though.”

You nod, finding it funny, the way he says the name like you should already know her. There’s a familiarity in his tone, easy and fond, the kind people use when they talk about someone who means something. You can’t help but wonder if she’s his girlfriend. You push the thought aside, keeping your tone even. “That’s fine. I’ve got friends who’ll probably hang around sometimes, too. Nothing crazy.”

He smiles, a little relieved. “So, no wild parties. Got it.”

“Same goes for you,” you say. “I’m not cleaning up after any keggers.”

He holds up both hands, mock-offended. “I’ve retired from that life. Promise.”

You talk through the practical stuff. Who’d take which bedroom. How to split the bills. That you’ll both try not to steal each other’s laundry quarters or leave dishes in the sink.

Maybe it’s the warmth from the bakery below or the way Steve’s voice softens when he agrees with you, but for a minute, it doesn’t feel like a bad idea.

When the terms are settled, you knock lightly on the doorframe and call for Dorothea.

“So?” she asks.

You glance at Steve, and he nods. “We’ll take it,” you both say at once.

Dorothea’s face brightens. “Oh, that’s just wonderful. I can have the paperwork ready this afternoon.”

She walks you through a few more details, pointing out where the spare key will hang and reminding you about the mail slot downstairs. Before she leaves, she pauses in the doorway, eyes soft. “And you two should come down for dinner sometime. Once a month, maybe. I get a little lonely in the evenings. It’d be nice to have company again.”

You start to say something, but Steve beats you to it, his smile smooth and easy. “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Shaw. We’d like that.”

Dorothea beams. “Good. I miss cooking for someone.”

When she’s gone, the apartment is quiet again, filled only with the muffled clatter of baking trays below. You and Steve stand there in the center of the living room, both realizing at the same time that you’ve just agreed to more than a lease.

He scratches the back of his neck, looking a little dazed but not unhappy. “So, guess we’re roommates,” he says finally.

You glance toward the window, then back at him. “Yeah. Guess we are.”

Sharing space takes some getting used to.

The first few weeks are a mix of small arguments and quiet adjustments. Your makeup and hair stuff slowly take over the bathroom counter, spreading across the sink like a virus. Steve leaves coffee mugs everywhere. On the counter, on the windowsill, once on top of the toilet. You tell him you’re not his maid, and he tells you he didn’t realize a person could own that many lip liners.

You meet in the middle. He keeps the mugs to one a day, and you start keeping your things in a little basket.

Dorothea still thinks you’re a couple. Every time you run into her downstairs she calls you “sweethearts.” Sometimes she sends you home with bread or pie and tells you how nice it is to have young love in the building again. You play along.

Steve’s good at it, annoyingly so, smiling and slipping an arm around your shoulder when she’s looking. The first time he calls you “babe” in front of her, you nearly choke on your croissant.

Your respective friends find the whole thing hilarious. They know it’s fake, and they don’t let either of you forget it.

Robin comes over a lot and makes herself at home, sitting cross-legged on the couch while she tells you stories about Family Video. It’s her who lets it slip that she isn’t Steve’s girlfriend, or any guy. She says it casually one night while the three of you are eating takeout, and you realize how easy she is to be around.

After that, she starts siding with you on all the roommate debates, insisting it’s weird and unsanitary for Steve to drink his coffee in the bathroom in the first place.

Your friend Eddie, who is at the record store so often you’re surprised he doesn’t work there too, drops by sometimes.

He acts like it’s the strangest thing in the world that you live with Steve Harrington of all people. You tell him you didn’t even know who that was supposed to be, and he spends half an hour filling you in on Hawkins High lore. It becomes a running joke, him calling you “Mrs. Harrington” just to watch you roll your eyes.

There are little gestures you both fall into when Dorothea’s around. Hand-holding when she’s looking. A light touch to his arm when she makes a comment about how happy you seem.

Once, she hugs you both goodbye and you kiss him on the cheek without thinking. The warmth of it lingers, and you both pretend it didn’t happen. You don’t really talk for the rest of the day.

By the end of the first month, you’ve fallen into a rhythm. He makes breakfast most mornings. You leave notes reminding him to pick up milk. Robin and Eddie still tease, Dorothea still thinks you’re in love, and neither of you has bothered to correct her. It’s easier this way.

By January, you’ve settled into a rhythm.

You and Steve move around each other like people who have lived together for years. He makes coffee in the mornings, you open the windows to let the cold air in while you get ready. You take turns doing dishes, and somehow it’s never been a fight.

He’s realized by now that the way you looked the day you met was a toned-down version. You don’t bother hiding it anymore. The pins are back on your jacket, your eyeliner a little heavier, your hair streaked again. You catch him humming along to your records sometimes, quiet and half out of tune, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. He brings home movies from Family Video on Fridays. Horror for you, action for him, something in the middle when you compromise.

You don’t bring anyone home, and neither does he. It’s easier that way. Keeps the story with Dorothea simple, and it makes the apartment feel like yours, even if you both keep pretending it’s temporary.

You’ve had a few dinners with Dorothea since moving in, each one warm and easy. She always sends you home with something wrapped in foil and a compliment about how you remind her of herself at your age. Tonight’s dinner is at her house, a small place on Cherry Street, just past Melvald’s, where the neighborhood dips into quiet. Her living room smells like pine, and there’s a small fire crackling in the hearth.

The table is already set when you arrive, three plates, mismatched silverware, a vase of fake flowers in the middle. She insists you sit side by side, saying something about “young love keeping her warm.” Steve just smiles and thanks her for the invitation.

Dinner is cozy. Roast chicken, scalloped potatoes, something green she swears will make your skin glow. The conversation drifts from the bakery to her garden to her late husband, William. She tells stories about him, how he used to bring her pastries even though she made them herself, how he’d leave her little notes in the kitchen every morning.

“Love is all habits,” she says, folding her napkin in her lap. “You find someone who makes your life quieter, easier, and you keep them around.”

You smile without thinking. The way Steve brings you coffee at work. How he picks up horror movies without asking. How he lets you talk over the opening credits.

When you look up, he’s already watching you. Not staring, exactly, just aware. You glance away, pretending to focus on your plate, but the heat creeps up your neck.

Dorothea notices, of course. “You two are sweet,” she says softly. “Reminds me of us.”

Steve laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “We try.”

She nods, satisfied, and launches into another story about the bakery’s first year, about waking up before sunrise to bake pies for customers. You listen, caught between the rhythm of her voice and the quiet sound of Steve’s fork tapping his plate beside you.

When dessert comes, the conversation softens. The fire pops, snow starts against the window, and you think about what she said about habits, about quiet. You don’t look at Steve this time, but you know he’s thinking the same thing.

Dorothea insists on pouring you both another glass of wine before you leave. You try to decline, but she waves it off, saying it keeps you young. The bottle is nearly gone by the time you finally manage to put your coats on, cheeks flushed and stomach warm.

Steve carries the leftovers in a small paper bag tied with twine. You’re walking back toward the bakery, breath fogging in the cold air. The snow isn’t heavy, just a flurry that catches in your hair and settles on his shoulders. The streetlights glow soft against the snow, and everything feels quieter than usual.

You walk side by side, boots crunching on the pavement. The air smells faintly like wood smoke and sugar.

“Dorothea really likes you,” Steve says after a while.

You smile a little. “Pretty sure she likes you more. You’re her golden boy.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “She’s just known me too long to be impressed.”

“Still. You’re the favorite.”

He grins, tipping his head toward you. “You jealous?”

“Not even a little.”

You keep walking, the silence between you not uncomfortable, just warm. The kind that hums quietly under the sound of your steps.

Then you say it. “So, my very real boyfriend…” you tease lightly, glancing up at him.

He snorts. “Yes, my very real girlfriend?”

You both laugh, the words sounding strange but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing that would normally end there, just another shared joke, but something about the wine keeps you talking.

You nudge him with your elbow. “I feel kind of bad, actually. If you ever want to bring someone home, we can figure it out. You know, so you can have an actual very real girlfriend.”

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thanks for the offer. I’ve been on a few dates, but nothing worth introducing to Mrs. Shaw. Or risking your wrath over.”

“Risking my wrath?” you ask, smiling.

“Yeah. You seem like you’d have rules about that kind of thing.”

“Only the important ones. No weirdos. No one who wears too much perfume.”

He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind. Not that I’ve had much luck anyway. I definitely don’t have the appeal I did back in school.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That so?”

He shrugs, the bag shifting in his hand. “Apparently.”

You can’t help laughing. “Maybe someone out there’s into that stupid Family Video vest you have to wear.”

“Please,” he says, grinning. “Trust me, no one’s ever been into the vest.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “Well, any dates I’ve been on weren’t exactly thrilling either. Mostly at their place. Which probably says a lot.”

He’s quiet for a second, then says softly, “Yeah. It’s weird, right? Talking about this stuff.”

“Kind of,” you say.

He looks over at you, eyes soft in the streetlight.

Home comes into view, the windows dark except for the glow of the sign in the front. He unlocks the door and holds it open for you. The smell of baked goods drifts through, familiar and warm.

You head upstairs together, the floorboards creaking under your feet, both of you still smiling like you’re not sure why.

Inside, everything feels softer. The bakery below is quiet for the night, and the only sound is the hum of the radiator and the faint wind against the windowpanes. You kick your shoes off near the door and hand him your coat without thinking. He takes it, hangs it on the hook by the door with his own, and toes off his shoes before heading toward the kitchen.

It is automatic by now. You go to the couch. He goes to find something to put on. The small rituals you have built over months slot neatly into place.

“You want another glass of wine?” he calls from the kitchen.

You blink. “We have wine?”

He laughs, the sound muffled by the clinking of glasses. “Debatably good wine. From the corner store. Classy stuff.”

You grin. “Pour me some, then.”

He comes back with two mismatched glasses and sits beside you. The movie starts up, something he must have grabbed from work. The title rolls across the screen, half horror, half comedy, a compromise you both pretend not to notice.

You sink deeper into the couch, the wine warm in your hand. It is cheap, but it is red, and you realize he must have remembered that you like it better than white. He never says anything about those little things, but you notice them. The red wine. The coasters he finally started using. The way he lets you pick the music when you clean.

For a while you both watch in comfortable silence, the kind that fills the room instead of empties it.

After a while, you speak. “You know,” you say, voice low, “I really think she buys it. Dorothea. The whole couple thing. I kind of feel bad lying to her.” You take a sip of your wine. “But it’s nice that she believes it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. The light from the television flickers against his face. He takes his own sip before setting the glass on the table. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I almost do too.”

You turn your head to look at him. The thought catches in your chest.

He’s leaning back, relaxed from the wine and the warmth, hair falling into his eyes. The yellow cable knit sweater he changed into before dinner looks soft, worn at the cuffs. There’s a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smile he never quite lets out. He looks content, peaceful in a way that makes it hard to look away.

You have always thought of him as clean-cut, too put together for you. But sitting here now, you see something else. The faint tiredness in his eyes. The curve of his shoulders. The kind of quiet that feels steady.

You tell yourself to look back at the screen, but you don’t. The movie keeps playing, forgotten. The air between you shifts, something warm and unspoken threading through it.

Steve is the one who breaks the silence.

“What?” he says, catching you looking at him. “Do I have, like, wine mouth or something?”

You blink. “Wine mouth?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s trying to wipe away the color. “Like when kids get that ring of juice stain around their mouth, but for adults.”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. The motion draws your eyes right back to his mouth. The faint red tint from the wine. The way his thumb drags over his lip. You look away, smiling a little.

“No,” you say softly. “Just… nothing.”

He leans back, still watching you. “You sure?”

You glance at him again, teasing now, trying to cover the flutter in your chest. “What? Am I not allowed to look at my very real boyfriend?”

He pauses. The joke should land easily, but his voice comes out quieter. “Not like that.”

You turn toward him a little, the air suddenly thicker. “Like what?”

He hesitates, then looks at you the way people do when they decide something. “Like I actually am your very real boyfriend.”

It’s quiet after that. His arm is along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him behind you. You don’t remember when he put it there. Your glasses sit on the table, half-finished.

You tilt your head, the corner of your mouth lifting. “If you were my very real boyfriend,” you say, voice lighter now, “what would you be doing right now?”

He grins, eyes still on yours. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d put my arm around you.”

You glance at his arm already stretched along the back of the couch. “Guess that one’s covered.”

He laughs softly. “Then maybe I’d tell you something sweet.”

“Like what?” you ask.

He pretends to think, his smile crooked. “Maybe that you look really pretty tonight.”

You huff a laugh, your cheeks warm. “That’s a good one. I’d probably tell you your sweater looks soft.”

He raises an eyebrow, playful. “You could always check.”

You bite your lip, pulse skipping as you press your hand lightly against his chest. The fabric is warm, softer than you expected. You can feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Soft.”

The air shifts. His laughter fades into something quieter. He covers your hand with his, fingers curling gently over yours. The space between you disappears inch by inch, breath mingling, eyes caught on each other.

“What now?” you whisper, still teasing but softer this time.

He smiles, almost shy. “Now I think your very real boyfriend would probably kiss you.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. “Oh yeah? Is that part of the job description?”

“Pretty sure,” he says. “You’d know if you read the fine print.”

You lean in a little, teasing. “Guess I missed that part.”

“Guess I’ll have to remind you,” he says, voice low but still smiling.

You’re both still grinning, still pretending it’s just a joke, but the space between you keeps getting smaller. The kind of slow drift that feels inevitable.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin our very real relationship,” you whisper, eyes flicking down to his mouth.

He laughs quietly, breath warm against your skin. “Yeah, that’d be a shame.”

Neither of you moves for a second, just the steady sound of the movie in the background, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then he leans in just a little more.

And you don’t stop him.

It’s slow, hesitant at first, the kind of kiss that starts with laughter still in your chests and ends with all the air gone from the room. The wine lingers between you, sweet and warm, and the world outside the window fades into the hush of snow and steady heat.

His hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he’s been itching to touch your face.

You didn’t even realize your fingers had curled into his sweater, gripping onto the fabric like it might keep you tethered to the moment. 

He pulls back just enough to search your face, his hand still cupped at your jaw. “Is this okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. This is… yeah.”

He kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing hesitant about it. It’s slow but sure, like he knows exactly how to pull you into it. His mouth moves with quiet confidence, patient and present. The kind of kiss that says he’s not rushing anything, not asking for more than you’ll give, but also not holding back.

When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you part them without even thinking, letting him in. There’s wine and warmth and something deeper you don’t name.

He tastes like everything he is:

Familiar.

Surprising.

Better than you expected.

You shouldn’t be surprised though, not after everything you’ve heard about from Eddie about Steve Harrington and the way he used to kiss girls behind the gym or in parked cars at Skull Rock. But this is nothing like that.

He’s not a teenage boy anymore. He’s grounded, even more sure of himself without putting on some bullshit act.

When he finally pulls away, both of you still breathless, he doesn’t let go of your hand. He lifts it from his chest like he’s realizing just now that you’d been holding him there. His eyes are soft and searching again, and the silence between you shifts.

Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to and you sit back a little, needing space to breathe. “It’s late.”

Steve blinks like he’s coming back to earth. “Yeah...”

“I… have work in the morning.”

He gives you a crooked smile. “No, you don’t. You have Thursdays off.”

You look at him. He says it so casually, like it’s just a fact in the universe.

“You know my schedule?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. It’s our cleaning day. You sweep, I vacuum. We fight about which records get played. You always win.”

You laugh under your breath, rubbing your palm against your thigh. “Still. Sleep. Sleep is good.”

“Definitely,” he says, eyes still on you.

Eventually you move. He stands first and offers his hand to pull you up from the couch. You both walk slowly toward the hallway, the apartment dim and quiet around you. The bedrooms are across from each other, same as always, but tonight it feels different.

You both hesitate for a second, then wordlessly disappear into your own rooms.

You change into your usual sleep clothes, a big t-shirt and your favorite worn-in shorts, the kind that make you feel like yourself. Your mind keeps replaying the kiss, the way his fingers felt against your cheek, the way his mouth lingered like he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.

You open your door at the same time he opens his. He’s in sweatpants and a white undershirt. You’re both heading toward the bathroom.

You stop in the doorway. “Sorry. I just—”

“I just need to—”

You both gesture toward the sink.

“I’ll be quick,” you say.

He leans against the doorframe instead, watching you for a second too long. Then something in his expression shifts.

Something like “fuck it.”

He steps forward, brushing your hair back before kissing you hard.

There’s no question this time. It’s not soft. Not teasing. It’s heat and need and the leftover as his hands find your waist. Yours slide up to his shoulders. The taste of wine mixes on your tongues and you don’t even care.

All you can think is that this is happening. Really happening.

And you don’t want it to stop.

You don’t know how long you’re kissing him before you both come up for air, chests rising and falling like you’ve just sprinted across Main Street. His hands stay firm on your waist, holding you there against the bathroom doorframe, and he’s watching you like he’s trying to decide if this is real.

It is.

You glance between your bedroom door and his. “My room’s… um, it’s a mess.”

Steve laughs, the kind that’s low and breathless. “Yeah. It’s always a mess.”

You start to protest, already ready to defend yourself. “Okay, no, I clean sometimes, I’m not—”

But he kisses you again before you can finish, stealing the rest of the sentence straight from your mouth. One hand slips around your back and the other finds your wrist, guiding you with him as he moves.

You barely register the few steps it takes before you’re inside his room. He doesn’t stop kissing you. He doesn’t even pause when he kicks the door shut behind you with the heel of his foot.

You feel the edge of the bed press against the backs of your knees. He gives you the smallest push and you tumble backward with a quiet laugh. The mattress creaks beneath you, protesting like it hasn’t been used for much more than sleep.

“Shit,” Steve mutters, crawling in after you. “I didn’t realize it was that loud.”

You grin up at him. “You haven’t tested it out?”

His mouth quirks. “Not like this.”

He leans over you, arms braced on either side as you settle against his pillows, and just looks for a second. Your shirt’s rumpled from where his hands touched you, your hair messy in the way that only happens when it’s been in someone else’s fingers.

His hair’s even more of a disaster than usual. You can tell he’s been running his hand through it, nervous, like he does when he’s thinking too hard.

But right now he’s not thinking. He’s just there, above you, eyes on your mouth again.

He kisses you.

Then again, slower this time, lips dragging across your cheek and down your jaw.

When his mouth brushes against your neck, your breath catches. He lingers there, warm and careful, his  strong jaw against your skin in a way that sends a shiver through you. Your hands slide from his shoulders to his hair, curling your fingers into the soft mess at the nape of his neck.

“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He smiles, a small curve of his lips against your throat before he continues, his kisses light, deliberate, exploring. He’s mapping you out. Learning the shapes of you. The space behind your ear, the sensitive spot just above the hollow of your throat.

His hands move too, one sliding under your shirt to rest flat against the small of your back, the other tracing patterns along your ribs through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His touch isn’t rushed. It’s like he’s savoring the moment, memorizing the feel of your skin, the sound of your breath catching when he finds a place you like.

“No bra?" He says against your skin, a question that isn't really a question.

You huff a quiet laugh, pulling back enough to look at him. “I was expecting sleep...”

“Yeah,” he whispers, sliding a hand higher to cup your breast. The weight of his palm against you, the warmth of his palm makes your breath hitch. “Maybe later.” He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, his thumb brushing over your nipple. It stiffens instantly, a shock of pleasure.

You let out a soft gasp, arching into his touch. He’s watching you again, that same focused look, his eyes tracing your face like he’s searching for some kind of permission in your expression to take your shirt off.

“Yeah?” He doesn't stop, just continues his slow, deliberate movements under the fabric. His thumb circles your nipple, each pass sending a jolt straight through you. You can feel the heat building between your legs, a low, persistent ache that’s been there since that first kiss on the couch.

Instead of answering, you tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. It’s not exactly graceful, but it’s efficient, and the cool air hits your skin, sending goosebumps everywhere. But it’s the look on his face that truly makes your breath catch. It’s not hungry, not exactly, but… reverent. Like he’s looking at something beautiful, something worth savoring.

“Wow,” he breathes, his gaze moving from your face down your body, taking you in. There’s no hesitation, no sense of him being overwhelmed. He looks like you’re the only thing in the room. "I always kind of wondered..."

"You've thought about my boobs?" You're aiming for sarcastic, but your voice comes out softer than intended, a little breathless.

His eyes snap back to yours, and he grins, a real, genuine grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Not just your boobs." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your sternum, his lips soft and warm. "I thought about the way you'd laugh if I said something stupid." Another kiss, a little lower, between your breasts. "I thought about the way your eyes get all intense when you're arguing with me about the best way to load a dishwasher."

His mouth travels lower, skimming across your ribs. "And yeah," he admits against your skin, "I thought about your boobs too."

You let out a huff of laughter that turns into a sharp gasp as his tongue traces the underside of your breast. He doesn’t go straight for your nipple, he’s taking his time, tasting you, mapping your skin. His hand that was resting on your back slides up, cradling the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as his mouth finally, finally closes over your nipple.

"Fuck," you whisper, arching into him. The sensation is a jolt, hot and sweet, and your fingers tighten in his hair. He applies gentle suction, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak, and his other hand palming your other breast, thumb rolling over that nipple, providing a friction that is almost too much.

"To be fair..." He says, switching over to give the other breast the same attention, voice a low rumble against your skin that makes you shiver. "It's a really great pair of boobs."

You want to laugh, you want to make a witty comeback, but all that comes out is a breathy moan as his teeth scrape lightly against your sensitive skin. He's listening to you, to every sound you make, and responding, adjusting his pressure, his pace, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you squirm. He's not just doing this for himself; he’s doing this for you.

The praise, the way he's looking up at you with his lips wrapped around your nipple, has heat pooling low in your belly, an insistent warmth.

"'Boobs' is such an unsexy word..." you breathe out, more of a reflex than a real complaint. It’s the only defense you have against the way he’s making your hips roll.

He pulls back for a second, his mouth hovering just above your skin, his breath warm against you. "Yeah?" he says, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. "You want me to find a better one? Tits?  Breasts?" He pauses, tracing your other nipple with a finger. His eyes meet yours, dark and serious. "Or how about... beautiful." He kisses the spot between your breasts, right over your heart. "Perfect."

The last word is whispered right before he dives back in, licking a broad stripe between your breasts and up to the hollow of your throat.

This is the most turned on you've been in a while. Your usual sarcasm feels flimsy, useless against his sincerity. It's easier to just let go.

Your hands are restless now, roving over his back, feeling the muscles shift under his thin t-shirt. It's in the way. You want to feel his skin. With a frustrated tug, you start pulling it up, he gets the message immediately, lifting his head and pulling back just enough to yank the shirt over his head in one quick motion.

He tosses it aside. It lands somewhere on the floor, probably on that pile of clean clothes he never puts away.

And there he is. Steve Harrington. Shirtless in his bedroom.

He's not what you were expecting, and you have to force yourself not to stare too openly. It's not bulky muscle. It's the kind that comes from doing things. From lugging around inventory at work and probably playing basketball in his driveway at home. He’s broad in the shoulders, with a light trail of dark hair that starts at his pecs and disappears into the waistband of his sweatpants.

A thin, silvery scar runs diagonally across his ribs. You trace it with your fingertip, a small frown pulling at your lips. "What's this from?"

He looks down, then back at you, a hint of something complicated in his eyes. "Just... from a while ago."

He doesn't elaborate, and the way his gaze shifts just slightly tells you it's not a story for tonight. You can respect that.

You don't ask, you just lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss against the scar. Your lips are warm against his skin. He closes his eyes, and when you pull back, you see his jaw is tight.

You trail your eyes down his body, and the smile that finds you is different. Softer. "Well," you murmur, your voice low. "It's a nice view from here."

He grins, the tension breaking. "Yeah?"

"Mhmm."

He shifts above you, settling his weight more comfortably. He's careful, not crushing you. He nudges his nose against yours, his breath warm. "The view's not bad from here either," he whispers. His eyes travel from your face, down your neck, across your chest and stomach.

He’s slow as he lowers his mouth, kissing the curve of your belly, soft and open-mouthed, and you feel yourself relaxing into his touch. His fingers trace the waistband of your shorts, teasing, and you instinctively lift your hips as he pulls them down.

They get caught on your ankle, a tangle of cotton. You both let out a breath of laughter, the spell of quiet intensity broken for a second as he works the fabric over your feet and tosses them aside.

“Okay,” he grins up at you from where he's kneeling between your legs. “Got it.”

And then his eyes go back to you. To you completely bare. On his bed. The smile fades.

You're used to being looked at. You're not shy. But this is different. He's not just looking; he's seeing, making you feel quiet inside.

"Impressive form," you murmur. You can't help it. It's your shield. "A little clunky, but you got there."

He chuckles, his eyes still fixed on the spot where your thighs meet. The sound is warm, and it vibrates right through you. "Oh, don't worry," he says, his hands braced on your thighs. "My form gets better."

Before you can fire back a reply, he gently spreads your legs apart.

And then he dips his head and kisses the inside of your knee.

It's a soft, deliberate kiss. And he continues from there. He mouths a path up your inner thigh, and his hands follow, warm and slightly calloused from work, gripping you gently. It's the slowest possible version of what this could be. He's not rushing toward the main event; he's taking the scenic route.

Your breath hitches when his mouth ghosts over the crease of your thigh. So close.

He hovers for a beat, and you can feel his warm breath against your pussy, already slick with arousal. The anticipation is unbearable.

"Steve," you whisper. It's half a plea, half a warning. Your bravado is evaporating under the focused heat of his attention.

He looks up at you, his mouth impossibly close, his eyes dark with something that looks like awe. "You're so pretty," he says, his voice a low murmur against your skin. It’s not a question. It's a revelation.

And then his tongue is on you.

A long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. It's not tentative. It's knowing. The groan he lets out is for your taste. The sound vibrates through your whole body.

"Fuck," you breathe, your head falling back against his pillows.

It was very clear to you earlier that Steve really liked kissing, and that is very obviously a skillset that translates. There’s no aimless exploration. He finds your clit easily, circling it with his tongue, testing the pressure until your hips buck off the bed. He slides two fingers into you, curling them instantly against that sensitive spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.

"God, right there," you manage to choke out, your hands fisting in his duvet.

He hums in response, a sound of deep satisfaction, and redoubles his efforts. His mouth is a perfect, relentless pressure. His fingers move in a steady, maddening rhythm. He’s watching you from between your thighs, cataloging every shudder, every hitch in your breath, and adjusting his technique accordingly.

He seems… proud. Proud that he can do this to you.

"Look at me," he says, his voice thick and muffled by you.

You force your eyes open. You’re so lost in it you had completely forgotten to be embarrassed or worried you weren't being "cool" about any of this. The sight of him, head tipped up, your wetness glistening on his chin, his pupils blown wide with desire, is the final straw.

"You're so-- fuck, you’re so intentional," you hear yourself say. It's an observation, barely a whisper, stripped of its usual bite. It's an offering.

"Yeah?" he grins, a real, genuine grin before his tongue flicks out for another taste, his fingers never ceasing their movement. "'Cause I want to get it right."

And that does it. That thought of him wanting to get something so right for you, while his mouth is wrapped around your clit, sends a bolt of pure, unadulterated heat through your center. Your back arches, a long, shuddering moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. It's not a quiet, polite thing; it's a full-body wave that leaves you breathless, your hand fisted in the duvet, your toes curled tight.

He doesn't stop. He works you through it, his mouth gentle now, his fingers slowing, drawing out every last spasm until you’re left twitching and boneless on his bed. When he finally lifts his head, his expression is pure, unadulterated pride.

"Jesus, Steve," you manage, your voice wrecked.

He crawls back up your body, settling his weight beside you. His grin is soft, satisfied, and when he leans in to kiss you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You meet him with equal fervor, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, pouring everything you can’t say into the kiss.

It’s you who deepens it, your tongue slick against his, one of your hands almost clumsy as it trails down to the waistband of his sweatpants. You’re not thinking. Not about anything but how you want to give him that same focus, that same careful consideration.

Your fingers find the line of him, hard and straining against the soft cotton. You're met with a soft gasp in your mouth, a sharp intake of breath. He freezes for just a second, surprised, before his hips press into your touch, a silent plea.

His reactions are better than words.

It’s your turn to explore. You slide your hand under the elastic of his pants and boxers, gasping softly into his mouth as your fingers wrap around him, hot and impossibly hard. You’ve spent hours next to this man, and you've never once thought about him like this, not with this intensity. He’s bigger than you expected, thick in your palm, a bead of slick already gathering at the tip. The weight of him feels like a confession, his need a tangible thing in your hand.

“Jesus,” he breathes against your lips, and then your name comes out like a genuine prayer. His body is taut, the muscles in his back bunching under your free hand.

You move your hand in a slow, steady grip, feeling him twitch in your palm. You’re not trying to get him off; you’re exploring, learning his shape, the texture of him.

When you let go he actually whimpers. It's so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if your mouths weren't so close.

He scrambles off you and pushes both layers down. His movements are a little clumsy as he kicks the last of the fabric away. You watch him, propped up on your elbows.

He doesn’t hide. He just hovers over you for a second, completely bare and more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, letting you look your fill. 

"Can you... lay on your back?" You whisper, "I just... I want to see you."

Steve blinks. For a second you think you've gone too far, asked for too much. But then his Adam's apple bobs in a slow swallow. He shifts, rolling onto his back beside you, stretching his long body out against the blue sheets of his bed. One arm goes behind his head, his other hand coming to rest on his stomach, just above where his erection lies hard and heavy against him.

The posture is casual. Open. It’s a surrender, and you feel a strange sort of power bloom in your chest. He was just in control, his head between your thighs, but now… now he’s letting you lead.

You shift, kneeling between his legs, and his eyes track your every move, dark and expectant. You lean over, places kisses on each beauty mark that dots his torso until you reach the cluster of them by his navel, where you look up.

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips pressed lightly against the mole just under his belly button.

“Yeah,” he breathes, the word coming out strained. “More than okay.”

In response, you press an open-mouthed kiss to the base of his cock.

“Fuck.” His whole body tenses, the hand on his stomach clenching into a fist as you take him in your hand, stroking him slowly from base to tip, his pre-come smearing over your palm. The feeling of him in your hand, hot and alive and yours for the taking, is intoxicating.

You don't waste any more time. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, and the sound he makes is a beautiful, broken thing.

Your hand settle on on his hip, the other wrapped around his shaft as you start to move.

He’s trying so, so hard to be quiet at first, the sounds catching in his throat. And sure, you remember everything that Eddie has said about the guy he used to be, the cocky jock whose voice was a loud, obnoxious thing at parties. But this is not that guy. This guy is trembling under you. This guy smells like soap and cheap wine and happiness and the heat of his own skin.

And this guy falls apart in minutes under your mouth.

His hips start to rock, small, helpless movements. His hand, previously clenched on his stomach, now comes to rest at the back of your head. He's not guiding you, not demanding, just resting it there, his fingers gently tangled in your hair as you work your tongue along the underside of his cock. He's learned, already, that you don't need to be told what to do.

Then his hips start to rock just that little bit more. That's all the permission you need.

You go lower, taking him deeper. His breath hitches as his cock hits the back of your throat and he tries, he really tries, to stop from babbling. A string of nonsense ends with a deep moan of your name as he loses the battle.

"So good... holy shit, you're so..." He breaks off into a guttural sound when you cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. "Fuck, don't stop, please don't..." It’s the first time he’s sounded truly desperate.

You don't intend to stop. You pull back for air before taking him deep again, faster this time, more confident. The hand in your hair tightens, not painfully, just... holding on.

"Look at you," he breathes out.

You glance up at him through your lashes. The look on his face is wrecked. All that former-cool-kid confidence completely gone, replaced with this raw, open-need. He’s watching your lips stretch around him, watching you take him, and the sight alone is enough to push him closer to the edge.

"I'm... I'm close," he manages to get out, his voice ragged. "You should... I'm gonna..." He's trying to be a gentleman. He's trying to warn you.

Instead of pulling back, you take him as deep as you can, your hand stroking what your mouth can't reach, and look him dead in the eye as you do. The silent permission, the greedy acceptance, is his undoing.

His whole body goes rigid. He calls out your name, one last, sharp, breathless cry, as he spills in your mouth. His hips stutter, his hand in your hair holding you there as you swallow him down, the taste of him salty and warm and utterly Steve.

After, you let him fall from your lips, pressing a soft, final kiss to his still-sensitive tip. You look up at him from your position between his thighs. He’s sprawled on the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. He looks completely undone. A state of him you've absolutely never seen and you are the cause of it.

You feel a surge of something that's equal parts satisfaction and affection as you crawl back up his body. He gathers you into his arms the second you're in reach, pulling you flush against his side. His mouth finds yours instantly, a hungry, messy kiss that doesn't care where your mouth just was.

"You..." He breathes out as he pulls back, but he doesn't seem to have any other words. He just shakes his head, a slow, amazed movement. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "You're..."

You trail your fingers through his hair, damp with sweat at the temples. "I think the word you're looking for is 'intentional'," you whisper, a ghost of a smile on your lips. He chuckles, his breath warm against you.

"No," he says. "The word is perfect."

His hand starts to move again, tracing slow circles on your hip. He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck. His mouth is lazy and sweet, the both of you pushed to a soft, warm exhaustion. You could stay like this all night, a tangle of limbs and warm skin. But the hand on your hip moves.

It trails down, back to the place he already wrecked. His fingers slide through your wetness, exploring your slick, oversensitive folds. You twitch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he gently pushes two fingers back inside you.

It's a feeling of coming home. He curls his fingers, finding that same spot as before. Not enough to make you come again, not yet. Just a promise. A reminder. He moves in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in time with the slide of his fingers.

"You feel so good," he whispers against your ear, and his voice is soft, not heated. It's like he's not even trying to get this to lead to anything more. He just wants to feel you. His touch is confident and caring in a way you've never experienced.

You turn your head to kiss him. It's slow and sweet.

His fingers work you, slow and sweet till you cum again. It's not the sharp, bright crash of your first orgasm, it's deeper, softer. A gentle wave of pleasure rolls through you, and you let out a soft, breathy moan into his mouth. Your body shudders against his.

When it's over, you slump bonelessly against him.

He holds you while the tremors run their course, his other hand tracing soothing patterns on your back. It's as close to perfect as you can imagine. He brings his fingers to his lips to taste you, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of the same awe from before. You also see a hint of something else. Something you’ve only ever seen hints of. Pride. Pride in you and pride in the fact that you are in his bed.

You pull back a little, looking down at him. His face is bathed in the soft, moonlit glow from the window. His hair is a mess on the pillow, his lips are kiss swollen, and he has a soft, contented look on his face.

"What?" he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Nothing. Can we... can we sleep? Like this?" You ask, already feeling a wave of sleepiness crash over you.

"I was hoping you'd say that." He pulls the duvet over the both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.

He pulls you into his arms again, and you rest your head on his chest. He’s warm and solid under you, and you can feel the steady, even beat of his heart against your cheek. It's a rhythm that's already starting to feel familiar, comforting.

Steve’s not a stranger anymore. He’s Steve.

Your very real Steve.

Your eyes drift closed. The last thing you hear is the quiet hum of his breathing.

You wake slowly, your mind piecing things together one at a time.

The sheets are softer than yours. The light is coming from the wrong side of the room. There is an arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm. It takes a second before it clicks. This isn’t your room.

You breathe out quietly and look around. The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of sunlight, catching on the framed car poster near the closet and the pile of clothes on the chair. It smells like sex and laundry detergent.

Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist. He doesn’t move. He’s out cold, flat on his stomach, hair a complete disaster, face half-buried in the pillow. You gather your oversized t-shirt from the floor and pull it over your head. Your shorts are nowhere in immediate sight, so you don’t bother looking long.

You pause at the edge of the bed and glance back at him. His back rises and falls in a steady rhythm, mouth slightly open, a small frown between his eyebrows like he’s dreaming about something frustrating. You feel something tug in your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s regret or something much worse.

The apartment is quiet when you step into the hall. The wood floors are cool under your feet. You head to the kitchen, pulling your hair out of your face with one hand while the other starts the coffee maker. The smell fills the room fast. It steadies you a little.

You pour a cup and lean against the counter, drinking it over the sink while looking out the window. Hawkins is already awake. A couple of kids are walking their bikes down Main, Joyce Byers is sweeping the front steps of Melvad’s, and a thin layer of snow dusts the street. The kind that won’t last long once the sun hits it.

The coffee burns a little going down, but it feels good. You’re trying not to think about the night before, but it keeps replaying anyway. His hands, his focus, the way he said your name like it meant something.

You don’t hear him right away, but then there’s a low, sleepy voice behind you.

“Morning.”

You turn just slightly, enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he’s just in his boxers. He walks past you to the coffee pot, yawning, and pours himself a cup.

“Morning,” you say quietly.

He leans against the counter next to you, shoulders brushing as he takes a sip. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s heavier than it should be.

You glance at him. “I’m sorry if this ruined our dynamic as roommates.”

He looks at you over the rim of his mug, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, it definitely ruins the roommate dynamic.”

You blink, unsure if you should laugh. “Oh.”

He sees your expression change and shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I mean—” He sets his mug down and turns to face you fully. “It definitely ruins the fake dating thing too.”

That doesn’t help. You look down into your coffee, your stomach sinking a little. “Right.”

He groans softly, rubbing a hand through his hair. “That came out wrong. I meant… it’s not fake anymore.”

You look up. His eyes are clear now, not sleepy, not joking. “I just… I figured this meant we went from ‘very real’ to actually… very real,” he says quietly.

For a second, you can’t find words. 

You meet his eyes again, and the small, nervous smile that follows is enough to make your heart trip over itself.

You take a slow breath. “Oh,” you say again, but this time it’s different. Softer.

He takes a small step closer. “So… is this— us. Are we okay?”

You lean your hip against the counter, considering him. “I don’t think I’d call us ruined.”

A quiet laugh escapes him, and he steps forward until he’s right in front of you. “I'd disagree. I feel pretty ruined from that mouth of yours--"

"Shut your mouth about my mouth." You groan, cheeks warming.

He grins wider now. "No. I don't think I will."

His smile softens again. It’s disarming, the way he can swing from teasing to sincere without missing a beat.

He reaches past you for your coffee mug, taking it from your hand and setting it on the counter beside his. Then he snakes his hands around your waist. But instead of pulling you in, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your front and resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s a comfortable position, intimate in a way that feels new. You can feel his warm breath against your ear. You cover his hands with your own, leaning your head back against his shoulder. 

“I’m really hoping you’re not going to go back to your room and pretend this didn’t happen,” he says, his voice low against your ear.

“No,” you say. “I really don’t want that.”

You don’t. The thought of going back to the carefully constructed farce you had between you feels impossible now.

"Good..." he murmurs. "But just to make sure..."

His hands move under your big shirt and settle on your hips and he nudges your thighs open with his knee, pressing himself against you. There’s no mistaking his intent, but it’s gentle, a question more than a demand.

You can feel him, half hard already, pressing against the thin fabric of his boxers. And this time, you push back, grinding your ass against him in a slow, deliberate movement.

He makes a soft, choked sound. "Okay, so... same page?" he manages, his breath hitching.

"Mhmm," you hum, turning your head to kiss his jaw. He tilts his head down to meet your mouth.

"Lean over the sink," he says, his voice low. "Please."

The 'please' is a key detail. A signpost.

You grip the edges of the counter. You can see the two of you in the small window above the sink: you, in your oversized black t-shirt; him, shirtless and strong behind you. It’s a raw, unfiltered image. You watch as he slowly, deliberately pulls down his boxers just enough, and you watch his face in the reflection.

He lines himself up. Instead of just pushing in, he traces the tip of his cock along your slick folds, back and forth, letting you feel the weight of him without rushing. He’s watching your face in the reflection, his own expression tight with control.

“Are you on…” he starts, trailing off.

You nod against the cool metal of the faucet. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out in relief. “Good.”

He notches the head of his cock at your entrance, and for a long moment, he just stays there, a hot, firm pressure. He’s pushing in so slowly, inch by torturous inch, your knuckles are white on the counter. The stretch is immense, a deep, fulfilling ache.

He watches the whole thing in the reflection.

You don't just feel watched, you feel worshipped. It’s unnerving, it’s intoxicating. He watches his cock disappear into you like it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, his breath caught in his throat.

"You okay?" he grunts out once he's fully inside you, his hands gripping your hips, his chest pressed against your back.

You can only nod again, a choked sound in your throat. Words are useless. You feel incredibly full, more connected to him than even last night. And all he’s doing is breathing.

His first withdrawal is slow too. A long, steady drag that leaves you feeling empty before he pushes back in, a deep, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You feel every inch of him.

“Shit,” you whisper, pushing back to meet him.

He lets out a low groan. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

“Let’s make this official, then,” he murmurs. He wraps one arm securely around your waist, pulling you back against him while his other hand slides down to find your clit. His movements are deliberate and assured.

“You feel so good around me,” he says, voice raspy and loving. "Could feel like this every day." His fingers begin to circle your clit. He starts to find his rhythm, a steady, deep rocking motion that has you bracing yourself against the counter.

You watch him in the window. The way his jaw clenches with effort, the way his biceps flex as he holds you. You watch your own face, lips parted, eyes hazy with pleasure.

The pace builds slowly. Each thrust a little harder, a little deeper, and the drag of him inside you is sending sparks of electricity up your spine. His fingers on your clit move in time, relentless, as your orgasm starts to build.

"Could be my very real girlfriend..." he whispers in your ear as his hips piston a little harder. "Could do this whenever you want..."

His voice, the raw need, the permission to have this, it's all too much. "Steve..." you manage, your voice cracking. You reach back, a hand finding his hip, nails digging into his skin as you try to hold on, to ground yourself, but he won't let you.

“Take you on dates, real ones,” he pants. “Not just fake ones for Dorothea.” His thumb presses harder, circles faster. “Go to the movies and hold your hand in the dark. Come home and do this."

Your orgasm crashes through you. It's a white-hot wave that steals your breath and makes your vision blur. You're crying out his name, a long, ragged sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. Your legs tremble, your body going weak as the pleasure overwhelms you. The hand braced on the counter almost slips.

He holds you steady through it. He doesn't stop. His hips keep pistoning, drawing out your orgasm, milking you for every last shudder.

"You sound... so pretty when you do that," he groans, his voice thick with desire. He's close, so close. You can feel it in the erratic rhythm of his thrusts, the way his breath hitches. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh.

His rhythm stutters. He buries his face in your neck, his mouth hot against your skin as he lets out a string of curses. His hips jerk forward, and he’s coming with a final, deep thrust, spilling into you with a shudder. He presses his forehead between your shoulder blades and breathes you in for a minute. His body is hot and heavy against yours, a dead weight that is one of the best things you have ever felt.

Neither of you speaks. There is just the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of the city, and the quiet aftermath of it all. It’s not awkward. It’s more. It’s heavy in the best way.

Finally, he straightens up, slowly, carefully. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before pulling out gently, leaving you feeling suddenly empty. You stay leaning against the counter for a second, trying to find your legs.

"Hey," he says softly, his voice still a little rough. "You okay?"

You turn around to face him fully and he's reaching to grab a clean dishcloth from the drawer, hand going around you to wet it in the sink, the other hand on your hip keeping you steady. He’s gentle as he cleans you up. He’s done this before. But this is not a rehearsed performance. It's an act of reverence that makes your throat tighten.

You finally look up and meet his eyes. He looks as wrecked as you feel. "Yeah," you say, and your voice is hoarse. "I'm really okay."

He looks a little shy, as you watch him clean himself up a little with the cloth before pulling up his boxers.

"I'm going to make some more coffee," he says, clearing his throat a little. "And then... then I think I'm going to do something incredibly uncool and make you pancakes."

You laugh, surprised by the sudden domesticity of it all. "Pancakes?"

"Yeah," he says, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Pancakes. From your hopefully very real boyfriend..."

He trails off, and you decide to help him out. You step forward and wrap your arms around his bare torso, pressing your cheek against his chest. You can feel his heart beating under your ear.

"I think I'm going to be incredibly uncool too," you mumble into his skin. "And let your very real girlfriend have some."

He hugs you back, and you just stand there for a moment, wrapped around each other in the brightening kitchen. This is new territory, but it doesn't feel scary. It feels right.

He pulls back after a minute, and you can't help but admire him again. He's relaxed in a way he hasn't been before, with an easy smile on his face.

"I'm going to be really honest, though." He says, looking sheepish. "I'm not actually that good at making pancakes."

You snort, and start rummaging through a drawer, eventually pulling out a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl. "Shut up. You are not getting out of this."

He laughs, reaching for his coffee mug again. "Okay, okay. But no laughing when they're a little... lumpy."

You watch him for a minute, a real smile finally breaking through your usual guarded expression. This is it, then. The thing you’ve been dancing around for months. It's not a performance for Dorothea or a convenient solution to awkward landlord encounters. It's just Steve. You. A kitchen that smells like sex and brewing coffee. And a coming promise of slightly lumpy pancakes.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Steve," you say softly, leaning your hip against the counter and watching him gather ingredients. "Wouldn't dream of it."

She nodded with exaggerated solemnity. “Oh, yeah. You missed the memo while you were too busy being king of the lunchroom. Meanwhile, Clarinet Matt over there has probably seen more ass than half the basketball team.”

“Matt?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He frowned. “Matt with the unibrow?”

“Hey, he learned to groom it. It’s two brows now.”

Steve snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

Robin grinned and finally looked up at him. Her lip balm snapped shut. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re stalling. Big difference.” She leaned back in the seat, watching him with her too-knowing gaze. “You haven’t been to one of these since… what, prom?”

He made a face. “Since before that.”

“Exactly.” She nudged his arm with her elbow. “And you’ve been all weird and twitchy lately—”

“Gee, wonder why,” he muttered.

“-and you haven’t flirted with anyone since like, June. Which is frankly disturbing and unnatural. So you’re coming inside, we’re grabbing a drink, and you’re gonna talk to someone who isn’t, like, twelve, or doesn’t work at Family Video.”

He hesitated. The truth was, he had flirted… kind of. He’d tried. But everything felt weird now. Off. Like there was a gap between who he used to be and who he was now, and he hadn’t quite figured out how to bridge it. He wasn’t “Steve the Hair” anymore. He wasn’t cool, or confident, or even all that charming. 

Robin softened slightly. She could see it and he knew she could. “Hey,” she said gently. “It’s just a party. Not a warzone.”

“I know.” He rubbed his hand over his face, dragging it down slowly. “I just… I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

“Then don’t ‘do’ anything,” she said. “Just exist. Be a guy at a party. Drink something questionable. Make fun of someone’s outfit. Maybe dance a little. Or don’t. But come inside.”

He didn’t answer right away. The stereo shifted to a new song, something synthy and echoing. The kind of track that sounded like a late summer night and sweat on the back of your neck. Through the windshield, the porch light flickered again, casting long shadows over the walkway.

Steve exhaled slowly.

“Fine,” he said at last, unbuckling his seatbelt. “But if I see Clarinet Matt grinding on anyone, I’m out.”

Robin beamed. “Deal.”

They got out of the car together. The air was thick with humidity, the sky bruised with heat lightning somewhere in the distance. As they headed up the sidewalk, someone popped out of the garage yelling something unintelligible, and a cheer went up from the backyard. A beer can rolled down the driveway and came to a stop at Steve’s foot.

He toed it aside.

“God, I forgot how gross parties are,” he said.

Robin bumped his shoulder. “Welcome back to the jungle, Harrington.”

They stepped up to the door and pushed it open—straight into the heat, the noise, and whatever the hell came next.

The cooler was already sweating through the table.

You wiped your hand on your skirt and reached for the bottle of gin you’d stashed earlier: cheap, sharp, and fast-working. The kind of thing that burned going down but paired well with questionable decisions. You hadn’t even meant to pour yourself a drink yet, but the second you heard someone trying to hook a boombox up through the window and shouting about how “the reverb sounded better in the garage,” you knew it was going to be that kind of night.

The back porch looked like a discount carnival. Twinkle lights strung in uneven lines along the fence, plastic cups already scattered in the grass, and Vickie darting around with the chaotic energy of someone hosting her first real party without parental supervision. Which, to be fair, she was.

“Your station looks amazing,” she chirped, popping up beside you with an armful of mismatched bar towels. “Like, way cooler than I pictured. You’re a total lifesaver.”

You huffed softly, pouring a small shot into your cup. “Yeah, well. I figured I owed you after you covered for me when I threw up in the trumpet section my senior year.”

“You had mono.”

“I had three wine coolers and a bad attitude.”

Vickie giggled and flitted off to untangle an extension cord. You leaned back against the folding table and took a sip, eyes drifting over the backyard.

The crowd was already forming, mostly Hawkins strays. Band kids, theater kids, art kids. The kind of people who filled out the school yearbook in all the margins the popular crowd didn’t bother to read. You recognized a few from The Hideout, where you slung drinks to the late-night crowd and kept tips stuffed in your bra. Some of them were still technically in high school. Some had just graduated. And then there were a few, like you, who hung somewhere in between, old enough to know better, but still showing up anyway.

You hadn’t planned on doing this tonight. Didn’t really feel like being the entertainment. But Vickie had asked, and you still had a soft spot for weird little band kids with big hearts and bad judgment. Plus, she’d begged, promised she’d owe you forever, and who were you to say no to that?

Because she asked. Because you were soft where it counted, even if most people didn’t see it.

So you came in hot. You always did nowadays.

Your makeup was full war paint—black liner winged out to your temples, shimmer on your lids, lashes thick and dramatic. Red lips, perfectly outlined, just glossy enough to look dangerous. Your hair fell in tousled waves, the ends curled like you barely tried (but definitely had). You looked like the kind of girl your high school self would've stared at. Maybe even been a little scared of.

Which was the point.

You took the shot and chased it with a deep breath, letting the burn settle in your chest as you surveyed the yard. A few kids in fishnets and glitter were giggling over a playlist. Someone had already spilled something down the porch steps. A girl in fairy wings tried to climb the fence and nearly took out the string lights in the process.

Same chaos, different day.

It had been a couple years since you left this behind, the Hawkins theater scene, the cast parties, the makeouts in laundry rooms and crying in someone’s car over failed auditions. You were older now. Wiser. Definitely hotter. Working nights at The Hideout had burned the last of your high school softness out of you and replaced it with sharp edges and knowing smirks. You could handle drunk strangers and lecherous regulars without flinching.

This? This was nothing.

Still, you couldn’t help the way your chest ached a little watching them all swirl and laugh, tipsy on youth and whatever cheap booze they’d managed to sneak past Vickie’s pantry.

You pushed your hair back from your face, licked your lips, and leaned forward on your elbows, letting the music roll over you. You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to flirt or dance or fall into anything.

But if something interesting found you?

You weren’t above letting the night get a little fun.

The music was loud, but not in a bad way necessarily.

Just in a way that made your chest hum a little. The way that meant the party has officially kicked off. Steve stood on the edge of the living room, beer in hand, watching the crowd morph and stretch into something a little messier than it had been ten minutes ago. Lights from the backyard flickered through the open screen door, casting shadows across the floor. Someone was trying to teach some underclassmen how to line dance. It wasn’t going well.

Robin had already disappeared into a group by the kitchen, deep in conversation with a girl who looked like she had strong opinions on musicals or something. Steve caught bits and pieces but tuned out before he got roped in. It wasn;t that he didn't like Robin’s other friends, this just wasn't really his scene.

Most of the people here weren't really his scene. He wasn't even sure if he had a scene anymore.

He’d gotten a few nods since walking in, most following recognition flashes and confused smiles. A couple people had even said ‘hi’ with the same tilted head energy they might use seeing a teacher at the grocery store.

No one had said it outright, but he could hear it:

What is he doing here?

Honestly, he still wasn't sure himself.

The beer was getting warm. He didn't know what the brand was but it tasted fine enough. He sipped it and wandered toward the back of the house, past the open door and into the yard where the energy was freer, a little weirder in a way that didn't feel so stifling, even if still a bit unfamiliar.

And then he saw her.

It wasn't anything dramatic. No spotlight or music swelling. No slow motion entrance from a John Hughes flick.

But his eyes caught on her and just…stuck.

She was leaning against a folding table near the back fence, surrounded by liquor bottles and lime, pouring something into a red cup like she'd done it a thousand times. She wasn;t his usual type, bold makeup, a couple tattoos. She looked older and unapologetic. Not in a she’s too old to be here way, just maybe in that in-between stage like he was.

Except she seems sure of herself. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. It looked like she didn't even have to.

Steve blinked as she said something to a kid in suspenders, her laugh soft while she poured another drink. Her bracelets jingled when she moved. She hadn't noticed him staring yet and he didn't even realize he was staring until she finally did.

Her gaze flicked toward him, brief and curious.

And she smiled.

Just a little. Barely more than a twitch at the corner of her mouth. But it wasn't the same smiles he had been getting all night from everyone else. It wasn't mocking, or surprising. It was just an acknowledgement. Like he was a person and not a misplaced party guest.

Then she turned back to the drink in front of her, handing it off to a girl without missing a beat.

Steve stood there a second longer, hearing Robin’s voice in his head from earlier.

His thumb tapped against his beer can and then, almost without thinking, he started walking toward her.

He didn’t walk straight up to the table.

There was a small cluster of kids already crowding the makeshift bar. The kind of people who probably whispered about him in the halls last year but never talked to him directly. They laughed too loud and asked for drinks with dumb names that didn't exist, and you played them along like you heard it all before. Like this was something you did all the time.

He lingered at the edge, watching. Still sipping his shitty warm beer. He was past pretending it was any good now.

He noticed you laugh easily now that he was up close. You teased the group in front of you as you poured a round of something that was suspiciously neon into cups, wrist flicking in practiced motions. One of the guys said something dumb about jungle juice and you shot back with no hesitation:

“If you end up puking in Vickie’s hydrangeas, I’m telling everyone it was on purpose.”

That got a roar of laughter, and it made Steve smile too, even though he wasn’t part of it.

Eventually the crowd peeled off, drinks in hand heading to whatever trouble they were about to cause. And it was just him, still standing there like a guy who hadn't made up his mind yet.

You looked up from cleaning a spill.

For the first time, your eyes really landed on him. Full attention. Like you were seeing him clearly now that the others had cleared out.

You gaze swept over him, deliberate but unhurried. It was curious, maybe even amused, but with no bite behind it.

Then you smiled again, a little different this time. Like you knew something he didn't.

“Hey…” He said. 

Astounding. Revolutionary opening, Steve, truly.

“Hey,” you said, cocking your head. “You don’t look like a vodka-cran guy.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard by the sound of your voice directed squarely at him. You gestured toward the table with a flourish.

He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, glancing down at the very real, very chaotic spread of alcohol laid out in front of you. There were multiple types of gin, two bottles of tequila, a half-empty handle of rum, and, somehow, a can of whipped cream.

“Jesus,” he said under his breath. “You could run a bar out here.”

You grinned. “I do, technically. Just not for free.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter from him, and for a moment, he forgot why he’d come over in the first place.

And then you leaned forward slightly, resting your palms on the edge of the table, watching him.

“So? You going to pick your poison?” you asked. “Or, are you gonna make me guess, pretty boy?”

It hit him sideways. Not the words, those were light, teasing, easy. But the way you said it. Like you meant it, but didn’t care if he couldn’t handle it. Like it was natural. Like you’d seen through the awkward edges of his presence here and decided to let him stay anyway.

His brain stalled for half a second. Something behind his ribs fluttered, a little confused by the attention, a little stirred up by the fact that you weren’t looking at him like everyone else had tonight.

He blinked. Tried to think of something cool to say.

And then it came out before he could stop it.

“Can I pick you?”

It was instinct, old muscle memory, the kind of line he used to throw out at parties like candy. Except now, it didn’t feel natural. It felt exposing. Immediately exposing.

As soon as he said it, his face flushed, and he looked down at his beer can like it might offer an escape hatch.

“I mean…shit, I used to be better at this, you know? It…definitely sounded better in my head, less… douchey or whatever–” He gestured weakly toward the cooler, already halfway into backpedaling.

But when he looked back up, you weren’t laughing.

You were still watching him, mouth curled into something softer. Surprised, yeah no shit, but not in a bad way. More like you just hadn’t expected him to say it.

And then, you tilted your head and said, “Don’t worry. You had my attention at ‘hey.’”

You turned away briefly to grab two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila, not explaining, not drawing attention to the way he’d clearly scrambled himself with that line. Just filled the glasses like it was routine and slid one across the table toward him.

He picked it up carefully, eyes flicking from the salt dish to the lime wedges stacked beside it. You already had one in your hand.

“You’re gonna want this after,” you said, handing him a lime with a smirk. “You’ve got the face of someone who pretends he likes tequila, but absolutely doesn’t.”

Steve scoffed. “I can handle it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You clinked your glass lightly against his. “To questionable choices.”

He grinned, couldn’t help it. You knocked them back in sync. The burn hit hard, and yeah, you were absolutely right. But the lime helped.

So did your smile.

You were acting cool. Because that’s what you did.

You smiled, handed him the lime like it was nothing, took the shot like it didn’t burn more than usual. Like Steve Harrington hadn’t just said Can I pick you? in the most unexpectedly earnest way possible.

Your job made you good at keeping your face still, your voice even, your energy light. Guys said worse things to you at The Hideout on a nightly basis. But none of those guys had once been crowned King Steve in a high school gym you used to pass through to get to rehearsal. None of them had ever looked at you like this. Like you weren’t a bartender, or a girl at a party, or a weird blast from Hawkins High’s distant past.

Just a person. Standing in front of him. With tequila on your tongue and too many thoughts in your head.

You reached for a mixer, busying your hands.

“So,” you said, capping the tequila again. “You want something real or are you gonna keep nursing that warm-ass beer?”

He looked down at the can, made a face. “I mean… I probably shouldn’t go too hard. I’m the designated ride later.”

You nodded, already reaching for the Sprite and one of the better rums. “Got it. Responsible and polite.”

“Don’t spread it around,” he said, smirking. “I’ve got a reputation to ruin.”

You snorted softly and handed him the cup, chilled and fizzy and just sweet enough to go down easy. He took a sip and raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, that’s actually good.”

You feigned a bow. “I’ll be here all night.”

But that wasn’t exactly true, was it?

Because suddenly, there was a line again. Some theater kid you vaguely remembered (Jake? James? Something with a J) was already approaching with two glitter-covered girls, asking for tequila sunrises like they were at a cruise ship bar. You held up a hand, fingers spread in mock authority.

“One sec.”

You turned to the boy (Jackson, maybe) and handed him a half-full bottle of juice.

“You’re promoted. Don’t mess it up. Tell Vickie I’m… on my break.”

He blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously,” you said. “Go nuts. But, like, not actually nuts.”

He nodded like you’d just knighted him, and you grabbed your own drink, gesturing for Steve to follow.

“Come on,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “There’s a spot.”

You didn’t wait to see if he followed, but you knew he would. He was curious. You could feel it.

The hallway was quieter than the rest of the house, and you slipped past a few coats hanging on hooks, turning up the stairs and heading for Vickie’s room without thinking. You’d been here enough times to know the layout. The party noise was muffled now, just bass and laughter bleeding through the walls. You stopped by the window and glanced back.

Steve was still with you. Still holding that solo cup, still smiling like he wasn’t entirely sure how this happened, but also not questioning it.

You popped the screen and nudged open the window.

“Okay,” you said. “This next part requires a little balance.”

He arched a brow. “Please don’t make me climb anything.”

You smirked. “Too late.”

And then you stepped out, one leg through the window and then the other, onto the low section of roof that overlooked the backyard. The air felt cooler up there, like the night hadn’t realized it was late summer. You sat, crossed your legs, and looked back just as Steve climbed through, much less graceful, more cautious, but he made it. His cup sloshed a little, but didn’t spill.

You smiled and patted the shingles beside you.

“Congrats. You survived my highly exclusive VIP lounge.”

He settled beside you, legs stretched out in front of him. The lights below flickered gold across the lawn. From here, the party looked like it belonged to someone else entirely.

You sipped your drink and tried not to think about how close his shoulder was.

You were calm. You were collected.

You were… absolutely freaking out.

You weren’t really sure where this rush of confidence had happened, or how this moment came to be. This meaning sitting next to Steve Harrington on a roof at a house party like it was normal, like it happened all the damn time.

You'd graduated the year before him. One year older, but it had felt like more back then. He’d been all loud confidence and good genetics, orbiting the halls of Hawkins High like he owned teh place while you were painting sets and working late shifts at the mini-mart. Theater kid. Full riddle to the chorus of other people's drama. You barely had time for your own.

Back then you watched him from a distance. Not like that, (okay, sometimes like that) but mostly just curious. Because halfway through your senior year, something shifted. He wasn't as bad. Not as smug. Didn't hang out with those douchebag friends of his anymore. The shine didn't fade exactly, but it cracked a little. And you definitely noticed.

You heard he got his ass handed to him in an alley by Jonathan Byers and that sometime after, he started driving around freshmen like it was a job. You’d caught a glimpse once, through the drugstore window, of him standing next to Robin Buckley in a Family Video vest. That had made you smile.

Something about that made sense.

She wasn’t the kind of person people like Steve used to be friends with. But maybe he wasn’t that person anymore. Maybe you weren’t, either.

You snuck a glance at him now, sitting beside you, the rim of his red cup pressed to his mouth, watching the backyard like he wasn’t sure if he missed it or was glad to be removed from it.

You got the feeling maybe he’d changed more than people realized.

The sounds of the party drifted up from the backyard in a low, distant blur. A beat-heavy song was playing and someone below was trying to harmonize over it very, very badly. You smirked into your cup.

Steve was watching it all quietly, elbow propped on his knee. You could tell he didn’t quite know where he fit into this version of Hawkins. Like the script had changed and he’d missed the rehearsal.

“Didn’t realize all the band and theater kids partied like this,” he said finally. “Kinda thought we had the monopoly on dumb house parties.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah, well. Clarinet Matt’s been drunk since like 7:30, so. Clearly we know how to throw down.”

Steve glanced over the edge of the roof, eyebrows raised. “That’s Clarinet Matt?”

You pointed with your drink to a guy, flanked on both sides by two giggling girls. “The one in the crop top by the fence? Yeah.”

He huffed a laugh. “Robin was right.”

“You two always talk about clarinet players?”

“Weirdly often,” he said, and you caught the smile before he looked away again. “She said something about how you guys were all secretly screwing each other.”

You snorted, raising your eyebrows. “Secretly?”

He laughed under his breath. But something in the way he said you guys rubbed just the wrong way. You weren’t offended, not really. But it slipped out anyway.

“Maybe you just had your head too far up your own ass in high school to notice.”

As soon as the words were out, you winced.

Shit.

You hadn’t meant it harsh, but still, you could feel the air shift slightly. You looked over, ready to backpedal.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “That came out-”

“No,” he cut in, shaking his head. “You’re right.”

It was quiet for a second.

He didn’t look angry. Just… thoughtful. The kind of quiet that comes when someone’s tallying up old versions of themselves and not really liking the math.

He took a sip from his cup, like it could buy him a beat, then turned his head to look at you fully.

“You knew who I was,” he said softly. “Back then.”

It wasn’t a question. Just an observation.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He blinked, almost sheepish. “I didn’t- I didn’t realize you did. I mean, I don’t remember you—”

You waved a hand. “It’s fine. I wasn’t exactly on your radar. Theater kid, remember? Black box and dress rehearsals and building sets after class. I was always around, but, like… not in the cafeteria table kind of way.”

He was quiet again. You could tell it bugged him. He looked down at his cup, then back at you. His brows knit together, like something was slowly clicking into place.

“Wait,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “Were you in that play my junior year? The Crucible? You were… uh shit, you were Abigail? Right?”

You blinked. “You saw The Crucible?”

“Yeah. Nancy dragged me to it. She was doing a write-up for the school paper, and I thought it was gonna be torture, but…” He trailed off, watching you more closely now. “You were good. Like… really good. Scared the hell out of me, actually.”

You laughed, surprised. “That was kind of the goal.”

“I remember thinking, like, damn, she’s not messing around.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know that was you.”

You shrugged, eyes on your drink. “I didn’t look the same back then.”

“No,” he said quietly. “But I should’ve remembered you.”

And the way he said it made your stomach twist, just a little.

You looked different now.

Not that you were ever unattractive, not even close. But in high school, you’d kind of blended in—always rushing between rehearsal and whatever after-school job you had lined up next. You were the kind of girl who never lingered. Who never looked like she had time for anything that didn’t matter.

And now?

Now you looked like someone who’d taken all that time back.

It threw him a little, honestly.

He glanced sideways at you, your knees pulled up, cup resting loosely in your hands, the lights from the backyard glinting against your bracelets and the gloss on your mouth.

Without really thinking, he nudged your knee lightly with his own.

“So… what’s with the whole makeover?”

You looked over at him, brow raised, and his mouth moved faster than his brain could catch up.

“Not in a bad way. I just mean, you obviously look different. Not that you didn’t- ” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You look great. Just different. From school.”

You snorted softly into your cup, and the tension in his chest unknotted slightly.

“My parents suck,” you said, voice even. “Strict. Had money but no imagination. Theater was a ‘waste of potential.’”

He stayed quiet, listening as you kept going.

“I worked a lot. After school, weekends, holidays. Probably why you never saw me at parties or whatever. Theater and band kids were the only people I ever really hung out with.”

You sipped your drink again. A little slower this time.

“Eventually saved enough to get out. I’ve got a trailer now. Forest Hills.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it.

He could hear the shift in your voice, the way you braced for judgment, even if you tried to keep it hidden under a casual tone.

But that wasn’t him. Not anymore.

He nodded, like it was simple. Because to him, it kind of was.

“That’s yours, though,” he said. “That’s more than most people our age can say.”

You looked at him, surprised for half a second. But then your smile crept in, quiet and almost a little shy.

“My parents aren’t strict,” he said after a moment. “They’re just... never really around. Always off somewhere, leaving me the house and a list of rules they don’t check up on.”

You tilted your head. “That sounds… lonely.”

He shrugged, looking back out over the party. “I guess. I’m kind of figuring it out. Didn’t get into college. Working at Family Video. Still showing up at high school parties, apparently.”

You raised your cup. “Well. I’m here too.”

He looked over at you.

And this time, when you smiled, he smiled back.

You knocked your cups together with a quiet clink.

The music below shifted. Someone whooped. But up here, the two of you were still.

“So…” you started, sipping from your cup, still watching the scene below. “You hang out with Robin a lot, huh?”

He followed your gaze. Robin was down in the backyard talking animatedly to Vickie, her hands moving too fast for her mouth to keep up, surrounded by a loose ring of band kids. She looked like she was in her element.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. She’s, uh, she’s a great girl.”

He said it a little too quickly. Then winced internally at how it sounded. “I mean, not like that. She’s not…” He scratched the back of his neck. “We’re just friends. Like, capital-P Platonic. Promise.”

You turned to look at him, and he caught the amused little twitch at the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah,” you said, with a soft kind of ease. “I don’t really think you’re her type.”

He blinked. Looked at you again and realized you knew. Or at least had a very good idea.

Something settled in his chest then, gentle and unspoken. Like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

You glanced back down at Robin. “You’re a good friend to her.”

That one landed a little deeper. Like you knew guys like him weren’t always the type to get it. But he did. And it meant something.

“Thanks,” he said, voice a little lower.

It got quiet again, but it wasn’t awkward, and after a second, he turned to you, leaning slightly on one elbow.

“So… just for the record, since we’re talking about this stuff… I’m not seeing anyone.”

You didn’t look surprised. Just lifted a brow. “Okay.”

He smirked. “Yeah. I just figured… in case you were wondering.”

You nodded, taking another sip. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

Another pause.

He cleared his throat. “I, um… ”

You glanced at him again.

“You know I’m flirting with you, right?”

You looked at him for a second, then gave a small shrug and said, “Yeah. I know you are.”

He blinked, thrown for just a beat, until you added, “Thought you’d be better at it.”

That made him laugh. An actual, warm, caught-off-guard kind of laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m out of practice. My now growing list of embarrassing work uniforms has put a strain on my success rate.”

He looked back out over the party, the way the lights blinked down below, the sound of someone starting a chant that would probably lead to something dumb. And for a second, it felt almost normal. Like this could just be any summer night.

But it wasn’t. Not really.

He hadn’t talked much about what happened. Not even to Robin. He couldn’t exactly say, hey, I got the shit kicked out of me in a Soviet elevator under a shopping mall, and then watched it burn down with monsters inside it. There wasn’t a way to casually drop that into conversation. So instead, he just... hadn’t. He worked. He cracked jokes. He kept showing up.

You glanced at him then, and he could feel your eyes even before you spoke.

“So,” you said quietly. “Why were you?”

He looked over, confused. “Why was I what?”

“Flirting with me.”

It wasn’t defensive or suspicious, and he felt the weight of it. It was something he needed to answer honestly.

He scratched at his jeans, glanced down at his hand resting beside yours on the roof, close but not touching.

“Because you’re... I mean, you’re pretty,” he said, like it was obvious. “But not just that. I think it’s... I was looking at you earlier. Not in a creepy way, but like, because you don’t seem like you care what anyone here thinks of you. You’re not trying to be anyone. You just are.”

He exhaled a little. Let the rest come out in a slower rhythm.

“Like... you know who you are, and you’re not embarrassed about it. I guess I’ve just been trying to figure that out for myself lately.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“And you seem like someone who already has.”

Your fingers brushed his. It was soft. Barely anything. Just the backs of your hands, sitting close on the shingles, moving just enough to feel the shift.

Your fingers lingered near his on the roof, brushing again, slower this time. The kind of touch that wasn’t quite on purpose, but wasn’t exactly an accident either.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke.

“I don’t think I ever thought someone like you would call me pretty.”

He turned his head, brows raised just enough to show he didn’t quite follow.

You glanced at him, making air quotes with your fingers. “You know… I’m not, like, the ‘Steve Harrington’ type.” 

He laughed quietly. “Yeah, I guess that tracks.”

You half-smiled into your cup, but he kept looking at you like he wanted to say something else. And then he did.

“I mean, I thought I had a crush on Robin for a while,” he said. “Right after we started working together. But then I realized she was, well... not into guys.”

That made you laugh, a soft exhale through your nose.

He gave a half shrug. “I guess I don’t really know what my type is anymore. I used to think I did. Cheerleaders, popular girls, pretty in that obvious way... but now I think maybe all that stuff, the boxes we’re supposed to fit into it doesn’t matter as much as I thought it did.”

You looked at him again, and this time he didn’t look away.

“It’s more about how someone makes you feel. And I don’t know, you just... you feel like your own person. I like that.”

You could feel the warmth in your chest before you said anything, and it annoyed you in that way that made you smile a little too wide.

“So now you’re sweet and insightful?” you said, shaking your head. “Great. Like it wasn’t already unfair that you’ve always been pretty.”

He looked smug about that. You gave him a light elbow to the ribs.

“I’m serious. It’s kind of rude, actually.”

“I also… think I like girls who give me a hard time?”

He grinned at you when he said it, and it was softer than before. Less about trying to be charming, more about just enjoying the moment. You didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just watched the backyard, listened to the party stretch out below you like it had nothing to do with what was happening up here.

Then you leaned forward a little, finishing what was left in your cup, and said, “We should probably go inside.”

You didn’t mean the party.

You didn’t need to say it.

He hesitated, confused for a second, and you almost clarified. But then you saw the shift in his expression, the understanding settling in behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

You slid back through the window first, feet hitting the carpet softly. He followed right after, careful with the screen, shutting it gently behind him.

And just like that, you were back in the bedroom. Still alone. Still close.

The rooftop air hadn’t left your skin yet.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the moon through the sheer curtains and the faint shimmer of backyard string lights bleeding in from the window. There was no lamp on, no overhead light buzzing to distract from the soft hush that had fallen over the room. Everything outside felt far away. Muffled music. Laughter that didn’t belong to either of you anymore.

Steve turned from the window slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should speak first. His silhouette was easy to make out against the glow. He stood with one hand resting on the sill, the other loosely curled at his side. There was something a little unsure in the way he moved, like he wasn’t used to being in someone else’s space without a script to follow.

When he looked at you, the light hit just enough to catch in his eyes, almost adding a golden hue. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you, like he was trying to figure out what came next without ruining it.

He wasn’t towering or anything, but he was taller enough that it was noticeable in the stillness. He filled the frame of the window behind him, the night brushing along the edges of his hair, the collar of his shirt slightly crooked like he’d tugged at it nervously earlier in the evening. You could tell he was waiting for you to make the next move, but you didn’t know exactly what you wanted to do.

And somehow, that made it easier.

He gave you a smile, soft around the edges, and let out a quiet laugh. It wasn’t smug or teasing. It was nervous in a way that felt real.

You stepped forward before you could think about it too much and your fingers grazed the back of his hand, brushed lightly across the knuckles, then curled around his palm.

You didn’t rush it.

You just stood there, fingertips exploring the shape of his hand, the slight calluses on his fingers, the warmth of his skin. Slowly, deliberately, you laced your fingers through his, one by one.

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he shifted closer.

His other hand hovered, just a few inches above your waist, like he was waiting for some kind of unspoken permission. You could feel his breath against your cheek, and when he finally asked, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Is this okay?”

You nodded. The moment didn’t need anything louder than that.

He settled his hand gently at your waist, and you felt his thumb rest there, just barely moving.

Outside, someone had changed the music again. You could hear it clearly now through the half-cracked window behind him. Slower, moodier. Some dramatic love song that felt too on the nose, but somehow perfect in its own ridiculous way and you both laughed.

It broke the tension just enough to make the air feel easier to breathe.

“What,” you said, your voice soft and teasing, “are you going to dance with me now?”

“I might,” he said, watching you carefully.

You stepped back just a little. Not far, just enough to make room. Then, with a smile tugging at your lips, you gave yourself a little twirl. It wasn’t graceful or showy. Just a small, silly spin that made your skirt shift and your bracelets jingle, and made him smile the way you hoped he would.

When you turned back around, he was still watching you.

Only now he was closer.

He wasn’t touching you how he wanted, not yet, but the space between you had narrowed without either of you saying a word about it. You could feel the warmth coming off him, the way his hand was still in yours, thumb brushing gently over your skin like it had started doing it on its own.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

You weren’t sure if it was nerves or something else, but your pulse had picked up, steady but noticeable, and when you looked up at him, he was already looking back at you.

His eyes flicked to your mouth for a second. Just one. Then back to your eyes.

You weren’t usually shy about this sort of thing. Not anymore. But something about this felt different, like it wasn’t about boldness or performance. Just a choice. One you didn’t want to overthink.

“You’re not the Steve Harrington I expected,” you said, voice low.

Steve smiled, but it wasn’t playful this time. “Yeah? You’re kind of surprising too.”

You stayed like that for a second longer. Close enough to hear each other breathe. Close enough that you didn’t have to think.

Then you rose up on your toes and kissed him.

A quiet press of your lips to his. The kind of kiss that asks rather than takes, lingering for a beat longer than it should, but never once feels wrong.

Your lips were soft. A little unsure at first, but not hesitant. Just… careful. Like you wanted to make sure this was real. That you could actually kiss him and it would mean something.

Steve leaned into it, finding his rhythm again, the kind he used to be good at before everything got complicated. This he still remembered. The way a kiss could feel electric if it was with someone who actually saw you.

Your hand was still in his, your fingers curled tight like you didn’t want to let go just yet. He moved the other one to your waist, tentative, checking your face for any shift. You didn’t pull back. You leaned in. That was all the answer he needed.

The warmth of your body, the faint smell of whatever perfume you were wearing—a little sharp, a little sweet—anchored him. He deepened the kiss slightly. One of those rare moments where nothing else mattered, not even the faint music coming through the floorboards or the chaos of the house below.

When you broke apart for a breath, you didn’t pull far. He stayed close, his forehead brushing yours, and gave a small, quiet laugh.

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice low and still a little breathless. “You’re a good kisser.”

You smiled, eyes just a little dreamy. “Thought you’d be smoother, honestly.”

Steve let out another soft laugh, leaning his cheek toward yours. “I’ve had a lot of other shit going on.”

You leaned in again, kissed him slower this time, and he let himself sink into it. He was starting to feel confident again, like this was the one part of his life he hadn’t totally screwed up. He let one hand trail from your waist to your back, brushing against the edge of your shirt. You leaned into it. He smiled again. Yeah, he was definitely still good at this.

Then came the voice from the hallway.

“I knew it. I knew you went on the roof. But then Jackson said you were with Steve Harrington and I was like, no way in hell—”

Vickie’s voice stopped abruptly as her bedroom door swung open. She blinked once, twice, mouth hanging open slightly as she took in the scene. You and Steve, standing by the window, clearly just having pulled apart, your hands still tangled together like you forgot they were intertwined.

You both froze, like teens caught making out by a parent. Which, to be fair, wasn’t that far off.

Steve blinked, a little dazed. “Hey, Vickie,” he said. His voice cracked halfway through the greeting. Not his smoothest moment.

She stood in the doorway with a solo cup in her hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Well. Jackson’s doing a pretty decent job at the bar, just so you know. But maybe let’s keep my bedroom off-limits?”

Her tone wasn’t harsh, just knowing. She didn’t seem mad. More amused than anything.

You both scrambled to talk over each other.

“We weren’t gonna—”

“Not like that—”

But Vickie was already turning around, waving it off like it wasn’t even worth clarifying. “Steve, by the way? Lipstick.” She pointed to the corner of her own mouth before heading out and closing the door behind her.

He turned to you, still a little stunned. “Do I actually have—”

You nodded, already stepping in to help. “Yeah. Hang on.”

You licked your finger and wiped at the corner of his mouth. It should have been mortifying. Weird. But it wasn’t. It was kind of funny. Kind of soft.

“Sorry,” you said, pulling your hand back.

Steve shook his head. “Don’t be.”

You looked at him like you were trying not to smile. Like you already knew how ridiculous this whole thing was and liked it anyway.

“We should probably go,” he said, a little breathless still. “To the car.”

“Aren’t you Robin’s ride?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. No. I mean, yeah, I am. But I didn’t mean, like, leave the party. Or go anywhere. I just—” He trailed off. “You know what I meant.”

You looked at him for a second, then gave a slow nod. “Right.”

And just like that, the cool was back on. You took his hand again, your fingers warm and easy against his, and tugged him gently toward the door.

He followed, smiling at the way you moved like you’d done this before. You didn’t look back, just led him through the house like you belonged in every room.

When you reached the front door and headed outside, he opened his mouth to ask if you knew which car was his, but the look you gave him said it all.

Yeah. Of course you knew. Everyone did.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened. One minute you were tugging Steve through the house with your fingers laced in his, the two of you sharing a quiet grin like you were in on some secret no one else could see. The next, the party was behind you and you were in the backseat of his car.

At first, you sat shoulder to shoulder for a minute, the vinyl bench seat sticking faintly to your thighs, the condensation on the windows muting the outside world. The silence stretched just a little too long.

But then he looked at you, all soft-eyed and slightly out of breath, like he hadn’t quite caught up to himself. His hand slid behind your ear, a familiar move, but the way he did it was gentle. Careful. As if asking, again, without words—Are you sure?

You kissed him again. You didn’t think, you just moved. And this time, the hesitation melted.

Now he was above you, leaning over the seat, one hand braced on the window and the other trailing up your side. His body half-shielded yours from the outside world, not that anyone who passed by would be sober enough to care. It was just the two of you.

You could feel the weight of him, the tension in his shoulders as he held himself up, hovering just enough that you didn’t feel crowded, just… wanted. Like this wasn’t a mistake or some weird accident born of a party and moonlight and bad timing.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, dragging over your skin slowly. When he brushed over the soft swell of your stomach, you flinched just a little. Not from him, but from that voice in your head, the one that always showed up right when you were about to feel good.

But he stopped. Pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice low. Throaty. Honest.

You nodded, your own voice catching. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

He smiled softly, like he didn’t quite believe it was happening either, then leaned in again, his palm skimming higher, over the curve of your breast. He paused when he felt the lack of fabric there, like it caught him off guard.

A breath, quiet but audible. “Jesus.”

It wasn’t crass or performative. It sounded a little like awe.

You felt your body warm under the compliment he didn’t even mean to say, your fingers tightening in the back of his shirt as he kissed down your neck. He shifted closer, and you arched to meet him. But, just as you were finally letting yourself fall into it, the outside world slammed back in.

A blaring car horn cut through the quiet, making you bolt upright so fast that your shoulder knocked against his jaw.

“Ow- what- ?”

Steve pulled back, blinking in surprise as you squinted through the foggy rear window, trying to make sense of the headlights pulling up behind the car. The engine idled. Then you saw it.

That busted-up, faded-paint, always-too-loud van.

Your ride.

“Shit,” you muttered, dragging your shirt down and pressing your palms to your cheeks. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Steve was still confused. “Wait. What’s going on?”

You gestured toward the window with a sigh. “That’s my ride.”

He squinted. “Eddie Munson is your ride?”

You gave him a look. “Don’t make a face.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

You dug around in your skirt pocket, pulling out the stub of an eyeliner pencil and taking his wrist. He let you, watching silently as you uncapped it and started writing your number down the inside of his forearm. You added a little heart at the end before looking up.

Steve was still staring at you like he hadn’t quite recalibrated. You leaned forward and kissed the inside of his wrist, leaving a red lip mark just above the first number. When you pulled back, his mouth was slightly open, like he had something to say but forgot the words.

“You know where to find me,” you said softly.

And then you smiled because it was ridiculous and romantic and chaotic and exactly what you’d wanted to feel tonight. You adjusted your shirt one last time and reached for the door handle.

He still hadn’t moved when you stepped out into the humid summer air, the music from the party floating back to your ears like you’d stepped through a curtain.

You walked toward the van without looking back.

Eddie was leaning over from the driver’s seat, arm draped over the wheel, expression caught somewhere between concern and amusement. His window was already rolled down.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “Did you just climb out of Steve Harrington’s car?”

You stopped at the passenger door, raised a single finger like you were about to say something smart.

“Drive.”

He blinked, then let out a short laugh, the kind that burst out involuntarily.

“Shit,” he muttered, still grinning as he reached over to unlock the door. “You got it.”

You slid into the seat and slammed the door behind you. He didn’t ask anything else. Just threw the van into gear and peeled off down the street like nothing had happened—like you weren’t leaving Steve Harrington in the backseat of his own car with your number on his arm and the ghost of your kiss still fresh on his mouth.

Steve stayed in the car long after the door clicked shut behind you. The glow from the porch lights and the spillover haze of streetlamps made everything outside feel a little too sharp, too focused. Inside the car, it was muted. Blurred at the edges. The smell of your perfume still lingered faintly in the air, clinging to his shirt collar, warm and soft and a little sweet. He could still feel the last press of your lips against his wrist where the ink of your number was written, slightly glossy with the imprint of lipstick. He hadn't moved. He hadn’t spoken. Just sat there, blinking slowly at the dash, one hand still curled lightly around the steering wheel like the rest of him hadn’t caught up yet.

The passenger door swung open.

Robin flopped into the seat beside him with a huff, the slight tilt in her voice and sway in her movements letting him know immediately that she had been drinking just enough to be fun, not enough to be sloppy. Her eyeliner had smudged beneath one eye and the hem of her jeans was damp like she’d stepped in something outside.

“Okay,” she said immediately, slamming the door. “Did we unlock, like, twin psychic powers or something? Because I was literally just thinking I was ready to leave, and here you are. Engine running. Lights on. Staring off into the void like you’re in a music video.”

Steve blinked at her.

Robin squinted. “Wait. Is that… is that lipstick?” She leaned closer. “Why is there lipstick on your mouth?”

She didn’t wait for an answer before her eyes dropped to his arm.

“Oh my God. You got a number?” She pointed. “Steve. What the hell did I miss?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at his arm, where the number was still written clearly in neat black eyeliner, a little curve at the bottom of the sevens, a tiny heart tucked into the loop of the nine. He could still read every digit. Still feel the heat of you pressed against him in the backseat, the weight of your legs tangled beneath his, the warmth of your hand on his chest and the soft, surprised laugh you’d given when his fingers brushed the skin just beneath her shirt. He started to tell Robin basically everything.

“You’ve never even talked to her before,” she said, leaning back like he’d just revealed he kissed a ghost.

He smiled a little, still watching his arm. “Yeah. I know.”

Robin shook her head, hands lifted like she was trying to rearrange the pieces in the air. “Okay. Okay, wait. Start from the beginning. You kissed her?”

“She kissed me first,” he said, his voice softer than he meant it to be. “And then I kissed her back. In the house. Then in the car.”

Robin gave him a look like he had just dropped into her life from another dimension.

“And she gave you her number. And then what? She just left?”

Steve nodded. “Eddie Munson showed up. Her ride, I guess. She said she had to go. Wrote it on my arm and told me I knew where to find her.”

Robin blinked slowly. “Didn’t even get a pen and paper? Rookie move.”

He shot her a look. “It was fast.”

She grinned and he turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred to life. They started down the street, the house fading in the rearview.

Robin was still watching him when she asked, quieter this time, “Are you gonna call her?”

He hesitated. His grip on the wheel tightened slightly as the taillights of another car flashed by. “Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “That was a think. Not a yes.”

He glanced at his arm again, at the number still sharp against his skin. “I’m gonna call her.”

She gave a satisfied little nod and leaned back into her seat with a pleased hum, letting the car ride quiet for a few blocks.

When they reached her house, she lingered a second before getting out. “You look like a guy who’s still standing in the backseat of his own brain.”

Steve laughed, eyes flicking up to hers. “I’m good. Just… tired.”

Robin smirked. “You’ve got lipstick on your wrist and a stupid grin, Harrington. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Then she slipped out, giving the door a casual slam behind her.

He got home and didn’t shower. Didn’t even change. Just dropped onto his bed fully dressed, the sheets cool against his back as the ceiling blurred above him.

When morning came, sunlight cutting through the blinds like a slow burn, he groaned and rubbed at his eyes. His arm was under the pillow. His heart kicked a little when he pulled it out.

The number was there. But not all of it.

Some of the digits had smeared into one another. The lower half of the five had vanished. One of the twos looked more like a question mark. His stomach sank.

“Shit,” he muttered, sitting up and squinting at the mess of eyeliner ink.

It was still partly there. But not enough. Not clearly.

He slumped back into the bed, one hand over his face.

“Shit.”

He should’ve written it down.

You said he knew where to find you.

He just hoped you were right.

The Hideout is half-lit, half-clean, and entirely the same kind of sad it always is on a Tuesday night. You scrub the lip of a pint glass with a rag that’s already damp and smell faintly of citrus cleaner and tequila from a spill earlier. Bev’s yelling something about inventory from behind the register, and you’re half-listening, mostly just keeping your head down behind the bar while the jukebox loops the same Stones song it played twenty minutes ago.

Your tank top sticks slightly where sweat meets your spine, and you tug at the hem of your skirt, the one with the frayed edge and safety pins at the side. Your boots are already killing your feet, but it's not worth taking them off until last call. You roll your eyes at the clock — 9:56 — and exhale. Four minutes until Eddie switches from barback to frontman, and you’re still picking dried limes out of the garnish tray.

“He hasn’t called, huh?” Eddie says, coming around the bar with an empty crate in his hands. There’s sweat on his collar and a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes you instantly suspicious.

You glance at him, annoyed. “Would I be complaining if he had?”

Eddie shrugs, setting the crate down with a clatter. “I don’t know. Some people are into the slow burn.”

You scoff. “Some people don’t write their numbers on someone’s arm like it’s a receipt and then disappear into the night.”

“Well,” he says, leaning in like he’s telling you a secret. “Maybe he thinks the moment was the main event. One-night kiss. A memory. Bam.”

You smack his arm with the towel and he laughs, stepping back dramatically like you’ve wounded him. “Ow. Jesus. Sorry for being realistic.”

“You’re being an ass.”

“And yet, somehow still charming,” he grins. “Come on. You’re not actually into Steve Harrington, are you?”

You don’t say anything. Just go back to stacking glasses and pretending you don’t feel your face heat up.

That’s enough for Eddie.

He straightens, eyes going wide and gleaming like he’s just cracked a code. “No shit. You like him.”

You glare at him, but it’s too late. His grin stretches so wide you can practically see the joy leak out of him.

“I knew there was something weird about you Saturday night. You were soft. You were, dare I say, giddy.”

“Drop it.”

“I won’t,” he says, snatching the bar towel out of your hand and tossing it back into the sink. “This is the best thing that’s happened all week.”

You sigh and lean against the counter, just as the low hum of his amp buzzes from the back room. You catch the time again. It just hit ten.

“You’re gonna miss your big gig,” you say, nudging your chin toward the stage.

He huffs dramatically, ripping off his apron and tossing it toward Bev’s desk. “Bev! I’m off the clock. If anyone throws up, it’s your problem!”

“Just try not to throw up on the mic again,” she calls back without looking.

Eddie flips her off fondly as he grabs his guitar case and heads for the makeshift stage, shooting you one last shit-eating grin. “Don’t pine too hard while I’m gone!”

You roll your eyes and mutter something rude under your breath, but it doesn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips.

The place settles back into its usual rhythm with slow drinks, slower conversations, and that low dive bar buzz that always feels like it belongs to a different decade. You go back to work, but every now and then, your eyes flick to the door.

Still no sign of Steve. There was no way he would step foot in this place anyway. God, how could you be this stupid to think he’d ever think to come here?

Steve sat in his car in the cracked parking lot of The Hideout, fingers tapping the steering wheel like it might magically give him courage. The place didn’t look like much. Faded paint, busted neon sign, the smell of old beer clinging to the breeze. Definitely not his scene. But then again, you didn’t really seem like you cared about scenes. You were always a little left of center.

He had jumped through hoops to get here. Asking around, subtle questions, awkward ones too. 

It was almost midnight. He had been sitting here for ten minutes, trying to talk himself into going inside. His palms were clammy. Which was stupid. He didn’t get nervous like this. Not over girls. Not even when they looked at him the way you had.

He finally stepped out of the car, shut the door a little too hard, and adjusted his jacket like it made a difference. The door to the Hideout stuck a little when he pushed it open, creaking like it wanted to warn him.

Inside, the bar was hazy and low-lit, with the kind of smell that made you wonder if anything had ever been truly clean in here. A jukebox hummed something classic and familiar. You were behind the bar, drying a glass with your fingers moving on autopilot. Your hair was pulled back loosely, and your tank top clung in a way that made his throat go dry. You looked tired, a little annoyed, and exactly the way he remembered.

Eddie was perched on a stool, sweat still shining along his neck like he’d just come off stage. He looked comfortable. Too comfortable.

Steve didn’t move yet. He just stood there, letting his eyes trace the edges of the place, letting his nerves settle somewhere low in his stomach. That’s when a sharp voice snapped him out of it.

“You looking for someone, pretty boy?”

The other bartender was older, sharp-eyed, with a raspy voice that didn’t sound like it had time for bullshit. She was watching him like she already knew the answer.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “I think so.”

Her eyes followed the direction of his gaze. Then she smirked. “Hey, girl. You’ve got company.”

Steve wasn’t sure what kind of welcome he expected, but it definitely wasn’t her barking your name across the bar like she was announcing last call.

You looked up fast, eyes catching on him like a hook. For a second, you didn’t move. You just stared. Then your brow lifted, expression unreadable as you glanced at Bev, then back at Steve. Your hands dropped from the bar top to your apron, working the knot loose with fingers that seemed steadier than he imagined you felt.

“Hey, Bev?” you called, already folding the apron in half as you head around the bar. “I’m gonna head out a little early.”

Bev gave you a look. “Oh yeah? You leaving me high and dry now?”

You tilted your head toward Eddie without missing a beat. “He’s gonna help you.”

Steve watched the exchange unfold, feeling like he had stepped into a conversation mid-sentence. Eddie blinked, caught mid-sip of a soda, then let out a dramatic sigh as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, not even pretending to sound mad.

You just smiled, turning away to grab your jacket from the stool beside you. The sleeves were inside out and you shook them loose with one firm snap, threading your arms through like you’d done it a thousand times before. Steve noticed the way your hair caught in the collar before you swept it free. You moved like someone who wasn’t rushing but also didn’t want to linger. There was a quiet decisiveness to you, like you'd already made up your mind before he even stepped foot inside.

Eddie was still watching. His fingers tapped absently against the edge of the bar. “This better be worth it,” he said, mostly to you. “You owe me one hell of a tip.”

“I’ll buy you a burger,” you replied, patting his back as you passed.

“Burgers are not equivalent but sure,” Eddie called after you, grinning now. “Go forth and be gross, or whatever.”

You shook your head but didn’t look back.

Steve’s throat was dry again, his heartbeat somewhere north of normal. When you reached him, you didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, close enough that he caught the lingering scent of citrus and tequila on your shirt. Your eyes were searching his face like you were trying to figure out if he meant to be here or if he’d wandered in by accident.

“You want to get out of here?” you asked softly.

He swallowed and nodded, words catching awkward in his chest. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

You turned toward the door without waiting for a response. He followed a beat later, holding the door as the heavy wood groaned shut behind you both, spilling you out into the cool midnight air.

You walk beside him under the dim lights of the parking lot, boots tapping on cracked pavement while Steve keeps his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. The air carries a faint bite, not quite cold, but enough to pull a shiver up your spine once the bar door clicks shut behind you.

“It’s a little cool for this time of year,” he says, glancing up at the sky like it’ll offer some explanation. “Guess it’s starting to feel like fall already.”

You nod, but the silence stretches, thick with whatever hasn’t been said yet. You stop by the back of his car, close enough to catch the way his breath fogs a little in the air. He doesn’t unlock it right away, just shifts on his heels like he’s trying to figure out what to do with himself.

“Is your car here?” he asks, hesitant.

You shake your head. “Eddie was my ride to work tonight.”

He nods slowly, like he’s processing that, and then there’s another beat of silence. You go to say something simple, something like “You didn’t call”, but at the same time, he blurts out, “So… is Eddie your boyfriend?”

You both freeze.

Your eyes meet in the wash of yellow light from the streetlamp overhead. For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then you clear your throat and ask, “Is that why you didn’t call?”

He lets out a soft laugh, a little sheepish, a little breathless. “No. Your number smudged off my arm.”

You huff a dry laugh and shake your head. “Should’ve given it to you in a better way than eyeliner.”

His mouth quirks like he’s about to make a joke but doesn’t. Instead, he looks at you with a soft sort of curiosity.

“So… how’d you find me?”

That makes him laugh, fuller this time. “I, uh. Called Robin. Asked her for Vickie’s number. Then I called Vickie to ask for your number, but she didn’t have it. So she told me you bartended at The Hideout. Which… I didn’t even know was a real place until like, yesterday.”

You tilt your head, smiling despite yourself. “So you just… came here?”

“I drove around the block like five times first. Thought I might chicken out. Came by last night too, but you weren’t working.”

You squint at him. “How’d you know that?”

“I looked through the window,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t see you. Got back in the car and felt like an idiot.”

You laugh, and that seems to settle something between you.

Steve waits, eyes still steady on yours. You know he’s still wondering.

“No,” you say finally, answering the question from earlier. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just… a pain in my ass. We work together.”

He doesn’t react big, but you can see the way his shoulders drop slightly, like he’d been bracing for something and didn’t even realize it. He nods, stuffing his hands back in his pockets.

“So,” you ask, nudging him slightly with your elbow. “What was your plan here?”

He glances around, half-laughs again. “I actually didn’t have one.”

You smile. “Then I’ll make the plan.”

That earns a softer, slightly stunned look. The kind that makes you pause for a second too long.

Steve moves quickly then, like he wants to be helpful, like he’s remembering what it means to try. He crosses to the passenger side and pulls the door open for you, stepping back like a gentleman out of some old movie. You slide in without teasing him about it, just this once.

He jogs around to the driver’s side and climbs in. His fingers fumble slightly on the keys as he starts the engine, but the smile tugging at his mouth never leaves.

And for a second, it feels like the night is starting over. Just the two of you, finally on the same page.

You’re both sitting on the hood of his car, legs stretched out toward the lake, backs warm against the curve of metal. There’s a grocery bag half-full of snacks between you, an open sleeve of Oreos, a crushed can of Sprite, a half-eaten bag of chips. He hadn’t even known what he wanted when you dragged him into the 7-Eleven, just followed your lead while you grabbed things like it was some kind of treasure hunt.

You really like Twizzlers.

He wouldn’t have guessed that. He’s still learning things about you, small things, silly things. You don’t like slushies unless they’re half-melted. You hum when you chew sometimes. You talk with your hands more when you’re excited. And your laugh, when you’re really laughing, isn’t soft or shy. It’s loud, wild, unfiltered. Like you don’t care who hears it.

Steve thinks maybe that’s his favorite thing about you so far.

You’re talking about something dumb now, something about a teacher who never showed up for class in high school, and he finds himself laughing along, really laughing, the kind that catches him off guard. It’s been so long since he’s felt like this. Comfortable. Loose. Not trying to impress anyone. Not trying to outrun anything.

For a second, he thinks about telling you everything. About how hard it’s been. About the stuff he doesn’t say out loud. The things that get heavy and stay that way. The monsters. The battles. The things he's lost and the things he's gained along the way. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he just listens. Lets himself sink into the rhythm of your voice. The lake laps quietly behind you, the trees swaying in the distance, just barely rustling. 

Eventually, the snacks are forgotten. You lean back on your hands and stretch out your legs, your boots tapping lightly against the bumper. Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just watches you, watches the way the moonlight hits the curve of your jaw. And then his fingers reach for yours, tentative at first, before settling into the spaces between them.

You glance over at him, and your brow lifts. “You’re gonna kiss me, aren’t you?”

It knocks the wind out of him for a second. He huffs a laugh. “What? That obvious?”

You smile, teasing. “You were doing that thing. The guy thing. Looking all soft and inching closer.”

He pretends to be offended. “It’s a classic move.”

“Mm.” You tilt your head. “I used to think that stuff was cheesy.”

Steve shifts slightly, still holding your hand. “And now?”

Your voice softens, like the question snuck up on you. “I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would.”

That’s all it takes.

He brings a hand to your face, slow and careful, like he’s not entirely sure you’ll let him. But you do. His palm fits against your cheek, thumb brushing lightly near your jaw, and then he’s leaning in.

The kiss is soft at first. Unrushed. Just his lips on yours, warm and sure, like a question with an answer he already knows. You sigh a little against his mouth, and his hand slips to the back of your neck.

It deepens after that. Not suddenly, but steadily. Your fingers tug at the edge of his jacket, pulling him closer. His other hand finds your waist as he shifts, bracing himself against the hood of the car, half over you now. His weight is careful, his breath a little faster.

When you finally break apart, he keeps close. Your noses nearly touch.

His voice is lower, almost hopeful. “You wanna go finish what we started the other night?”

And then, realizing how it sounds, he stammers, “Not that I’m assuming anything. I just meant—”

You kiss him again, quick and firm, cutting him off. “You can assume.”

It floors him, the way you say it. Confident. Certain. Like you know what you want.

He smiles against your mouth and kisses you again.

Then the car creaks under you both as you shift, and you move to slide off the hood. Steve helps you down gently, steadying you with both hands.

The night around you is quiet, but his heart is loud in his chest.

And when you reach for the back door, he follows.

Once inside the backseat, you shrug out of your jacket. The lining snags for half a second before it slips off, and you toss it lazily into the front seat.

It lands with a crumpled sort of flop, not exactly where you meant for it to go.

Steve notices.

You see it in the way his eyes follow the motion, then flick toward his own jacket. He shrugs out of it too, folding it with a little more care than you did

He hesitates for a second, then he’s getting in.

The door shuts behind him with a soft thunk, sealing out the night, and just like that, he’s over you again.

It happens fast, but with certainty. His hands frame your face as his mouth finds yours, and it’s deeper this time. He kisses like someone who knows how to do it well, who isn’t guessing or fumbling or holding back. It’s sweet, but confident. Like he already knows you like it.

And you do.

Which is kind of the problem.

Because it suddenly occurs to you—mid-kiss, mid-hands-in-your-hair—that he’s probably done this a lot. Not in a sleazy way. Just in a… practiced way. The kind that comes from having been wanted, again and again. You’re not a prude. You’re no stranger to being touched, to touching back. But there’s something about him that catches you off guard, just enough to still your body beneath his.

It’s small, a moment, but he notices. Of course he does.

He pulls back just slightly, his fingers still grazing your cheek. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s been a while. This isn’t, like, a common occurrence for me anymore.”

You blink at him. “How did you—”

He smiles, warm and a little knowing. “Just a hunch.”

You tilt your head, giving him a look.

He nods, just once. “Probably been since… my last relationship.”

You don’t have to ask who he means. You already know. It’s written across the tilt of his mouth, the tone of his voice. It doesn’t sting. Not exactly. It just… settles into the space between you.

You roll your eyes and lean your head back against the seat. “Damn. That long?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just kisses your neck.

And yeah, that shuts you up pretty quickly.

It’s just enough to make your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, to tilt your chin and let your eyes close for a second too long. His breath is warm where it ghosts across your collarbone. His hand is steady at your side, and when you shift slightly beneath him, the whole car creaks in quiet response. His hand starts to lift the hem of your tank top, just like the other night. His palms find your soft skin, the way your stomach is soft against the waistband of your denim skirt, the heavy curve of your breast. He pauses to pull back for a moment.

"Do you like...ever wear a bra?" It's strained a little, like he's excited and not judging.

You laugh a little nervously. You didn't hate your body and you weren't like, ashamed or anything for being curvier. You just knew you'd never look like some cover girl or runway model. "Uh, sometimes? They can be uncomfortable since I'm not exactly... lacking in the chest department-"

"Understatement." He whispered, almost like he wasn't meaning to say it out loud. He could tell by the intake of your breath that you weren't exactly sure how to take that.

Was that a compliment? Was he not into your body?

"No!" He nearly shouted. "Shit, I mean. That's not what I meant. Not like I don't want them, it's just..."

"Just..?" You prodded, not angry or mad but you didn't exactly feel flattered either.

"Just, I'm not used to...you know." He gestured lamely, not sure what exactly was appropriate to say. "They're a lot to handle."

You were smiling, laughing a little, the awkwardness melting a bit. "And that's a... good thing?"

"Hell yes it's a good thing."

The words are warm against your throat, and he's kissing you again, and god, he really isn't lying. You can feel it. The heat pooling between your legs. You can feel that he's already hard through his jeans, pressed tight against you with your skirt pushed up around your waist just from the position alone.

His hands lower, moving to lift your top off of you. You don't stop him, raising your arms so he can tug it free. It falls to the floor of the car and he's staring at you again. Looking.

"Damn." He mutters, and you're not sure what he means but his eyes are hungry and the look sends a jolt straight down your spine. "A good thing. Two very...good things."

You want to laugh at it, how unsmooth he was in this moment. Maybe make a joke about him being a boob guy. But you don't, because he leans forward, his mouth trailing kisses down your collarbone and chest, and suddenly you realize what he's doing. He's taking his time, letting his lips explore. His tongue slides against your nipple, and the sensation makes you gasp. He grins, the cocky son of a bitch, and does it again.

"I can't-" Your head tips back, and his teeth are grazing against the swell of your breast now. "God, I can't believe we're doing this."

"You?" he lets out a laugh against your breast before continuing to the other, palming and squeezing with his free hand. "I can't believe you let me do this. I've been dying to see what you look like."

His mouth closes around your other nipple, the same attention as the first, and it makes your hips shift up without even realizing, your nails digging into his shirt a little.

"Shit." He's looking at you again, eyes dark and focused. "You're so goddamn gorgeous. You're like… so confident."

You look surprised at that. Sure, he had said it before, at the party. But that was about how you carried yourself, not how you were in a position like this. He continued to talk as he gave your breasts the attention they deserve.

"You know, you like... you know what you want. In life. And like... with this. It's a little unnerving." The way he kept saying these things without his mouth or hands leaving the soft flesh of your breasts was almost too much to handle.

"Is it bad?" You asked, voice breathless as his hands trailed down your stomach and hooked onto your skirt.

"No! No no no. It's really hot. You're really hot. This is just... really fucking hot." He sits up a little, brushing some hair back. He's out of breath a little as he looks at you, smiling a little crooked and soft.

You reach for the hem of his shirt and start to pull it up, keeping your eyes on his.

He shakes his head, grinning, and helps you remove his shirt. He's a little more toned than you expected. Covered in freckles and moles, soft dark chest hair that tapered lower. There's a scar on his side and you run your hand over it, wondering where he got it.

"I'll tell you another time," he whispers. "Just... this is good. This is really, really good."

His hand goes under your skirt, fingertips ghosting over your underwear and the heat that's waiting for him. He groans a little at the wet spot and leans his head forward to kiss you again, tongue sliding in deep and slow.

"Tell me if anything isn't okay, alright?" he murmurs pulling away, and your heart warms a little at the thoughtfulness.

"I will."

He keeps kissing you as his hand moves over your underwear, teasing and pressing in all the right places. It makes you arch a little, wanting more pressure. More contact. More of him.

"Steve..."

He's missed that. The sound of someone saying his name like that. Someone who sees him. Maybe, he thinks, he's never actually really had that. Maybe that's why it sounds so damn good coming from you.

He pulls your underwear to the side and lets a finger slide between your folds. It makes you gasp, a small noise that makes his cock jump a little. He presses a bit harder, running up and down, making sure he's touching every part. You're dripping, and he can feel how hot and wet you are, how much you want this.

"You're so..." He lets out a breath of air that could be a laugh. "God, everything I would usually say sounds so cheesy right now."

You bite your lip, trying to hide a smile. He's a charmer. Always has been.

"I bet," you start, gasping as his thumb hits your clit.

"Mmm," he hums, smiling against your jaw. "I was going to say you're perfect. Or maybe you're amazing. Or maybe..."

He pauses, placing soft open mouth kisses along your neck, up to your earlobe. His breath hitches as his hand moves against you, fingertips skimming over where you’re already soaked for him. His mouth is close to your ear now, and for a second, he hesitates. He’s not nervous, exactly. Just… aware. That this is new territory. That you’re letting him in. That he really doesn’t want to mess this up by saying the wrong thing.

Fuck. Just say it. Say something real. She’s the kind of girl who wants real. Even if it’s dumb.

“…that I want to fuck you stupid.”

It’s barely more than a whisper. A little rough around the edges. Like he’s trying it out, half-expecting you to laugh or blink or flinch or do anything that would confirm he shouldn’t have said it.

But you don’t.

You go still for a second, and then… a soft, shaky exhale that sounds almost like a moan.

Okay. You definitely liked that.

That was… good. That was very, very good.

His mouth presses lower, over your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest again. He can’t stop himself from grinning a little into your skin as his hand slips fully under the fabric of your underwear now, no teasing this time. Just slow, steady pressure where you need it most. His fingers slide through your folds again, then back up, circling your clit with more intent.

You arch, a soft gasp escaping your lips.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin. “That feel good?”

You nod and he shifts, bringing his body closer. The angle makes his jeans rub between your thighs, and the friction makes you groan low in your throat.

Steve swears softly.

He wants more.

His hand leaves you just long enough to tug your underwear down and off, tossing them somewhere onto the floorboard. Then he's kissing you again, hungrily this time, his tongue sliding against yours as his hand returns to your thigh. His fingers trail up between your legs and slide inside you, slow and smooth. One, then two.

You grip his shoulders, your head falling back against the seat as your hips grind up to meet him.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel so good.”

His other hand finds your knee, steadying you as he curls his fingers inside of you, just right. He watches you, your face, your breath, the way your mouth falls open. He drinks it all in like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your hips roll again as he curls his fingers inside you, and your hand moves without thinking. It slips down to the button on his jeans, fumbling slightly as you try to work it open. You manage it, breath catching when you feel how hard he already is. The zipper lowers with a soft rasp, and your fingers press over the front of his boxers.

Steve groans low in his throat. His forehead drops against your shoulder for a second, and when he lifts his head again, there is a flicker of something in his eyes. Something real.

“God, baby, that feels…” he trails off. Then his face changes, a small spark of panic cutting through the haze. “Shit. I called you baby. Is that okay? I didn’t mean to, I mean—unless you like it, then—”

“I like it.” You cut him off gently, smiling up at him. “It’s good.”

Relief washes over his features, and he kisses you like a thank you. Deep, slow, open-mouthed and messy, his tongue sweeping against yours while your hand moves against him. You can feel the shape of him through the thin fabric, the way he’s pressing into your touch. The way his body seems to tremble slightly, just at the feeling of being wanted. His fingers are back inside you and it’s clumsy and perfect, both of you touching each other, breathing faster, mouths not straying far from skin.

He pulls back only long enough to get his jeans off completely, wriggling out of them in the cramped backseat with a quiet curse. You help where you can, tugging at the denim until it’s somewhere near the front, and then he’s back over you, the heat of him impossible to ignore through the thin cotton of his boxers.

Your skirt is still caught around your waist. He reaches for it, trying to pull it down, but it sticks slightly at your thighs. He huffs, laughing a little under his breath. He tries again, gentler this time, and the fabric finally slips lower. His hands slow as he looks at you, and for a second he just stays still.

You blink up at him, confused by the pause. Then you see his expression and it melts something in your chest.

“I’ve never actually had a girl totally naked back here,” he says. “Always been a little more hurried. Awkward.”

It’s quiet. Soft. Like a secret. Like something he’s been carrying and didn’t expect to say out loud. There’s nothing lewd in the way he says it. It’s sweet. A little disbelieving. He looks at you like he doesn’t want to forget a second of this. Not the way your skin glows under the dim dome light. Not the flush creeping up your neck. Not the way you look at him like you want him just as much.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair, smiling with something warm behind it. The kind of smile that says you want him too. Not just here. Not just now. But him.

And God, he wants you right back.

You trailed your fingertips from the soft strands of his hair down along his jaw, mapping the shape of him. His breath hitched, and you smiled against his mouth. You kept going, down the line of his throat, across the curve of his collarbone. You felt every subtle shift in him, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stuttered slightly beneath your palm. He didn’t stop you. If anything, his hands paused where they’d been exploring you, just so he could feel it too. Your touch. The way you were seeing him.

He watched you with a kind of quiet awe, like he wasn’t used to being the one someone else was focused on. Not just in the heat of the moment, but in the soft, deliberate ways that came with real interest. You dragged your fingers down the center of his chest, over the muscles there, your nails light and slow and just teasing enough to make him shiver. You reached the waistband of his boxers and paused, looking up at him.

He looked a little dazed, eyes half-lidded and warm.

With both hands, you curled your fingers beneath the waistband and started to slide them down. His hips lifted slightly to help, and the fabric came off awkwardly, a little stuck for a second, making both of you laugh under your breath before it finally dropped away completely. You tossed them aside, and when you looked back at him, his face had gone soft again, tender in the way he was watching you.

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep, and you could tell how much he liked it. Not just the act of kissing, but the closeness of it. The way it anchored him. The way it made everything else melt away. His hand cupped the side of your face and you could feel him smiling into it, like he was quietly amazed by how much this was affecting him. How good this felt.

And you realized something then.

Steve Harrington really loved kissing. Especially when things were getting heated. Maybe even more than most.

It wasn’t just an opener for him. It was part of the whole thing. A way to stay connected even when it was starting to spiral in all the right directions. You could feel it in the way his lips moved against yours. Slow, then firmer. The way his body stayed close, how he sighed into you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

You kissed him back harder, your body arching into his again, and he let out a low groan from somewhere deep in his chest. You felt it more than you heard it, that sound sinking into you, that pull toward something deeper. He was pressed right against you, the head of his cock teasing at your entrance as his lips grazed yours.

“You want this?” he asked against your mouth, his breath warm, his voice a little ragged now.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pushed in slowly, and the sound he made was the prettiest thing you’d ever heard from him. Soft but rough around the edges, surprised and overwhelmed. Like he couldn’t believe how good it felt. And maybe you couldn’t either.

You gasped quietly at the stretch, your fingers gripping his shoulders as he bottomed out. For a moment neither of you moved. His eyes were half-lidded, fixed on you, like he was trying to memorize everything about the way you looked right now. The way your chest rose and fell. The way your lips parted. The way you held on to him.

“Yeah. Shit. Definitely. Been a while,” he said with a breathy laugh that melted into something more like a moan. “Jesus.”

You smiled, just a little, starting to move your hips.

“Worth it?” you asked, voice light but breathless.

“God, yeah.” His response was immediate, no hesitation.

He began to move with you then, slow at first, his hands sliding beneath your back to keep you close. His mouth found yours again, kissing you like it meant something. Like you weren’t just anyone

His rhythm found a steady pace, a gentle push and pull that had you clinging to him tighter. Every motion felt deliberate. Every breath shared. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. You felt it in every part of you. In the way he whispered your name like it was a secret. In the way his forehead rested against yours when your bodies moved together just right. In the way his fingers trembled a little when he ran them through your hair.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured, voice so low you barely heard it.

You couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t think through the rush in your blood and the way your whole body pulled tighter around him. So instead, you kissed him again. Open, messy, aching. He groaned into your mouth, his hips faltering for a beat before settling back into rhythm, deeper now. More confident. More sure of what you both wanted.

He slid a hand under your thigh and hooked it over his hip, shifting the angle until it knocked the breath right out of your lungs. His mouth was by your ear now, breath warm and shivery against your skin.

"Jesus,” he muttered, his voice rough and breathy as he kissed along your neck. “That okay, baby? Going deeper like that?”

You nodded, fingers tightening where they rested against his shoulder, your body already moving with him in answer.

His lips brushed your ear, soft but a little unsteady. “You feel so good,” he said, almost like it wasn’t meant to be out loud. “So fucking good.”

You were about to respond with something equally incoherent, when he hesitated just enough that you noticed. Then his voice came quieter, more careful.

“Are you... on the pill?”

It didn’t ruin anything. If anything, it made it more real. He asked like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Before you could laugh, he thrust again and you gasped out a moaned, “Yes.” Your nails curled into his shoulders.

His smile brushed against your neck. “So I can…?”

You nodded again, words gone. All you could do was pull him closer.

“Perfect,” he breathed.

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with careful pressure, like he already knew what you needed. You whined his name, hips rolling into his touch, your whole body shuddering as the pressure snapped and you came around him.

Steve held on through it, working you through every second, his mouth catching the sounds you couldn’t hold back. And when you clenched tight around him, he followed with a groan low in his throat, burying his face in your shoulder as he gave in.

For a long moment, he just stayed there, breathing hard, lips pressed to your skin like he couldn’t bear to pull away just yet.

You’re both still catching your breath, skin flushed, lungs working to even out. His mouth doesn’t stop moving. He presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, the underside of your jaw, murmuring quiet things you can barely catch. Sweet, aimless nothings like “you’re so pretty” and “did that feel okay?” like he doesn’t already know the answer.

And then he just… holds you. Still inside you, arms wrapped around your waist like he doesn’t want to let go yet. Maybe ever.

It’s quiet, the kind that settles in your bones. You feel the weight of it. Not heavy, exactly. Just real. And it hits you, the way your brain starts spinning, your thoughts creeping in. You’re lying in the back seat of his car, naked, his skin still touching yours, and suddenly your mind is racing.

What now? What does this mean? Is it going to be weird? What happens tomorrow?

Your eyes drift, unfocused, and somehow, he notices.

“I know that face,” he says quietly.

You blink, startled out of your spiral. “What face?”

He lifts his head to look at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “The face where you’re overthinking everything. Trying to figure out the next five steps like it’s all already happening.”

You want to deny it, but he’s not wrong. “How do you know?”

He shrugs a little and kisses the side of your mouth. “Because I see it in the mirror all the time.”

That makes you smile. You hadn’t expected that kind of answer, but it fits.

And then he shifts, gently pulling out of you, and you feel the loss of him in your body like the space he leaves behind is physical. He props himself up on one elbow, looks at you like he wants to say something else, but then leans forward toward the front seat instead.

You watch, blinking, as he reaches over into the glove compartment, still completely naked. His bare back is curved over the seat, awkward and stretched as he fumbles blindly, muttering something under his breath. The sight is absurd, but you don’t mind. Honestly, it’s kind of hot.

He finds what he’s looking for with a triumphant little noise and comes back with a fistful of fast-food napkins.

“What are you doing?” you ask, watching him raise an eyebrow as he starts to clean you up gently, careful like he’s done this a hundred times but never like this.

“Contrary to popular belief,” he says, glancing up at you with a teasing grin, “I can both really care about you and also my backseat.”

You laugh, soft and low, as he leans in and presses another kiss to your thigh.

He looks at you again, like he’s waiting for you to say something, and when you don’t right away, he tilts his head.

“What?”

You shake your head, smiling. “You’re just… cute.”

He snorts. “I’m literally wiping you down with a paper napkin right now.”

“Still cute.”

You sit there, warm and tangled up in each other, the mess of your clothes scattered somewhere in the car, and for a moment, you don’t care what happens next. Not yet. Because right now, he’s looking at you like there’s nowhere else he wants to be.

You’re still catching your breath when he leans back a little, tossing the used napkins into the front seat with an awkward flick of his wrist.

“Next time,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “we can, you know... I do have a bed. And towels. And a house that’s basically always empty. So...”

He trails off, blinking suddenly. Then he looks at you with wide eyes, real concern settling in. “Shit. Was that really uncomfortable? I mean, those napkins are, like, the worst kind of sandpaper. I didn’t even think. God. That must’ve—”

You laugh, cutting him off gently. “Steve. It’s fine.”

“But I was gentle, right?”

“You were,” you say, still smiling. “It’s okay. You’re very sweet. A little ridiculous, but sweet.”

Relief washes over his face and he leans in again, kissing the corner of your mouth like he needs the reassurance too. He pulls back just enough to look at you, like he’s trying to memorize this moment, and the quiet starts to stretch again.

You watch him for a second, then ask, “What are you thinking about?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes out slow and soft. “Going home.”

You tilt your head at him. “Wow. Okay. Stark shift.”

His eyes widen. “No, no. I meant, like... us. Going home. My home. I just—” he pauses, mouth tugging into a sheepish half-smile. “Not for, you know, this again. Unless you want to. But more like... to sleep. To hold you. That kind of thing.”

Your chest pulls a little, warm and fluttery, and you reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek.

“Yeah,” you say. “That sounds nice.”

He leans into your touch for a beat, then smiles in that soft, lopsided way that makes your stomach flip.

“I’m really glad Robin dragged me to that party,” he says.

You press a kiss to the tip of his nose, light and barely there. “Me too.”

By the time he pulls into the driveway, you're grateful his parents are never home. The house is dark except for the porch light, and you feel the cool press of the window against your arm as he kills the ignition. You glance down at your skirt, bunched awkwardly, top halfway pulled back on, no sign of your underwear anywhere. You wince a little. He doesn’t seem to mind.

You both get out slowly, moving like people who’ve just survived something beautiful and reckless, like you’re still not sure the moment’s over.

Steve’s already at the front door when he notices you're still lingering near the car, peeking into the backseat.

“What are you looking for?” he calls, voice low but amused.

“My underwear,” you answer.

He glances back at the car, shrugs. “Yeah, uh. Don’t worry about that right now.”

“You’re not gonna just drive around town with them in there.”

“I’ll find them.”

“And give them back?”

That makes him smirk, crooked and smug. “Eventually.”

You roll your eyes but follow him inside anyway, warmth blooming in your chest before your feet even cross the threshold.

Inside, the house is still and quiet. You both toe off your shoes by the entryway without saying much. The stairs are just to the right, and Steve starts climbing without turning on any lights. You follow him up into the dark.

His room is cooler than the hall, a little messy, lived-in. He closes the door behind you but leaves the light off. It feels strangely intimate, the familiarity of it.

He peels off his shirt first, then his jeans, tossing them into the chair by his desk. He pauses at the waistband of his boxers, glancing toward you. You’re still mostly dressed, or at least trying to be. You don’t have anything to wear to bed.

“Should I borrow something?” you ask.

He considers for half a second. “Nah.”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s already stepping out of his boxers and pulling back the covers. It’s a silent kind of invitation. You don’t hesitate long before losing your clothes as well.

When you crawl in beside him, the sheets are cool, but his skin is warm. You settle in close, your legs tangling lazily beneath the blanket. For a while, there’s nothing but slow kisses and the soft brush of hands in quiet places. His fingertips trail down your spine, your arm, your side. He doesn’t rush it. There’s something calming in the way he lets things stretch between you, like he’s soaking it in, memorizing the feel of you here.

He tells you stories, soft ones, half-laughed. You respond in kind, murmuring little thoughts, lighthearted things. You kiss and touch and explore each other more. He tests out calling you 'baby' in new ways. Somewhere between your mouths and the blankets and the soft, low rhythm of touching and conversation, it starts to feel like something steady and real is growing.

And then he pulls you closer and says it, not quite a whisper, not quite a warning. “Sometimes I have nightmares.”

You pause. Your arm is draped over his middle now, your cheek against his chest. You shift slightly so you can see him in the dark, your expression careful.

You don’t ask why. You don’t press.

Instead, you say something like, “Well, good thing you don’t have to sleep alone tonight,” and it comes out quieter than you expect, but with more certainty than you feel.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just kisses the top of your head and pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around you like he’s scared you’ll disappear. Like he’s trying to hold all the quiet back.

You fall asleep just like that, all warm skin and soft breathing, his heartbeat a steady rhythm under your cheek. His grip loosens only when sleep finally finds him, deep and dreamless for the first time in a long, long while.

Eddie groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back. “I need a different book. The one with the red tabs. It’s on your bed, I think.”

Your stomach dropped.

Because yes, there was a book with red tabs on your bed.

But it was not the sociology textbook.

It was tucked half beneath your comforter, face-down, like it had tried to hide itself at the last second. Black cover. Embossed lettering. A very intentional ropework design worked into cover in a way that was… not subtle.

You opened your mouth.

“Wait—”

Too late.

Eddie was already on his feet, crossing the room in three lazy steps, reaching down to grab the book from your bed before you could physically launch yourself at him to stop it. His fingers curled around the spine, and he lifted it casually, flipping it over—

—and froze.

"This is... not your sociology textbook." He says, eyes wide as he flips through the pages.

Your blood ran cold. It was a specific, visceral feeling, like an ice cube sliding down your spine. 

Everything faded to a dull roar in your ears. The only thing that existed was Eddie, standing there, holding the single most damning object you owned.

He didn’t flip through it with shock or disgust. There was no theatrical recoil. Instead, his thumb brushed against the pages with a strange, focused curiosity. His eyes, wide and dark, weren't judging; they were reading. Absorbing.

He finally looked up, but not at you. His gaze landed on the open textbook on your desk, red tabs that marked actual academics and not fantasies. 

A slow, disarming smile started at the corner of his mouth, one that you’d seen a hundred times after a good roll of the D20.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that felt like it vibrated right through the floorboards. “This… is a much more practical application of power dynamics than our textbooks.”

Your throat was dry.

"Thats not funny, Eddie." You turn, face red. "Give it back."

He tilted his head, studying your blush as intently as he'd studied the book. He didn't move to give it back. 

"I promise you, my porn stash is way more embarrassing than this." He waved the book around a little. "At least yours has literary merit."

"It's not porn!" you shot back, your voice a little too loud in the small space. "It's research!"

The excuse sounded flimsy even to your own ears.

Eddie's smile widened. "Research," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. "For what? Your dissertation on rope burns?"

He was teasing you, but it wasn't cruel. It was… interested. He wasn't making fun of you. He was engaging. He held the book out, not quite close enough for you to snatch back.

"This shit isn't even accurate," he said, tapping a page. "This is all showmanship. They forgot the most important part."

You blinked, confusion warring with humiliation. "What part?"

"The conversation." His eyes met yours, and for a second, the teasing faded. There was something serious there. Something intense but inherently safe. 

"Well, the conversation isn't the sexy part." You mutter. 

"Oh so you're admitting it's porn now?"  He smirks and you narrow your eyes. "And also... the conversation is definitely the sexy part," he added, stepping closer. "It's the whole point."

You held your ground, even though every instinct screamed at you to snatch the book, throw him out, and crawl into a hole for the rest of eternity. Instead, you lifted your chin. "You think so?"

"I'm well versed, yeah."

He finally lowered the book, setting it down on your desk, on top of your sociology textbook. The juxtaposition was dizzying. Academia and anarchy. Theory and practice.

He took another step into your personal space. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of the joint he smoked outside. 

"I'm going to guess you haven't put this into practice yet," he said softly.

You couldn't answer. The lie was stuck in your throat. Because he was right. The book, the fantasies—they'd always been in your head. A private world.

A world he had just stumbled into.

"So tell me," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, looking you directly in the eye. "Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?"

He waited.

And the silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

His question hung in the air between you, shimmering and dangerous. 

Is it something you only like in fiction or would you like to learn it for real?

It was a test. A doorway. A chance to step out of the theory and into the practice.

"I mean, I don't exactly have a partner to, you know..." Your hands flew up in a vague, helpless gesture. "It's not like I can just walk into a bar and ask 'Hey, any of you guys into safe, effective, and nonjudgmental bondage?'"

The joke landed weakly, but Eddie didn't laugh. He just watched you, like a predator assessing prey. He leaned against your desk, crossing his arms, the casual posture doing nothing to hide the focus in his gaze. He picked up the book again, not to mock you this time, but to flip to a specific, dog-eared page.

"Okay," he said, tapping the pages of a sex scene you had clearly marked with interest. "This, for example. The rope work is all wrong for this position. It would cut off circulation after five minutes."

You blinked. "You... you know about ropes?"

He shrugged. "I have hobbies. Guitar isn't my only practical area of expertise." He met your eyes again. 

"I guess that makes sense for your whole... look." You gesture vaguely at him. 

That one does make him laugh a little. "Yeah sure the whole aesthetic probably doesn't hurt." He smirks at you, eyes scanning over you again. "But the look is just a bonus. Not a guarantee. I know people who are vanilla as hell who dress like me. And I know people who would put this whole book to shame who wear polo shirts."

You think about that for a second, mulling it over as he speaks again. 

"Do you like my 'look' or something? You getting off on the thought of me being the one tying you up?" He teases you, but it's not a joke, not really. It's a question.

The question hung there, an invitation wrapped in a dare. Your cheeks burned, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze.

"Okay, light teasing was fine but don't purposely be an ass about this." You warn him, the bite in your words making him raise an eyebrow. "And... yeah. The thought occurred once or twice. I'm not blind." The admission felt like ripping off a band-aid—painful, but necessary.

Something shifted in Eddie's expression. His smirk was softer, like he didn't expect you to admit it. He let it hang in the air for a beat, savoring the victory.

"Once or twice, huh?" he mused. "That's... nice."

He set the book down again, this time closing it. The conversation was moving on, past the fantasy and into reality.

He sits on your bed, not like he usually does where he's just sprawled out with no care in the world. This was different. He sat close to the edge, leaving a space between you, but the air crackled with new possibilities. He rested his hands on his knees, a position that was open, non-threatening, but still completely in control.

"I've thought about it like, way more than once or twice honestly. I've thought about what it would be like with you. So, like, if you want to try some things, or even just talk about them, I'm more than willing to be your partner in crime."

You couldn't speak, but he continued. 

"Unless, you know, you'd rather ask that guy from your history class. What's his name? Mark? The one who looks like he was grown in a lab to sell minivans."

"Mark is just my project partner." You roll your eyes. "He's literally been here once to study." 

"You laugh at his jokes a lot in the dining hall." He shoots back. "I've seen it."

You had no comeback for that. Because he'd noticed. And you had laughed. But Mark's jokes were safe. They were about midterms and dining hall food. Eddie's jokes were about things that made your stomach flip.

"Okay, that doesn't mean I want to jump his bones. And even if I did, which I don't, how is that even rele--" 

It hits you then

"You're jealous." You say it out loud, a statement, not a question.

Eddie didn't flinch. He didn't deny it.

He just shrugged again, that infuriatingly casual gesture that meant everything and nothing.

"I'm territorial about things that interest me," he said simply.

You were no longer just a study partner.

"Look. We've been friends for a while. You know me. You know I'm not a creep. We can just… talk. No touching, no ropes, nothin'. Just words. We lay it all out. Boundaries. What you're curious about. What's an absolute hard 'no'." He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering again. "Safe words. Pet names. the whole deal."

He was laying out a curriculum. A syllabus for your most private, secret class. And the professor was the guy who made fun of your D&D character for being too lawful good.

"This is insane," you whispered, the words feeling like bubbles in your chest.

"Is it?" He stood up and walked to your door, closing it and twisting the lock. 

"Eddie... what if I say yes?"

He paused, his back to you for a second, before turning around. He leaned against the door, hands in his pockets.

"Then the real research begins." He gave you a small, genuine smile. "But only if you say the word."

The choice was yours.

"Okay." The word was barely a whisper.

He pushed off the door and walked back toward you, gesturing at your bed. "Okay. Rule one. Sit."

You carefully moved from your desk chair and sat on the bed, your back ramrod straight, perched on the very edge of the comforter like it might give way beneath you.

He sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between you. The mattress dipped with his weight, pulling you closer.

"You're tense as all hell, princess. Relax." The pet name was new. It wasn't teasing. It was... grounding.

You tried to unclench your shoulders.

"Let's start easy. Your safe word. It needs to be something you'll remember even if your brain is all fuzzy. Not something you'd normally say during sex. 'No' and 'stop' can be part of the scene. Your safe word is what makes the scene stop. No questions asked."

"Scene? That's so formal. So..."

"It's practical," he corrected gently. "It keeps things from getting messy. So. What'll it be?"

You thought for a moment, your mind racing. "Dragonfruit." It was stupid, random. No one would ever shout it accidentally.

A slow grin spread across Eddie's face. "Dragonfruit. I love it. Okay. That's ours. If you say it, we stop. Everything."

He shifted a little closer, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Is there anything you like to be called? Or don't like?" He says, more seriously now. "Some people like being called a slut or a whore. Some people like 'good girl'. Some people hate it. There is no right answer, it's all about you."

The directness of the question made your breath catch. "Good girl," you admitted, your cheeks flushing with heat. "I don't think I'm ready for degradation yet..."

Part of you was worried saying that like you'd dissapoint him or something. but he just nodded, like you'd given him a perfectly reasonable answer.

"Alright. 'Good girl' it is. We can save the other stuff for an advanced class." The wink he threw you was both a joke and a promise.

"What about you?" you found yourself asking.

He seemed surprised by the question for a second. "Oh, well, I guess I'm pretty fine with most things. I mean, you could probably call me an asshole and I'd still like it cause it was your voice."

He said it so casually, as if he were discussing his favorite brand of guitar strings, and not the thought of you moaning for him. 

"I liked when you called me princess..." You admit. "You could call me that."

"Princess," he repeated, the word soft on his tongue. "I can do that."

He was so close now. You could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"Okay, new question..." Those big eyes drag down your figure. "Can you come sit on my lap? I want you closer."

He wasn't just asking a question about a hypothetical scenario anymore. This was real. This was happening.

Your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. You slid across the small space between you, the comforter a whisper under your knees, and settled yourself onto his lap.

His big hands went to your waist automatically, steadying you. He was warm, solid. You could feel the worn denim of his jeans against the thin material of your leggings.

"Alright. First lesson." His breath was warm against your ear, making you shiver. "Power isn't about force. It's about control. My control, your surrender."

You nod, mentally taking notes and he smiles before leaning into to whisper in your ear. 

"You can always say no." He says gently. "Right now, to me. You can say 'no, Eddie, I don't want to sit on your lap' and I'll let you go, no questions asked. This is still a conversation."

"I know." You say, a little breathless.

"But you aren't going to say that, are you? No... you want this."

"I do."

"Good girl." The words were a low rumble you felt straight between your legs. "I'm going to put my hands on your thighs now. Just to hold you. Alright?"

You could only manage a small nod.

You could feel the weight of his rings through your leggings. 

"Looking so pretty, all for me." He whispers and you lean into him, your head falling to rest on his shoulder as your eyes flutter shut. You trusted him. You'd known him for years. He was safe.

This was what he meant, about the conversation. Every touch was a question. Every reaction, an answer.

"Are you going to be good for me?" He asks.

"Y-yeah," you manage. "I'll be good."

His grip on your thighs tightened just a fraction.

"I know you will." He nosed at your neck. "Now, hands behind your back. Let me hold them."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You swallowed, your throat tight, and slowly, deliberately, you moved your arms behind you, lacing your fingers together at the small of your back. The position pushed your chest out, making you feel incredibly vulnerable, incredibly exposed.

He made a soft, satisfied sound.

"Always like it when you wear a low cut top like this." He admits. His hands slid from your thighs to your back, covering your clasped hands with one of his own. The gesture was light, not restrictive, but it felt impossibly final.

His other hand came up to trace the neckline of your shirt, a single finger grazing your collarbone, then dipping lower, following the curve of your breast. He didn't grab, didn't grope. He just… explored. Mapping the territory.

"Your heart's beating so fast," he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I can feel it."

You couldn't answer. All your focus was on the path of his finger as it drifted to the peak of your breast, circling your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt and bra.

"Responsive little thing, aren't you sweetheart?" He teases.

He circles it a few times, making you squirm on his lap and you can already feel the hard length of him through your layers of clothes. The evidence of his own desire.

His other hand still holds your wrists.

"You like your nipples played with? I know you're sensitive." He asks and you nod again. "Let's see more of these pretty tits."

He doesn't ask to take your shirt off. He just does.

He expertly pulls the shirt over your head in one fluid motion, momentarily freeing your hands before he catches them again, this time pressing them more firmly into the small of your back. He then goes for the clasp of your bra and he undoes that too, pulling it down your arms until you're topless for him.

"Look at that." He whispers and it's the most turned on you've ever heard him.

He runs his thumb over the pebbled flesh of your nipple, and your breath hitches. The calloused pad of his thumb created a delicious friction, a direct line of heat pooling in your core.

"I'm going to pinch," he warned, his voice a dark promise. "Just a little. To see how you like it."

You tensed in anticipation.

He didn't make you wait long. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying a slow, deliberate pressure. A sharp, surprising jolt of pleasure-pain shot through you, pulling a soft gasp from your lips.

"Good," he rasped. "You like that."

It wasn't a question. He read your body as easily as he read the tabbed pages of your sociology textbook.

He keeps pinching and playing as he trails soft kisses from your collarbones and lower, purposefully avoiding where you want his mouth. He was kissing all around your breasts, teasing you with featherlight touches until you're squirming and whining.

"Shh, be patient." He whispers against the skin of your breast. "I'll get there."

He does it again to the other breast. The pinch, the pleasure, the feeling of being completely at his mercy. He was testing you, seeing what made you gasp, what made you squirm. And you were arching into his touch, a silent plea for more.

He finally lowered his head, taking one peaked nipple into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub, before grazing it lightly with his teeth.

The whimper that left you was undignified. Needy.

He pulled back, releasing you with a soft 'pop'. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with an emotion you'd never seen directed at you before. Possessiveness. Pride. Awe.

"Look what you do to me," he murmured, one of his hands releasing yours to guide your own down, pressing it flat against the hard bulge straining against the denim of his jeans.

"You're going to have to take care of that later, aren't you?" He says, pushing your hips down a little, making you grind against him.

The friction was obscene, a delicious drag through the layers of clothing that sent sparks skittering up your spine. You did it again, a little more boldly, rocking yourself against the rigid length of him. A groan rumbled in his chest, a purely male, primal sound of appreciation.

"Not yet," he said, his grip on your waist tightening, stopping your movements. "That's a reward. And you haven't earned it yet."

He shifted you slightly, adjusting your position so you could feel him more acutely, a perfect, infuriating pressure against your clothed core. His free hand drifted down to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers toyed with the elastic, a casual touch that made your entire body clench with anticipation.

"You're soaked through already, aren't you, princess?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "I can feel it. All this fuss just from me playing with your pretty tits."

"Is that weird?" You ask, a little nervous now.

"Not at all. It's perfect." He says gently. "It means your body is honest. It tells the truth. And right now, your body is telling me how much you want this."

His fingers dipped below the waistband, not touching you where you craved it most, but just resting against the soft skin there. 

"We could stop right now," he offered, his tone maddeningly level. "We can stop anytime you want. We can just put your shirt back on, order a pizza, and fail our sociology midterm together. All you have to do is say one word. Do you remember our word?"

"Dragonfruit," you whispered, testing it on your tongue. It felt foreign, distant. Not what you wanted at all.

"Now, tell me what you do want."

You took a shaky breath. "I want you to touch me."

"Touch you where? You have to use your words."

Every nerve ending was on fire. "My... I want you to touch me between my legs."

"Good girl."

He finally moved, his hand sliding further down, past the damp cotton of your underwear, through your slick folds. He didn't rush, exploring you with a surgeon's precision.

"This pussy is so fucking wet for me, princess." He breathes out in awe.

He found your clit with an unnerving ease, a single finger circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. You jolted, a sharp inhale of pleasure.

"Right there?" he asked, feigning innocence.

You could only nod, your head falling back against his shoulder as he continued his slow, torturous circles. He was drawing it out, making you feel every spark, every tremor. You were wound so tight, a trembling knot of need.

Your hips began to move of their own accord, chasing the friction, the building pressure. But he stopped you again, holding you still with a firm grip.

"Uh-uh. My pace," he chided softly. "You don't get to finish until I say you can."

A whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure frustration.

"Patience," he murmured, kissing your temple.

You notice now, that he hasn't kissed your lips, but you don't make a comment on it, too busy feeling everything else to care.

He was a master of this, a conductor of your pleasure. He varied the pressure, the speed, watching your every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you whine. He slipped a finger inside you, then a second, curling them upward to stroke that spot that made your vision blur.

"You think I should let you come soon?" he asked, his voice a dark, intimate rumble. "You've been so good for me. Sitting still. Taking what I give you."

"Please," you begged, the word ripped from you. "Eddie, please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me finish."

He chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "Since you asked so nicely."

He increased the pressure on your clit, the circles becoming faster, more demanding. His fingers inside you stroked with renewed purpose. The tension in your belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let go. Soak my fucking hand." he commanded.

You were cumming by the time he said 'let go', your body convulsing in a blinding wave of pleasure. You cried out, your back arching, your hands still trapped behind you, leaving you nothing to hold onto but him. He held you through it, his movements slowing, gentling, as you shuddered and trembled.

When you were riding out the after shocks he released your hands, letting you decide where to put them. You immediately brought them around to his shoulders, clinging to him. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, catching your breath. 

His hands came up to your back, stroking you slowly, grounding you. He whispered sweet nothings against your hair, words of praise and affection.

"I know that wasn't as extreme as what your little book had, but trust needs to be built up slowly for things like that." He says softly, kissing your shoulder. "We'll get there. 

You could feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your cheek. You could still feel the hard press of his arousal against you, a silent testament to his own restraint.

"Eddie..." you whispered, your voice hoarse. "You didn't..."

He shushed you, a finger gently tilting your chin up. "Hey. it's okay. Tonight was about you. About learning you."

You looked at him, really looked at him. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen from where he'd been kissing your skin, and his eyes were dark and soft and full of an emotion that made your chest ache.

Without thinking, you leaned in and finally, finally kissed him.

He didn't move at first and you pulled back quickly, suddenly feeling stupid. 

Was kissing not okay in this arrangement?

Did he only want the physical part?

Did he even like you like that? 

Before you could speak, he did it first. 

"Hey you, don't look like that. It's not what you think." He says gently.

"I- I just thought..."

"I know what you thought. And it's okay. I wanted to kiss you. More than anything."

"So why didn't you?" You ask, not in an accusatory tone, but a genuinely curious one.

"Because if I kissed you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I wouldn't have been able to handle it if this was just a one-time thing. Or if this was just about sex. I wouldn't have been able to control myself, and we might not be here right now."

This confession was so raw, so vulnerable. It was more intimate than anything you'd done.

"So... what is this then?" You ask, your heart pounding.

"It's whatever you want it to be." He says honestly. "But I want it to be something. Something real."

You lean in again, slowly, giving him the chance to pull away.

He didn't.

He met you halfway, his lips finally claiming yours. It wasn't a kiss of frenzy or desperation. His hands cupped your face, holding you tenderly, as if you were something precious. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of you, of the cola he'd been drinking hours ago. He kissed you slowly, deeply, a conversation without words.

When you finally parted, you were both breathless.

"Do you still want me to do something about..." You trail off, letting your eyes flick down to the very prominent problem in his pants.

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. "Princess, you have no idea how much I want that. But I also want to do this right. So... right now, nothing too demanding, just let me fuck your brains out?"

You laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made your whole body feel lighter.

"You're an idiot."

"You know what?" He says with a teasing smile, before flipping you so he was hovering over you on the bed. "I like it better when you're on your back, anyway."

He made quick work of your leggings and underwear, tossing them aside. He stood up to strip off his own clothes, and you watched him, your gaze hungry. You'd seen him shirtless before, at the lake, at a party, but this was different.

The chain around his neck rested in the dip of his collarbone. His chest was lean, a smattering of dark hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. He was all sharp angles and wiry strength. And as he pulled down his boxers, your breath hitched.

"You want this huh? This is what you were grinding against earlier?" He smirks. He was long and thick, flushed with arousal, curving up towards his stomach.

He climbed back onto the bed, settling himself between your legs.

"Take what you want," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

Your hand trembled as you reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him. He was hot and heavy in your palm as you guided him to your entrance, and he pushed forward, just the head breaching you.

A shared gasp. You were so wet, so ready for him, but the stretch was still intense, a delicious burn.

"Oh, good girl, you listen so fucking well," he praised, before sliding the rest of the way home with one slow, deep thrust.

He filled you completely, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Fuck," he breathed, burying his face in your neck. "You feel better than I ever imagined."

He started to move, a slow, deep rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. Every drag of his cock against your inner walls was a fresh wave of pleasure. This was different from the sharp, focused intensity from before. This was a deep, all-consuming fire.

"Look at me," he demanded, pulling back just enough to see your face. "Hold on to the headboard."

You obeyed, your hands finding the cool metal bars of your headboard, as he began to move again. This new angle let him hit that spot inside you with every thrust, making your toes curl. He wasn't just fucking you anymore. He was claiming you. Marking you from the inside out.

"Who's making you feel this good?" he grunted, his hips snapping a little faster.

"You are," you moaned, your knuckles white where you gripped the headboard.

"Whose cock makes you feel this good?" He asks, a dark look in his eyes.

"Yours," you gasped, the words torn from you. "Only yours, Eddie."

"Fuck yes, it does." He says, a smirk on his face. "Not some loser from the dining hall." He speeds up a little, getting cocky. "Not your project partner. You wanna know who knows exactly what to do with you? Me." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust and you can't help but arch your back.

"You're mine now, sweetheart. This pussy is mine to use." His voice is a rough possessive rasp as he leans down to whisper softly in your ear. "Gimme a color, princess. Are we green?"

You were so far gone, but you knew what he was asking. "Green," you moaned. "So green, Eddie."

He smiled, a triumphant, feral grin. "Good girl. You want me to keep talking like this, honey? You want me to tell you how I'm going to fuck you every day after our study sessions from now on? How I'm going to bend you over that desk until you're screaming my name?"

"Yes," you whined, a desperate, needy sound. "Please."

"Then I guess I'll have to do it." His hips began to piston faster, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat. "Would you like that, sweetheart? To be my good little girl? To cum whenever I say?"

"I would," you cried out. "God, I would."

He brought a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. He didn't circle it this time. He pressed down, hard, in direct counterpoint to his thrusts.

"Cum for me," he commanded. "All over my cock."

Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. You screamed his name, a raw, ragged sound, as you convulsed around him, your body spasming with the force of your release.

"Mmm, gonna wake up the whole dorm." He praised. "Such a good fucking girl." He kept thrusting through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him.

He pulled out and kissed you softly, the kiss slow and deep as you shook under him. You could feel his erection against your thigh, hot and hard and insistent.

"You still haven't..." You begin, trailing off again as you try and catch your breath.

"I haven't bent you over the desk yet." He grins, before he pulls you up from your comfortable spot on your back.

His hands were on you instantly, guiding you to your feet and then turning you, walking you the few steps to your desk. He swept his arm across it, the textbook with the red tabs, a stack of flashcards—all of it clattering to the floor in a mess of academic debris.

His lips are kissing by your ear as he speaks, caging you in from behind. "You need me to get a condom?" He asks, and you are a little surprised by the question.

"I'm on the pill." You say quickly, and he makes a happy humming sound, kissing the back of your neck.

"Perfect." He whispers, before he's pressing your chest flat against the desk. The cool wood was a shock against your heated skin.

"Think you can handle a little more for me, baby?" He asked, his hands stroking over your ass.

You nod, your face turned to the side, your cheek pressed against the smooth wood.

"Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe out. "I can handle more."

He doesn't enter you right away. Instead, he kneels, spreading your cheeks, and you feel the hot, wet shock of his tongue against your pussy. He licks a long, slow stripe from your clit to your entrance, groaning at the taste.

"Fuck, you're delicious," he murmurs, before diving back in.

He was relentless, eating you out with a single-minded focus that left you trembling. He alternated between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and pointed, targeted flicks against your clit.

His hands grip at the fat of your ass as he eats you out like a man starved, and you can't help but push your hips back against him. He eats it until your legs are shaking and you're whining for him to stop. When he does, he stands up, his chest heaving.

He pauses and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. You glance behind you to see him taking the rings off his right hand, leaning over your back to put them on the desk as he places small kisses on your back. 

"What are you..." 

Your whisper turns into a whine when a callous palm  hits your ass cheek. Not hard, but enough that you gasp at the suddenness.

He shushes you gently, rubbing the reddening mark. "Just a little color for my pretty girl." He murmurs. "You like that? Just a little sting?"

You nod, your mind fuzzy with pleasure and confusion.

"Words, baby." He reminds you.

"Y-yes. I like it."

He spanks you again, this one harder, and you feel the jolt of it deep in your core. He alternates between spanking you and rubbing the tender skin, until you're a quivering, whimpering mess.

Another smack and you don't even register when he lines himself up with your entrance, and glides in, slick and easy, bottoming out with a deep groan. The angle was different, deeper, and it made you feel utterly possessed.

He set a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breaths. One of his hands grabs your face as he leans over to kiss you. 

"Taste how fucking sweet you are?" He whispers against your lips. You're nodding dumbly as he continues to fuck you, tongue licking into your mouth.

His other hand slides around your body, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles. It was too much, too intense, and you tried to squirm away.

"Uh-uh. You take it," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

"Take everything I give you, princess." He was praising you, his words stoking the fire in your belly. You were already so sensitive from your previous orgasms, every drag of his cock against your walls a fresh wave of pleasure.

"Please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.

More? Faster? For it to never end?

"I know, I know." He cooed at you. "Good girls like you need to be fucked until they can't think straight."

You clenched around him, and he grunted, his rhythm faltering for a second.

"Yeah, you like me saying that, don't you? You like being my good girl." He punctuates his words with a hard thrust that makes you see stars. 

Your clit was throbbing under his thumb, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. Your body was a live wire, humming with a frantic, desperate energy.

"Gonna cum," you sobbed, the words barely intelligible. "Eddie, I'm gonna cum."

He pressed you down more against the desk, his hips snapping faster, harder. He leans over your back so you can feel the sweat from his chest on your skin as he speaks right into your ear.

"Come on," he urged, his voice rough with strain. "Cum for me. One. More. Fucking. Time."

You whined out, needier than ever, as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on him. Your legs gave out, and you would have collapsed to the floor if he hadn't been holding you up, pinning you to the desk.

He gathered your hair in one of his hands, pulling your head back slightly, the angle new and dizzying as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. This let him see your face as he uses you for his own pleasure. He looked wild, untamed, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"That's it, baby. Milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl." He moans as he starts to lose the steady rhythm. You could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming erratic, more desperate.

"Gonna fill you up," he growled, his grip on your hair tightening. "Mark this pretty little pussy as mine."

With a final, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, and you felt the hot pulse of his release deep inside you. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back, both of you breathing heavily, trying to come back to earth.

His hand in your hair changed from a grip to soothing stokes

His fingers danced up your body from their ruthless attack of your clit, to splay across your stomach. You feel him press gently. He was still inside of you. Softening, but still present. 

"You okay?" he murmured against your spine, the words muffled by his soft kisses to your skin.

You managed a weak nod, not trusting your voice.

He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through you. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

He slowly pulled out, and the emptiness you felt was acute. You could feel his release begin to trickle down your thigh, a sticky, intimate reminder of what you'd just done.

He helped you to the bed, tugging you back into his arms. You both were sweaty, sticky, and your room was a mess. You couldn't bring yourself to care.

You curled into his side, your head on his chest. The steady, reassuring beat of his heart was a comforting anchor in the haze of satiation.

His hands never stopped caressing through your hair.

He was quiet for a long time, just stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your forehead.

"So," he said, his voice quiet. "Is the reality better than the book?"

You thought about it for a second. The book was theory. This was practice. This was real.

"I thought you said you weren't done with me?" You manage, weakly. 

He just pulls his head back enough to get a proper look at your face, the most genuine smile accentuated by his dimples. 

"Yeah, the aftercare. The cuddles. The praise. That's all part of it." He said, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Being the one who has to clean up our mess."

He sits up, leaning over the side of the bed to grab the t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier. He carefully, almost reverently, began to clean you up. The cotton was soft against your sensitive skin.

"You're so good at that," You say softly, referring to the entire night, but more specifically the way he was taking care of you.

"Yeah? Well I'm a man of many talents." He teases, but the way he's looking at you is soft.

He's gentle, methodical, as he wipes away the evidence of your night together. Once he's satisfied, he tosses the shirt aside and pulls the comforter over both of you, cocooning you in the warmth of the small bed.

You're quiet for a long time again. Just listening to each other breathe.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"About the kiss earlier..." he started, his voice a little hesitant. "When I said I didn't know if I could handle it if this was just a one-time thing... I meant it."

He shifts a little, so he's looking you in the eye. "This was never gonna be just a one-time thing for me. You have to know that. I've been wanting this for so long."

You are looking up at him in the dim light of your desk lamp. He's looking at you with a unguarded expression that you'd never seen from him before. 

"You really have? I thought... I thought this was just... you know, because of the book."

He let out a small, breathy laugh. "Sweetheart, the book was just a convenient excuse. A cosmic sign from the universe to finally do something about the massive, soul-crushing crush I've had on you since we were assigned as lab partners in freshman chemistry."

His signature smirk reappeared then.

"The fact that you're also into the same filthy shit I am? That's just a very, very lucky bonus."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It was a laugh of pure, unadulterated happiness.

"So, what now?" You ask, your voice barely a whisper.

"Now I get to enjoy this body being all soft in my arms." He says, kissing your forehead. "Now I get to wake up next to you and make you breakfast. Now I get to walk you to our sociology class and sit next to you knowing exactly what you sound like when you orgasm."

He pulls you closer. "And now I get to tell you that I want to be your boyfriend. If you'll have me."

You tilt your head up to look at him, a slow, genuine smile spreading across your face.

"I'll have you," you said simply.

"Oh, no enthusiasm for the man who made you cum three times in an hour?" He teases gently. You just lean up and kiss him, soft and sweet.

"I think you fucked all the enthusiasm out of me." You mumble against his lips.

He chuckles, satisfied and proud. 

"It's a skill." He smirks. "But don't worry. I'm a great teacher. We'll build up your stamina." He winks, and you feel a fresh wave of heat wash over you.

He pulls you to his chest, safe and warm. You could get used to this.

"Next time," he whispers against your hair. "Next time I'll bring my ropes."

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'll hold you to that."

He held you tighter, a silent promise. The night wasn't over. Your time exploring each other, it seemed, had really just begun.

"No, not really," you say, feeling rather breathless as he makes quick work of your jeans, pushing them down to your ankles in one fell swoop. "Have you considered not being such an asshole? Really, Steve, it can't be that hard—"

He silences you with a sharp slap to your pussy.

You moan. Loudly.

(After all, the two of you have perfected this song and dance, and Steve's long since figured out what exactly gets you going.)

His fingers find the back of your head, threading through your hair and tugging until you're forced to look at yourself in the mirror — forced to look at him — as he pulls himself from his own jeans, hard and leaking from the tip.

"Fuck, Steve," you say. "Already? That's kind of pathetic, don't you think?"

"Jesus fucking—"

One thick arm snakes around your neck, pulling you back into a headlock as he kicks your ankles as wide as they'll go, pushing inside with one deep thrust.

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp.

"That shut you up," he grumbles, pulling out slowly before slamming back in.

You reach for his hand blindly — the one wrapped around your neck — as you feel every ridge and vein of his cock dragging in and out of your walls, stretching you wide with zero prep.

(Not the way he usually does, scissoring you apart on thick fingers until he thinks you can take him with minimal pain, considerate in spite of everything else.)

"I'm so nice to you, sweetheart," he says, his nose brushing your cheek. "I'm so nice to you all the time, and this is what I get in response?"

Another deep thrust. Another whimper torn from your throat.

"Don't you want to be good for me, honey?" he asks. "I know you wanna be good so bad, that's why I have to fuck the attitude outta you, yeah? You wanna be good for me? Good for your man?"

Your eyes roll shut, but you manage to force out: "Not my man, Steve."

"Hm." His arm tightens around your throat. "That's what you tell yourself, sweetheart. But you know, deep down, that I'm the only one who can fuck you this well."

He presses you further into the counter, bending you over as he fucks you harder — deeper — and laughs when ravished moans are forced from your throat, his hand sliding down to the apex of your legs to circle your clit.

"Tell me that you're mine, and I'll let you come," he says.

You consider fighting. Really, you do, but his fingers swipe over your clit in a way that has you seeing stars, and his cock keeps drawing noises from you that you had no idea you could even make.

"C'mon, baby," he says. "Be a good girl for once, and I'll make you feel so good."

"Fuck," you whimper. "I'm yours, Steve. I'm yours."

He nips your shoulder through your shirt. "Wasn't so hard now, was it?"

He picks up his pace, drawing you closer and closer to your orgasm, and you find yourself in a headlock once more, with Steve pressing sloppy kisses against the side of your neck, sucking marks into your skin that you'll no doubt have to explain away to Robin during your next shift.

(Not that you really care.)

"See how easy it is being sweet for me, honey?" he mumbles, hips stuttering. "C'mon, honey. Come for me."

And you do. Toe curling, stomach clenching, limbs shaking as your orgasm washes over you.

You barely register when he follows not long after, his warm spend filling up your cunt. Not until he pulls out and it makes a mess of your thighs.

He presses another kiss to your neck, lowering you gingerly down to the counter as he says, "Stay there, honey. Let me find something to clean you up with."

You nod, resting your head on your forearms as he shuffles behind you.

Steve shot her an annoyed look, but you just smirked, leaning against the shelf with your arms crossed. “He’s not worth the energy,” you said, jerking your chin toward him. “I’d rather put my effort into alphabetizing the horror section for the third time this week.”

“Hey!” Steve pointed at you, his grin widening. “That’s because you have no taste. You keep shoving Gremlins into the comedy section.”

“It is a comedy,” you retorted, the hint of a challenge in your voice. “You’re the one who insists on putting it in horror.”

“Technically it’s a Christmas movie.” Robin interjected but you two were too into your usual banter to acknowledge her comment.

“It’s literally about monsters terrorizing a town,” he shot back, standing now, clearly ready for this argument.

“And it has a montage set to Christmas music,” you countered, stepping closer, refusing to back down. “Face it, Harrington. It’s a comedy, and your taste is basic.”

Robin watched the exchange with barely concealed amusement, resting her chin on the end of the broom handle. “This is how wars start, you know. One second it’s Gremlins, next thing you know, someone’s annexing the drama section.”

Steve ignored her, crossing his arms as he stared you down, his brown eyes sparkling with exasperation. “Oh, I’m basic? Says the girl who has a Misfits patch on her backpack like every other kid trying too hard to look edgy.”

You scoffed, stepping closer until you were almost nose to nose. “You wouldn’t know edgy if it bit you in the ass, Harrington.”

For a second, the room felt charged, like something was about to snap. Then Robin cleared her throat dramatically, cutting through the tension. “Okay, you two, this isn’t a cage match. Save it for the Halloween crowd this weekend.”

You stepped back, rolling your eyes as you returned to your cart of tapes. “Fine. I’ll let him live another day.”

Steve plopped back onto his stool, muttering under his breath but loud enough for you to hear, “You wish you could take me.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, already halfway down the aisle. “It wouldn’t even be a contest.”

“You know, for someone who spends most of her time glaring at customers, you’ve got a lot to say.”

“Somebody has to keep you on your toes,” you shot back, brushing your hands off and making your way toward the front. You flicked a stray strand of hair out of your face as you passed him. “Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t charm every poor soul who comes in here. It’s starting to get embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Steve feigned offense, placing a hand on his chest. “I’ll have you know, plenty of customers appreciate a little charisma. You could try it sometime.”

“Charisma doesn’t mean flirting with everyone who rents ‘Sixteen Candles,’ Harrington.”

Robin let out a dramatic sigh, looking between the two of you. “I can’t decide if this is banter or foreplay, but either way, it’s exhausting.”

“Foreplay?” Steve sputtered, his cheeks flushing.

“God, no,” you said at the same time, shooting Robin a glare.

Robin laughed, leaning against the counter as Steve sighed, shaking his head with a reluctant smile. Somewhere behind the banter, in the dim light and popcorn butter air, the faintest trace of something real hung between the two of you—something neither of you was ready to admit, least of all to each other.

---

The last few hours of your shift crawled along, with Robin having said her goodbyes twenty minutes earlier and left you and Steve to close up. A post-dinner rush had left the place in chaos, with empty shelves and a mountain of returns now sitting on the counter. Steve, standing at the rewinder machine, was absently humming to himself as you finished putting away the last of your cart.

“Finally done,” you muttered to yourself, dusting your hands off. Just as you started to roll the empty cart back toward the counter, Steve sauntered over with a fresh pile of tapes, all rewound and stacked precariously.

“Perfect timing,” he said, grinning as he plopped them onto the top of your cart. “More work for you.”

Your eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as you stared at the offending pile. “You’re kidding me.”

“What? That’s the system!” he said defensively, his hands going to his hips. It was a classic Harrington move—half annoyed, half clueless.

“Your system sucks,” you shot back, pulling the tapes off the top and setting them on the counter. “And you’re helping.”

“I am helping,” he argued, gesturing to the now-empty rewinder. “I rewound the tapes. That’s like, ninety percent of the job.”

You snorted, grabbing the cart handle with more force than necessary and turning it toward the aisles. “Whatever. I’ll do it myself.”

Halfway to the shelves, you paused, an idea sparking as you glanced back at Steve, who was still standing there with his hands on his hips. “Actually…” you said, setting the cart brake and turning to face him fully.

Steve tilted his head, suspicious. “What?”

“You’re an athlete, right?” you said, your tone dripping with exaggerated innocence. “Former Mr. Cool Guy?”

He frowned. “I don’t like where this is going.”

You grinned, hoisting yourself onto the cart and sitting cross-legged on its flat surface, tapping the metal sides. “Put those skills to use and make this less boring. You push, I steer. I’ll call out the titles; you take me to the aisles.”

Steve’s mouth fell open, his brow furrowing. “Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“This is dumb,” he said, shaking his head. “What if someone comes in?”

You leaned back, gesturing toward the door with a dramatic flourish. “Steve, it’s Wednesday. It’s 7 p.m. The only person walking through that door is someone too embarrassed to rent their adult movie during daylight hours. And if that happens, do you really want to help them?”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed, throwing his hands up. “Fine. But if you fall off, I’m not taking you to the hospital.”

“Noted,” you said, grinning victoriously. “ I always wanted to bleed out in the comedy section anyway.”

With a reluctant groan, Steve walked around the cart and grabbed the handle. “What’s first?”

You picked up the first tape from the stack beside you, holding it up to squint at the title. “Raiders of the Lost Ark. Action-adventure, aisle three.”

“Roger that,” Steve said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he started to push the cart. It wobbled slightly, and you leaned forward to steady yourself, already laughing as he picked up speed.

“Faster, Harrington!” you called, pointing toward the aisle like you were commanding a ship. “Aisle three awaits!”

“This was a mistake,” he muttered, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. He slowed as you neared the correct aisle, and you held the tape out dramatically, like a torch.

“Here we are!” you declared. “Place the artifact on its rightful throne.”

Steve grabbed the tape from your hand, muttering something about your flair for the dramatic as he slid it onto the shelf. When he turned back to you, you were already holding up the next tape.

“Ready for the next one?” you asked, wiggling the VHS case.

Steve let out a long-suffering sigh but grabbed the cart handle again, a reluctant grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is going to be the longest close ever.”

“Yeah, but you’re having fun,” you teased.

He didn’t respond, but the way his lips twitched into a full smile as he started pushing again gave you all the answer you needed.

Steve pushed the cart into the Drama aisle, his grip on the handle loose as he rolled his eyes at your smug expression. You waved The Breakfast Club over your head like a trophy, already looking triumphant.

“Drama section, as requested,” he said, stopping with a slight flourish. “But I’m just saying… it could also go in Romance.”

You nearly fell off the cart from how hard you laughed. “Romance? That’s what you got out of it? You think it’s about Claire and Bender hooking up?”

Steve raised a brow, his hands moving to his hips in that classic, I’m about to defend myself stance. “What? No, that’s not all it’s about. But it is a part of it. Opposites attract, right?”

You tilted your head, grinning like you’d just been handed the perfect opportunity to roast him. “Oh, sure. Opposites attract. That’s definitely a trope worth rooting for,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially when it’s just code for ‘the weird girl has to completely change herself to be worth the jock’s attention.’”

Steve frowned, clearly thrown off. “You’re talking about the makeover thing?”

“Obviously,” you said, flopping dramatically against the back of the cart, the metal sides rattling under your weight. “She was perfectly fine as she was—better, even. Then suddenly she gets some preppy glow-up, and boom, Emilio Estevez notices her. It’s such crap.”

He was quiet for a beat, like he was actually chewing on your words. His lips pressed into a line, and then, unexpectedly, he nodded. “I mean… I agree with you. She looked out of place like that. It wasn’t really her.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his response. “Wait… you agree with me?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, shrugging. “I mean, she didn’t need all that. She was cooler before.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. His tone wasn’t teasing or defensive—it was sincere. He looked at you with this genuine expression, like he actually cared about what you thought. The space between you suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, and the quiet made your skin prickle in a way you weren’t used to.

Then Steve broke the tension with a smirk, shifting back to lean casually against the handle of the cart. “So, what I’m hearing is… you must hate Grease too, huh? Sandy changes everything for Danny at the end. That must drive you nuts.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, sitting up straighter and gripping the sides of the cart like you were preparing for battle. “Oh, don’t get me started on Grease, Harrington.”

His grin widened, and he gestured with one hand for you to continue, clearly enjoying this way too much. “By all means, let it out. This should be good.”

You took a deep breath, ready to launch into a full tirade about the crime that was Sandy’s transformation, while Steve leaned against the cart, laughing softly under his breath before you’d even said a word.

---

Steve jiggled the lock on the front doors, pulling them to test if they were secure before flipping off the outside lights. The neon "OPEN" sign fizzled out with a soft hum, leaving the store bathed in the sterile glow of its overhead fluorescents. He sighed as he turned the "CLOSED" sign around and shot a glance your way.

You were standing at the counter, finishing up the register deposit you’d started early since the rush had ended hours ago. You hummed quietly to yourself, seemingly in a good mood, which was rare for a late-night shift.

“Got any costume ideas for Halloween?” you asked as you counted the last stack of bills. “Since we get to dress up here and all.”

Steve leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Robin and I are going as pirates,” he said, his voice flat. “Her idea.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Let me guess. She’s all excited, and you’re just going along with it because you have no spine?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, though there was a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s got this whole ‘Captain Robin and First Mate Dingus’ bit planned. It’s exhausting.”

You snorted, finishing the deposit and closing the register drawer. “Well, I’m going as a devil. Simple, classic, but I gotta tone it down a little so Keith doesn’t spend the entire shift staring at my chest.”

Steve went stiff for a moment, muttering something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

“What?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, straightening. “So, uh, are you done with that?”

“Just about,” you said, locking the deposit bag and setting it aside for the morning shift. Your eyes drifted to the cart in the middle of the store, still loaded with a few stray tapes. “Looks like we’re not done with that, though.”

Steve followed your gaze and sighed. “Oh, great. More cart rides.”

You grinned, hopping back onto the cart and gesturing for him to take the handle. “You’re the one who insisted on delegating, remember? Now push.”

With another sigh—this one more dramatic than the first—Steve complied, wheeling you toward the horror section. You rifled through the tapes on the cart, calling out titles as he brought you to the correct spots. It went smoothly until you reached for the next tape and froze, reading the title aloud before you could stop yourself.

“Blondes in Heat?” you said, eyebrows shooting up. Your gaze darted to the rest of the tapes on the cart. “Oh, no.”

Steve groaned, already knowing what was coming. “Yeah, I’ll take care of those.”

You shook your head, holding up the tape with a smirk. “It’s fine, I can do it.”

“Seriously,” Steve said, his tone a little sharper. “I’ll handle it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, shrugging. “I’ve seen porn before, Steve.”

His eyes widened, and he stumbled over his words for a second before recovering. “What—you—you’ve—okay, I mean—”

“Relax, Harrington,” you said, clearly amused at his reaction. “You’re not the only person in Hawkins with a VHS player and curiosity.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, his face slightly pink. “I wasn’t—okay, fine. Just—don’t make it weird.”

You laughed, waving him off. “It’s not weird. Now push the cart.”

Grumbling something under his breath, Steve resumed pushing, steering you toward the back corner of the store where the beaded curtain waited. The clinking of the beads was just faint enough to make you second-guess the idea, but you straightened your shoulders and braced yourself. The cart rattled slightly as Steve slowed, and you gave him a look over your shoulder.

“C’mon, Harrington. It’s just tapes.”

The dim lighting of the ‘adult’ section made the whole thing feel way more awkward than it should have been. You broke the silence once more as Steve pushed the cart, and you, to one of the corners and had you hand him the tapes.

“You know, a place called ‘Family Video’ having a section for porn is a little weird.” You say as he shelves Blondes in Heat.

“Can you stop saying porn?” he sighs over his shoulder before walking back to you.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What would you rather me call it? The erotic arts? Adult features?"

"Just shut up," Steve says, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You hand him the next tape, which you had been staring at with an amused smirk. "How to Satisfy a Woman in Six Minutes or Less? Really?"

Steve groaned. "God, you're such a pain."

"I'm just saying. Unrealistic. Also why the rush?"

"Oh, my God. Shut up!" Steve says, trying not to laugh.

"What? I'm being serious! Six minutes is a lot to ask. That's barely any time for foreplay, and I don't think anyone wants a half-assed—"

"I am not talking about sex with you!" he says, a little too loudly.

You bite back a laugh. "Why not? It's not weird. I'm sure it's not even the most awkward conversation you've had this week."

He turns, an eyebrow raised. "Oh, really?"

"Uh-huh. Remember when Robin told you and Dustin the difference between tampons and pads?"

Steve visibly winced at the memory. "Okay, fair point."

"See? Not weird," you said, handing him the next tape. 

"Yeah, sure," Steve said, rolling his eyes as he took the tape and glanced at the cover. Then his eyes went wide, and his whole body seemed to freeze.

"What? What's wrong?" you asked, trying to peek at the case. "Don't tell me it's worse than the last one. Oh, is it—"

"It's nothing," Steve said quickly, cutting you off as he turned away.

"Uh-uh," you said, jumping off the cart and walking around so you could see the front. "I want to see."

"No, no way."

"If it's really nothing, then why can't I see it?" you challenged, crossing your arms.

"Because I said so!" Steve shot back, his voice high and panicked.

"Fine. Hand it over," you demanded, holding out your hand.

"No."

"Yes."

"No, really, I—"

"Steven Harrington," you snapped, your patience running thin. "If you don't give me that tape right now, I will—"

"Alright, fine! Just stop yelling," Steve sighed, relenting as he shoved the tape into your hand. You stared at him, surprised.

"I yelled once."

"Still."

"Whatever."

You glanced down, and immediately, you felt your own body freeze. In a flash, the situation felt way too real.

Because staring up at you from the tape cover was an image of a girl who could've been you, if her hair was a different color. A girl, sprawled out on her back, naked. The camera angle was positioned above her, the lens angled to give the viewer a full view of her body—her face, her breasts, her legs spread wide.

Your face was on fire, your mouth suddenly dry. Beside you, Steve shifted nervously, and it occurred to you that you were both just staring silently at a porno tape that was clearly made for a specific audience.

"Uh... this is awkward," you finally managed, your voice a little hoarse.

Steve made a sound that was half laugh, half strangled cry. "Yeah, I could've done without the reminder, honestly."

You shot him a confused look. "Reminder?"

He waved his hands in front of him, clearly flustered. "No, that's not what I meant. I just meant—forget it. Forget I said anything. Can we please move on?"

"Not yet," you said, narrowing your eyes. "What do you mean, reminder? Is there a girl in pornos who looks like me or something?"

"Uh... maybe," Steve said, wincing. "But it's not weird, or whatever. It's totally normal. I just... happened watch this one. I wasn't trying to... or anything. I didn't realize..."

He was rambling, and it was kind of adorable. But there was also something about his nervous energy that made your skin prickle in the best way.

"So, if I look like this girl..." you said, letting the words hang as you tilted your head and met his gaze, which was locked onto yours.

"Yeah?" he breathed, swallowing thickly.

You stepped closer, holding his gaze. "Does that mean you've thought about me like that?"

"What?" Steve said, his voice cracking. "No. No way. Of course not. Why would I—"

"Liar."

Your tone was gentle, playful. It was a challenge, not an accusation. Steve's lips parted slightly, but he didn't respond, his eyes still locked on yours. You tried to keep a straight face, but you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you.

"You know- just give me that." Steve said, snatching the tape back. You watched him shove it onto the shelf, the movement quick and jerky.

"Hey, I'm just teasing! It's not that serious." You say, hands up in mock defense as you walk backwards and hop back up to sit on the cart.

"Shut up," he muttered, his cheeks flushed.

You bit your lip, unable to stop grinning. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

"Yeah, well, it's not funny."

You tilted your head, watching him as he fiddled with the shelf, his eyes not meeting yours. There was a vulnerability there, and a hint of shame. He looked almost hurt.

"Okay, seriously," you said, leaning forward and catching his gaze. "I didn't mean to actually upset you."

You hand him the next tape, attempting to make a joke about the absurd cover, but he just gives a noncommittal shrug. You frown.

"Steve, come on," you say, trying again. "I was just playing around. If it's really bothering you, I'll stop."

"It's not that," he said, shaking his head.

"Then what is it?"

He looked away, his jaw tight. You waited, giving him the space to say what he needed to. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, his words heavy with frustration.

"It's stupid," he said, still not meeting your gaze. "I just... we never talk about this stuff, okay? And then, the first time we do, it's because you think I'm some perv who gets off on looking at girls who look like you."

You blinked, caught off guard. "I... did not think that."

"Well, you should have," he snapped, turning to face you fully, his eyes burning. "Because that's how everyone thinks of me, isn't it? Steve Harrington, the former king of Hawkins High, screwing anything that moves."

You swallowed, not knowing what to say. Naturally, you went with humor to deflect.

"I mean if it helps, I've seen your luck with women lately, so I definitely don't think that..."

"Stop. Just—stop," Steve sighed, sounding exasperated. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. This is all we ever do. We can't have a serious conversation without joking about it, and it drives me insane."

You uncrossed your legs on the cart and let them dangle, leaning back against the wall of tapes, taken aback by his sudden honesty. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched. You had known each other through school, been friendly since he started at the store in July, but this was the first time he had ever really opened up. It was new, and a little scary, and definitely not something you knew how to deal with.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, and you meant it. "I didn't know you felt that way."

"Yeah, well," Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not the best at sharing. Ask anyone."

"Hey, I've got no room to talk," you said, smiling a little. "I've kept my walls pretty high too, I think."

"You're not wrong."

The air hung heavy between you. Steve shifted, his eyes darting from the cart to the shelves, clearly feeling just as awkward as you were.

"You know that the person you were in high school doesn't, like, define you right?" you offered, your voice quiet. "Like, I don't think of you as 'King Steve' or anything."

"Really?" he asked, his brow furrowing skeptically.

"Yeah," you said, nodding. "I mean, we work together. I get to see all of you. The Steve who's actually really good at his job, and a surprisingly good teacher when you're helping Robin study, and an actual nerd about movies. Plus, y'know, the dingus pirate."

Steve rolled his eyes but grinned a little.

"And I mean, maybe you'd have better luck if you were that guy when you tried to uh, pick up women. The fake charm kinda just... doesn't work with this version of you."

"Gee, thanks," he said, feigning annoyance.

"No, I mean it in a good way," you assured him. "I think you're more real like this."

He was quiet for a moment, chewing his lip. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for the next tape and you went to grab it from the dwindling stack. You handed him the tape, your fingertips brushing his palm, and a rush of heat flooded your cheeks.

Get it together, you told yourself. You're not suddenly crushing on the guy because he showed a little vulnerability are you?

Steve, oblivious, flipped the case over, studying the cover. "Okay, so this one is... not great," he said, shaking his head. "I've had the misfortune of having to put away more than one."

"Oh, boy," you said, laughing. "I'm ready."

"Okay, here goes," he said, turning the case toward you. "Blonde Bimbo Gets Banged."

"Jesus Christ," you snorted. "Is there any way this can get worse?"

"Let's find out," Steve said, flipping the case back and reading the synopsis. "She's blonde. She's a bimbo. And she knows it. She likes to flaunt her blonde beauty. Her boyfriend knows she's a whore, and that's just the way he likes her. They get wild and hot together, and soon the whole gang is banging the blonde bimbo."

"Jesus Christ how many times do they have to say 'blonde' in one synopsis. Does the target audience have the memory of a goldfish? Does this company need a new marketing team?"

Steve laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, it gets worse. The reviews call this a 'stand-out-of-the-pack classic.'"

"Please don't make me read the rest," you said, waving you hand in front of your face while laughing. "I'm already scarred."

"You wanted to know," Steve said, his lips pressed into a line to keep from laughing.

"You're right. I did. I shouldn't have."

You two fell back into a comfortable silence, and you found yourself studying Steve as he went about his task, staocking the last of the tapes neatly on the shelf. He had always been attractive, but he was starting to feel realer. You could see the details of him now, the cracks and rough edges and the parts of him he'd rather not share. It was a dangerous thought, and you knew it. He was still your coworker, after all. And, maybe, your friend?

You watched him finish shelving the last tape, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly with the movement, and your stomach did a somersault.

Oh no.

Steve turned and noticed you staring. He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

You shook your head. "Nothing. I was just zoned out, I guess."

"Right," he said, clearly unconvinced. But he didn't push it.

"Last one," you say as your got to hand it to him. "And the survey says... oh. Wow."

"What is it?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Oh, no, it's just this is the first time we've actually stocked something decent," you say, turning the case toward him. "Like, this one doesn't make me want to scrub my brain out with soap."

Steve studied the case, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, yeah. I've seen this one."

"Really?" you asked, surprised.

"Yeah, it's actually pretty good," he admitted. "There's, like, a plot and everything."

"You don't say," you said, smirking. "Maybe we should put this in the Romance section."

Steve rolled his eyes, shelving the movie. "Okay, wiseass."

"I'm just saying. Plot, characters, and actual sex? That's practically a Jackie Collins novel."

"Very funny," Steve said, walking back toward the cart. You were still sitting on the edge, the wheels of the cart rattling slightly.

"Huh. We actually got through the whole cart," you said, grinning a little. "Go us."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, leaning his hands against the cart and looking over at the shelf. "That was surprisingly easy."

"We're a pretty good team," you pointed out.

"Yeah, we are."

You leaned back a little, balancing yourself on your hands and studying Steve. He seemed to be doing the same, his gaze locked on yours. The air felt thick, heavy, and somehow electric. You could practically feel the sparks.

"We should, um," Steve swallowed thickly, glancing over at the beaded curtain that led out to the main sales floor. "We should probably get to the front."

"Yeah," you agreed, though neither of you moved.

You held his gaze, and he held yours, the tension between you was overwhelming, and intoxicating, and you could barely breathe.

"You got a deposit to finish..." he whispered, his voice low.

"Yeah, the main lights are still on," you said, your throat dry.

Neither of you moved. You could feel the pull, the urge to close the space, the electricity between you threatening to overload. Your pulse was racing, your skin tingling. You wondered if he could hear the thunder of your heart, if he could feel the warmth of your breath on his lips.

"This is dumb," he murmured.

"So dumb," you breathed.

"We're not gonna..."

"Yeah, we're not..."

And then his lips were on yours, and everything else faded away. His hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle but firm, and the world seemed to stop. His mouth was soft, the kiss slow, lingering. You melted into him, letting him guide the pace, savoring every second. He tasted like coffee and popcorn and something sweet, and the scent of his cologne surrounded you, enveloping you.

When you finally pulled apart, your lips felt swollen, and you were breathless. Your eyes fluttered open, and you stared at each other, the air crackling around you.

"We are so fucking dumb," he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, a small, amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

You laughed, feeling giddy. "The dumbest. We should probably stop."

"Probably," he murmured. But his lips found yours again, his hand drifting into your hair, his fingers curling. You grabbed a fistful of his uniform vest, pulling him closer. He pressed into you, the pressure of him against your chest, between your legs, made your body ache. You moaned softly as he deepened the kiss, his tongue darting along your lower lip. You could feel his smirk as your lips parted, giving him access to the rest of your mouth. His tongue grazed yours, teasing, exploring. His free hand ran up the outside of your leg, his palm hot on your thigh even through the denim of your jeans. You arched against him, craving the friction, the feel of his weight, and he pushed back.

You tugged on his vest, and without breaking the kiss, he clumsily shed it and tossed it aside, his arms then circling your waist. Your hands slid under the hem of his shirt, and you shivered at the contact with his bare skin. He sucked on your lower lip, making you gasp. Your fingertips dug into the muscle of his back, and he pressed harder into you. His body was solid, but soft, and he still held you so carefully. You wanted more of him, all of him, everything.

One of his hands moved to you shoulder to take the same hideous Family Video vest off of you. He broke the kiss only to make sure that he didn't rip it or pop one of your many pins off while doing so, putting it on the bottom of the cart. The careful action made you giggle. He smiled down at you before capturing your mouth in another heated kiss. You pressed your tongue into his mouth this time, running it along his bottom lip. He moaned softly, pulling you even tighter against him.

Your fingers raked down his back, nails grazing the smooth skin, and he moaned into your mouth, grinding his hips into you. The friction of him between your legs sent a shiver of pleasure through your whole body, and you groaned. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading your legs so that he could fit himself perfectly against you. He pressed hard, his body hot between your thighs, his chest pressed to your chest, his mouth on your mouth.

He rocked his hips into you, the slow friction driving you wild, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding on as he pressed his full weight against you, pinning you on the cart between him and the shelves. Your fingers gripped his shoulders as he moved again, his hands moving down to grip your hips. You could feel his arousal growing, and you shifted to match his pace, his hips rolling into you as yours rocked up to meet them, creating the perfect amount of friction, the pressure building with every thrust. You whimpered against his mouth as his fingers dug into your thighs.

"God, I want you," he breathed between kisses, his voice husky, sending a fresh wave of heat through your core.

"We—we have to—" you gasped, your words catching in your throat as he ground against you again, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Yeah," he breathed, nodding. His hands moved to your waist, pushing your shirt up and running his palms up the exposed skin, his thumbs grazing the soft skin of your stomach that that swelled gently over the waistband of your jeans, his touch reverent as he let his thumbs trace lazy circles there. You pulled away at the contact, suddenly feeling self concious with his hands on your exposed skin.

"Woah.. is this okay?" he asked, his voice a little strained. "If you're not—"

"It's not you, it's just..." you swallowed, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "I've never been with someone... like you before. Someone who... has expectations..."

His hands slid out from under your shirt as he took a step back, confusion on his face. "Wait, what?"

"I mean," you continued, struggling to find the right words, "You're so attractive, and I'm..." You gestured to your body with an open palm, not even able to find the words to express how self-concious you were about your body compared to the girls that usually got his attention. "You know," you finally added. "Me. So... I mean, I just want you to be sure, because..."

Steve's eyebrows pulled together in concern, his voice suddenly very serious. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I mean."

"No," he shook his head. "No, I really don't."

You stared at him for a moment, surprised, and then your eyes dropped to your hands, which were clasped in front of you. Your nails had been painted black with silver glitter, and the edges of your fingertips were rough, worn down from anxiously picking at them for so many years. Your thighs, while sat on the cart, pressed together, the soft curve of them spilling slightly over the edge, a reminder of how you never felt like you fit the mold of what guys like Steve usually went for. You thought about the way your jeans pinched at your waist or how you always avoided certain angles in photos because they made your arms look bigger than you liked. Your stomach churned at the idea of him seeing all of you—every mark, every curve, every imperfection that you’d tried so hard to ignore but couldn’t help cataloging in moments like this.

“I just…” you started again, your voice quieter now, “I don’t want you to feel like this is a mistake. Like maybe the weird girl is hot when you're at work, but in the real world...” You trailed off, biting your lip hard to keep it from trembling.

Steve crouched slightly to meet your gaze, his hands gentle as they rested on your thighs, grounding you. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice steady but insistent. “Look at me.”

When your eyes finally met his, the warmth in his expression nearly unraveled you. “You think I’m going to change my mind just because we take our clothes off? I'm rock hard in the middle of an adult section that smells like stale popcorn, and you think that's going to go away when your clothes are off? Really?" He asked incredulously, pausing to laugh at his own words. "That's pretty bold of you to assume."

Your breath hitched at the words. At his touch. The way his voice softened around your name. "Steve..."

"Seriously," he said, leaning a little closer. His voice was quiet now, almost a whisper, and his eyes darted between your eyes and your lips, his hands still gently kneading your thighs. "It's you that should be careful. I mean... I can barely focus on anything when you're just standing around in these jeans," he admitted, his eyes moving to your legs, his palms slowly moving up the curve of them. You bit your lip, heat flaring low in your stomach. "But naked?" His eyes returned to yours, his voice suddenly rough. "I wouldn't stand a chance."

Before you could even respond, he closed the distance, pressing his mouth to yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, his hands gently kneading the tops of your thighs. You moaned softly at his touch, your arms sliding over his shoulders and tangling in his hair as you melted against him. He wrapped one arm around you, pulling you to him, the other hand sliding up your waist.

"Now," he whispered against your lips as he went to lift your shirt a little again. "Can I continue where I left off, please?"

You smiled, kissing him in reply. You parted your lips, deepening the kiss. He moaned against your lips, his hand slowly trailing up your waist again, lifting your shirt up more this time. Your body tingled in anticipation of his hands on your skin, his fingertips warm on your bare stomach, slowly trailing up to your ribs, then higher still, his thumb brushing the edge of the cup of your bra.

Your head tipped back as he broke the kiss to trace his tongue over your collar bone, then dipped lower, his breath hot on the exposed skin as his thumb gently brushed your nipple through your bra, your back arching slightly at the sensation. He pressed another kiss to your throat, and you moaned as his hand dipped under your bra, cupping your breast and kneading the soft skin.

You slid a hand under his shirt, trailing your fingertips across his waist, tracing the trail of hair that lead lower, the muscles in his stomach contracting at your touch. His hand on your waist tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you took the hint, reluctantly pulling away for a moment to peel the fabric over your head. Steve let out a low groan at the sight of you in your bra, and you smiled shyly, letting him take a moment to appreciate your newly exposed skin. His hand went to the back of your neck, his touch firm, grounding as he leaned in to kiss you again. His free hand found its way to your other breast, palming it and gently tugging your bra strap down.

You were both panting now, his fingers on you and your fingers on him, and your whole body throbbing for more. You ran your palm along the front of his jeans, feeling the outline of him straining against the denim. His mouth left yours and moved to the skin above your bra as his hand left your chest and fumbled for the clasp at your back. You ran your nails over the front of his jeans, your own pulse racing. You had to touch him, you had to see him. Your fingers found his belt, but it was difficult to work with his hands on you and your mind a haze of arousal and nerves.

He seemed to be having the same problem, because after a few more attempts he stopped trying to work your bra clasp and tugged impatiently at the fabric, his voice husky.

"This—can you take this off? Or should we move? Because I can't—"

"Here," you gasped, shifting slightly and turning so your back was to him. "Try again."

Steve hummed softly in acknowledgement, his breath tickling your shoulder as he worked to free you from the offending fabric, his touch feather light and torturously slow. You leaned forward a little, letting your hair fall in a curtain over your face so he wouldn't see how much his teasing was affecting you. But you could feel the wetness between your legs, the ache of anticipation making your knees weak. Finally, with a quiet, satisfied noise, he freed you from your bra, and you sat back against the self again, letting your hair swing back to frame your face again as you watched his reaction to your body.

Steve's mouth dropped open at the sight of you, the slow grin tugging at his lips doing nothing to ease the ache.

"Well, this isn't fair," he breathed, standing straighter with one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair, as if to calm himself down. He looked over you as you leaned back, braced against your elbows. He then let out a long, deep exhale, his hands moving back to take his own shirt off. He paused about halfway through the motion to peer down at you, looking a little ridiculous with the collar halfway up his face, one arm free.

"Oh shit, sorry, did you want my shirt off too, or did you want me to leave it on, or—"

"Shirt. Off. Please," you said quickly. Steve grinned and finished the motion, tugging the tshirt off and letting it hit the floor. Your eyes darted to his torso, his skin flushed and his chest heaving slightly from the anticipation. He had a nice, lean build, with broad shoulders and a surprisingly strong-looking core. His chest hair was a light dusting that trailed across his pecs and tapered into a faint line down the center of his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. It added to his charm, giving him an effortlessly masculine edge. Your fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, to feel the softness of his skin under your palms, to trace the faint lines of his muscles beneath.

He definitely noticed you staring because he started grinning again, and when you noticed, he laughed a little. "What? Never seen a guy naked before?" he asked teasingly, making a joke of it to cover up the fact that he was suddenly a little self conscious under your scrutiny.

"You're beautiful." It spilled out of your mouth before you could stop it, and he looked surprised by the sincerity. His hands froze in mid-air and his eyes darted to yours. He opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out, so instead he cleared his throat and grinned shyly at the ground.

"Okay," he said, clearly trying to collect himself, and you realized that he'd been flustered. By you. A wave of pride flooded your stomach, and you bit your lip as your smile grew wider. You weren't usually so forward, and it had surprised you too, but you were glad it came out. "Okay. Let me just, uh, find my brain."

"You left it over there, on the floor. With your shirt." You smirked at him and his eyes narrowed at the playful teasing. He bent down to place both his hands on either side of you on the cart, caging you in as he leaned closer to you and pressed his forehead to yours. He gave a slight push of his hips against you, just to make you aware of how much you were affecting him, before cupping one of your breasts in his hand and letting out a breath. He took your nipple in his fingers and rolled it gently. You moaned at his touch, your thighs spreading a little wider.

The sound was affirmation enough for him to take your other nipple in his mouth, and you leaned into his touch as he circled his tongue around you. His teeth grazed over it, biting just slightly and making you whimper with need. You could feel him smirk against your skin, and he slid his free hand down to your stomach, then lower. His fingers grazed over your jeans and pressed firmly against you through the thick denim.

He paused with his hand right above your waistband and he lifted his head to look into your eyes. He was clearly trying to make sure that he wasn't overstepping any boundaries and was silently asking for permission to keep going.

"You can always say no." His voice was barely more than a whisper as his fingers played with the button of your pants, not wanting to rush you.

You didn't hesitate, just leaned into him and whispered, "Please touch me. Please."

He gave a low groan, pressing a hard kiss to your lips and biting down on your lower lip, before breaking away and dropping his gaze to your jeans. You watched, biting your lip as he flicked open the button, pulling down the zipper, and slipping his fingers underneath the fabric of both your jeans and your underwear. He dragged a single finger over the slick, swollen heat between your legs, and you let out a shaky breath. He sucked in a breath, clearly affected, and then dipped his finger lower to stroke along your entrance. You shivered, letting out a low moan and trying to pull him closer.

You felt his breath hot on your shoulder as his other hand moved to tug the rest of your pants off, giving him easier access to you.

"So wet already," he breathed, and the feel of his lips moving against the soft skin of your shoulder made your thighs twitch, the tension of anticipation nearly overwhelming. He traced circles around your entrance with one finger before pushing in slowly. His movements were cautious at first, gauging your reaction as he worked up a slow pace. But it wasn't enough, not when you'd been craving the release for what felt like forever. You spread your thighs, trying to pull him closer.

"More," you breathed, gripping his wrist to guide him deeper, faster, harder. Steve gave a low moan as his finger curled inside you, finding that one spot that made your whole body ache with pleasure. He added a second finger, pushing deep and pumping into you again and again as you ground your hips up to meet him, chasing the feeling, desperate for more. You looked up to find him watching you, his lips parted and his pupils blown wide.

He leaned down to kiss you again, and the change in angle sent a new wave of heat through your core, a whimper escaping you. His free hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into him and holding you steady as he pressed his thumb to your clit. You cried out at the new sensation, and Steve broke the kiss to let you breathe, his lips still pressed against yours, your breath mingling in the space between. His eyes locked on yours, he curled his fingers again and began working them in earnest, the heel of his palm pressed hard against you as his fingers pushed deeper and deeper with every thrust.

The pleasure was building, every nerve on fire as your orgasm neared, every stroke of his hand, every graze of his thumb making the tension build higher. His fingers moved faster, and you moaned his name, clinging to his shoulder, his arm, your hips rising to meet his hand.

"You're like...way too good at this..." You breathed between whimpers. Steve grinned, slowing his movements and teasing you.

"Well, I do have a pretty decent reputation..."

You gave a frustrated growl at the sudden slow down.

"Steve," you whined.

He chuckled softly. "Mm-mm," he hummed against your ear, nipping at it as he slowly slid his fingers out. "Not so fast."

"Are you... you're really doing this? Now?" you panted, incredulous. You needed more of him, more of his touch, more of the release you had been so close to, but now he was denying you? You opened your eyes, watching as he grinned down at you while he began to unbutton his jeans, still wearing a smug expression as he slowly pushed them down over his hips and down his legs. Your eyes darted from his face to the obvious bulge in his boxers as you swallowed.

"You want to keep complaining?" He asked, pulling down the boxers a little before taking himself in his hand and slowly pumping once, twice. His eyes never left yours, the grin you were used to seeing every day coming back "Because we can stop."

You couldn't even pretend to be angry as your gaze flicked between his face and his cock.

"Oh. You are... that's..." you stammered, taking a second to drink in the sight of him, so close but still so far from where you needed him. The smug grin turned genuine at your reaction and he pumped himself a few more times as if he was putting on a show for you. He let go of himself to slide his boxers all the way down and then stepped out of them to kick them to the side. He put his hands on sides of the cart and gave it a small shove, testing its durability, which illicited a small laugh from you.

"What's wrong? Not confident that we can stay in one piece for a few more minutes?" You teased. He scoffed in mock offense, giving you a quick kiss that lingered as he pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth.

"It's just precaution. Don't want you complaining if I get too excited and end up breaking this thing." He pulled away slowly, looking at the cart for a moment, thinking. "Actually, maybe I can—"

You wrapped a leg around his waist before he could finish his thought, pulling him to you so he was nestled perfectly against your hips. "You could also start with taking these off me," you suggested, grabbing the sides of your panties and tugging at the fabric. Steve let out a breath, his hands immediately moving to help you, though his mind was clearly distracted by what he wanted to do next. You watched as he pulled down the fabric over your hips, then your thighs, before dropping it on top of your jeans. His eyes trailed over the newly exposed skin, a look of pure desire on his face, his gaze hungry.

"God," he breathed. "You are..."

But you never found out what he was going to say, because your impatient hands had found him again, and you were pumping him slowly, watching him shiver in anticipation. His fingers dug into your hips, his mouth dropping open slightly, his gaze locked on yours as you moved, letting the feeling of your touch overwhelm him for a moment before he pulled your hand away with a small chuckle.

"Fuck. I almost forgot..." He bent to find his jeans and fished around in his back pocket. When he pulled his wallet free, your eyes went wide as you realized what he was getting. He held the square, foil wrapper in front of him.

You raised an eyebrow at him as he went to open the wrapper with his teeth.

"You brought a condom to work with you? Why would you ever think you'd need it here? In Family Video?" You questioned as he opened the packet, spitting the excess foil to the side, before looking at you with a lopsided smile.

"What, you think I put it there just in case we ran out of videos to restock? I had it there for after work one day, just in case," he explained as if it was the most obvious thing. You rolled your eyes, smiling and giving a slight laugh. "I mean, not with you. Not like... I had it there just in case I went on a date." He paused to wince a little. "Wait, no, that doesn't sound any better, does it?"

"I get what you're trying to say," you reassured him as you laughed a little harder, before the conversation took a slightly serious turn.

You glanced between the condom he was holding in his hand, and him. He was hard, aching even, and he looked desperate for your touch. You felt a small wave of pride that you could turn him on so much, and that you had the opportunity to be with him like this. To touch him and be touched.

You licked your lips, then said, "Put it on."

You felt like a teenager again, waiting with bated breath while he carefully slipped on the condom, his own breath shuddering as his fingers moved along his cock. When he finished, he leaned over you, caging you against the shelf once again with his arms on either side of your waist.

"For the record, I was hoping to take you on a date before… this happened. After work some time. Y'know, really take you out. Watch a movie with you, get dinner, go back to my car," He whispered the last bit into your ear, before kissing it gently and adding, "maybe get you in the backseat. But we can save that for another night."

You were too caught up in the feel of him against you to fully process what he just implied. A second night. This wouldn't just be a one time thing, you'd get to do this again... and maybe more?

Before you could react to that, you felt Steve line up at your entrance and your brain seemed to go on autopilot, your focus shifting to how you were about to get exactly what you needed. Your legs parted a little more, your heels resting against the lower shelves for leverage, your back arching slightly so your chest pressed against his. He paused there, looking down at you for a moment. Your breath caught at his expression—he was watching you intently, his gaze fixed on your face, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed.

"You want this, right?" The genuine question took you aback. The vulnerability was back in his eyes, and it suddenly became clear to you how nervous he was. "I just want to be sure this isn't—"

"Steve," you said, cupping his face in your hand. "Yes. I want this."

His breath left him in a rush as his lips curled into a smile, his relief clear. Then he gave a slight push of his hips and began to slide into you. His cock started to stretch you out, his length filling you inch by inch, and you whimpered at the feeling, the sensation of him inside you so overwhelming after having gone so long without being with anyone yourself. Steve stopped, his head falling to your shoulder as he groaned.

"Oh, god... you feel... Jesus, you're—" he was breathing hard, his chest pressed to yours, his hands gripping the shelf. His cock pulsed inside you, and you were trembling from the tension of it, the sweet ache of being filled, the need to have him buried in you fully. You slid your hands up his back and wrapped your arms around him, holding him as close to you as possible. He let out a ragged breath, then pressed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck, just below your jaw.

"Are you okay? Is it too much? We can stop—"

"I'm okay, just please—"

"What? Anything, just say—"

"Please keep going. Please," you whimpered. Your thighs twitched around him and you tried to pull him deeper, your body aching for him, for release. The angle was different and new, and it felt incredible. "I need more... please, I want you, all of you... "

Your words spurred him on. His mouth found your neck, sucking lightly at the spot just below your ear as he slowly thrust deeper, and deeper, until he was buried inside you. You felt your inner muscles stretch to accommodate his size, the pressure making you gasp as your legs quivered and your body flushed. Steve groaned, his breathing ragged, his body taut as he waited for you to adjust, every muscle in his back tense.

"God, I don't know how long I can hold out," he whispered.

"Then don't," you said. Your nails dug into his skin and you clenched around his cock. Steve bit down on your shoulder as he began to thrust in long, hard strokes, the friction making your legs tremble as you tried to keep up.

He pressed you to him, his arm looped under your waist, pulling you down on his length, the slow slide making you see stars. His hand snaked down between you, finding your clit and stroking you as he began to pick up the pace, the pressure building with every thrust. His moans were quieter now, more breathy as he drove into you over and over, the rhythm steady as he fucked you in time to the thud of the shelf against the wall.

You could feel yourself approaching the edge, every nerve tingling, every inch of you burning for release. The pressure of his body on yours, the way he moved, his moans, his scent, his hands—everything was pushing you higher, faster. His cock twitched inside you and you moaned, your own orgasm building with every stroke, every thrust, every touch. His pace became more erratic as you moved against him, your legs spread, your back arched, the angle deep and intense.

"I'm... fuck, I'm going to..." he managed between pants. "I want you... to come first..."

The way his voice shook, his hips stuttering with the effort of holding himself back, made your chest swell. He wanted you to finish before him, he wanted you to feel good. And it did, it felt good—so good, too good. Your heart hammered in your chest, the pressure of it making you feel like it might burst. He pushed harder, his fingers moving faster on your clit.

"Steve—" His name escaped your lips, breathy, as your body started to unravel. The tension in your core built higher, your hips jerking, the shelf hitting the wall harder. Your vision blurred as a wave of pleasure rolled through you, and you gasped his name again as you came around him, your body shuddering. Your muscles clamped down hard, making his pace stutter as he tried to push through. Steve groaned, his forehead resting on yours, his fingers digging into your side. He kept his pace even, thrusting through the aftershocks and holding you through your release, his mouth hovering near yours as he panted and moaned. You slid your arms to his back and raked your nails down, dragging your hands across the planes of his body, reveling in how his muscles twitched as your touch moved along his spine and to his ass, and you pulled him in deeper.

The angle was different now, the pressure intense as his pace sped up and he started chasing his own orgasm, his cock filling you up completely and sliding against every inch of you, sending another wave of pleasure through you. He looked so beautiful above you, his hair disheveled and falling in front of his face, his expression pinched as his pace increased. You wrapped your arms around his waist to pull him closer and pressed a soft kiss to his neck. The tender touch made him shiver, and he pushed in hard and fast, his whole body going tense as his cock pulsed, the waves of his own release flooding through him. He moaned softly and your name tumbled from his lips.

For a moment you stayed there, his arms around you, his face pressed into your shoulder. Then, as the aftershocks ebbed away, he pulled out, giving you one last slow stroke as he did so. The loss of his touch made you whimper. You felt so empty now, aching for him, and you couldn't help but feel a little vulnerable at the thought of him pulling away from you. Steve stayed close for a moment longer, kissing you softly, tenderly, and you could feel your heart clench. He wasn't rushing off, he wasn't pushing you away. He was taking care of you.

Your body hummed with the lingering buzz of pleasure as Steve pulled off the condom, knotted the end, and threw it into the wastebasket in the corner, grinning proudly when it landed in the trash.

"Nice," he said, nodding as if impressed with himself. "And with my left hand, no less. Maybe I should have tried for pro basketball."

He was being a dingus again. A post-sex dingus, but still, a dingus. And it was such a relief.

"Mmhmm," you hummed, watching him carefully as he found his discarded clothing on the ground and began getting dressed. You had no idea what would come after, what the dynamic of things would be. What were the rules here? The guys you'd been with in the past didn't stick around to help you get dressed. You just put on your clothes, left the guys to clean up their mess, and went home.

"So," you said, taking your time to gather your own clothes from the bottom of the cart, putting your underwear on first. "Now what?"

He gave you a small grin, buttoning his pants as you grabbed your bra. "Now..." he trailed off, as if in thought. You slipped your bra over your arms, reaching back to do the clasps as best you could with limited reach. Steve noticed you struggling, and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up, motioning for you to turn around so that he could help you.

You did as he instructed, turning so that he had easy access to the hooks. His fingers grazed along the skin on your back as he slowly clasped each of them together. Once he finished, his hands slid up to your shoulders and he turned you around to face him again. You smiled up at him as you continued to put on your bra, adjusting yourself slightly. He didn't pull back right away. He kept his hands on you, running his thumbs across the fabric on your shoulders, a content smile on his face as he stared at you.

"What is it?" you asked, noticing that he seemed to be stuck in his head. He didn't answer you right away. His smile widened and he leaned down, kissing you gently. It was so soft and slow, that you forgot what you had asked him to begin with. All you could think about was his mouth on yours, and his hands on your waist, and the smell of his cologne and sweat, and the way his hair was completely messed up. He pulled away after a moment and you blinked, dazed.

"Nothing," he answered after what seemed like forever. "Just... this."

"This?" you asked. You could feel your heart racing again. He was still smiling, and he kissed you once more before pulling away and reaching down to pick up his shirt.

"This. You and me," he said, as if the answer was obvious. He pulled his shirt over his head and cocked his head at you as you began to put your jeans on, not answering. "Unless you didn't... I mean, I kind of assumed... unless you just wanted to forget this happened? That's not really my thing, but I mean, it's okay, we could pretend if—"

"I like you." It just blurted out of you and he froze, looking surprised. You realized you were holding your breath. He blinked.

"Really?"

"Really. But I mean... I know you like to take girls out, so maybe this was just a—"

"You really don't know me that well, do you?" he laughed. Your heart was hammering.

"What do you mean?" you asked cautiously. You'd said too much. He was going to take it back now. You knew he would.

"I mean..." he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, but he didn't look like he wanted to back down. "I'm not just gonna... y'know, get with you at work and then bail on you. I like you, I like... being around you. A lot. I wanna keep doing it. Just in other places. Like outside of this shithole. And definitely without my uniform on. I mean, unless you're into that. I could probably bring my uniform home."

Your mind was going in about twenty directions at once, and it took you a second to process what he'd just said. He'd never... he liked being around you. And he wanted to take you out. You realized your mouth was open slightly and you closed it, biting your lip and feeling a wave of relief.

"You like me?" you repeated. "Not... you actually want to be around me?"

Steve stared at you for a second, a mix of disbelief and concern on his face, like you were the biggest idiot in the world for doubting him. Then his eyes narrowed, like he'd suddenly understood. He grabbed your waist again and pulled you back into him, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Are you telling me I'm so bad at flirting you didn't realize I've had a crush on you for the past four months? Are you kidding me?" He laughed a little at that. "You're actually insane. I thought it was so obvious..."

"I... what?" you stammered. "No! I had no idea."

"I mean," Steve started, pulling away slightly as he began to run through the list of times he'd been blatantly obvious in his interest for you, "I'm always trying to spend more time with you, asking you about yourself, finding stupid ways to make you smile or laugh or just... you know... pay attention to you... and like, the way I talk about you. Robin constantly call me out on it." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up a little more, which somehow only added to how endearing he looked.

"Well..." you mumbled, feeling your cheeks redden, "I just thought it was, y'know. Steve Harrington being Steve Harrington. Being a flirt."

Steve stared at you in silence for a moment, looking slightly disappointed that you were that clueless.

"Wait... do you really not know? About—" he looked up to the ceiling, and let out a short huff of air, before he looked back at you with his eyebrows raised. "The flirting, the winking, the talking about my parents not being home? Like... is it actually not obvious?"

Your face fell as you thought back on all the interactions the two of you had over the past few months, trying to pick up on clues. Had you really missed every hint that he had been dropping? You wanted to bury your head in your hands. You wanted the ground to swallow you up. But... he was still here. Still smiling. Still standing close and looking at you with the same interest that he'd had the whole night, since you had walked through the front door.

"You argue with me about everything, though," you said with a laugh, thinking of the many debates that the two of you had over what was a good movie, what was a bad one, which character in a movie was the hottest, if the latest rom com was really that good (spoiler: it wasn't), or even over the smallest, dumbest things that didn't even matter. "If I hadn't known you, I'd think that we just didn't like each other."

"That's just the chemistry," Steve shrugged, "You think I argue with all my coworkers about every little thing? Please." He chuckled as you blushed and shook your head, before he took another step closer to you, closing the distance between the two of you. "I like getting a rise out of you. You get so annoyed when you're trying to argue your point but can't think of the words. It's really cute."

You playfully nudged him with your elbow, before you finally put on the last of your clothes. Steve did the same, and when you looked down, you were both fully dressed. There was no trace that either of you had just fucked each other senseless a few moments ago. You glanced back up at him as he adjusted his vest.

"Lets go finish that deposit and then get the hell out of here."

You followed him back to the register, and he took the deposit bag and signed it, passing it to you. He waited patiently as you double checked to make sure that the deposit slip and the money matched. Once everything was correct, he gave a nod.

"Looks good. Ready to lock up?" he asked.

You nodded, and you both went to the breakroom to punch out. He opened the door for you, and you punched out on your time clock and gathered your things. You put your vest in your locker and closed it, turning around to see that Steve had already waited for you, patiently leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. You walked past him and out of the door, flipping the light switch as you walked out.

Whe you were outside the store, Steve locked the doors, then took the key and tossed it up and caught it. He turned and started walking backwards in the direction of the parking lot, as you headed to the bike rack to unlock your bike. Steve turned around, thinking you were right behind him and when he saw you at the bike rack, he spoke again.

"What are you doing? Are you riding that?"

"Um. Yes?" you raised an eyebrow, giving him a strange look as if to question what his problem was. "That's the plan. It's how I usually get home from work."

"It's freezing and it's late and I'm not letting you ride that back." He was being insistent. "No."

"Um. Yeah? It's really not that bad. I have a coat."

"Get in the car, leave your bike chained up. I have a morning shift tomorrow, I'll make sure it's there" he insisted, "Please? It's already past ten."

"Steve."

"C'mon. Just get in." he shrugged, his keys jingling in his hands. He wasn't going to budge and you were starting to get annoyed.

"It's really not—"

"Get in the damn car already." He rolled his eyes at you, clearly not buying the argument that you could get home by yourself and in one piece. It was dark outside, and a bit chilly, but that wasn't exactly uncommon for Hawkins. You sighed. You knew you wouldn't win this battle and it wasn't worth it to continue to argue.

"Fine. But just for the record, it's not that cold and I would have been fine. You know that."

"Mhm. Sure." Steve grinned, leading the way to the parking lot. When you got there, you stopped and glanced at all the empty cars and he frowned, before he gave a laugh of relief when he saw his BMW in the back corner. He unlocked the doors, you both climbed inside and he started the engine. He drove out of the parking lot, turning right onto the main street. You leaned your head on the window, your mind still spinning with the events of the last hour. Steve Harrington wanted you. You wanted Steve Harrington. This wasn't a one time thing, you could do this again. It was really happening.

As your eyes closed, you thought about the conversation you'd just had and something clicked. Steve's comment about him having a crush on you for months finally sank in. Your head whipped towards Steve in the driver's seat and you stared at him, as if you hadn't seen him in this light before. You couldn't help but stare. He was... perfect. He was absolutely, flawlessly beautiful and you just couldn't believe that someone like him could be so infatuated with someone like you. You leaned back in your seat, watching him carefully as he drove. You felt like you were going to burst, or pass out. You'd never been more attracted to someone before, but there was something else there. It felt more intense, more intense than it had felt before with anyone else. You felt your face turn a few shades of pink again as you thought of him.

The ride to your house wasn't a long one. Hawkins wasn't exactly known for being large, after all, and you didn't live too far from the store. Before you knew it, you were parked on the side of the road right in front of your driveway. You smiled at the sight of the familiar streetlight flickering every now and then. Home.

"Thanks," you mumbled quietly, as Steve put the car in park. "I... I mean... um, yeah, just... thanks." You fidgeted a little with the seatbelt strap and he nodded at you. He didn't move to take his hand off the wheel.

"Yeah... so," Steve gave a slight sigh as he leaned back, finally looking away from the windshield and meeting your eyes again. "Can we go back to talking about the whole you having no clue thing, because... I gotta be honest with you. I don't think I've ever been this embarrassed in my life. You thought I was just..."

You stared at him for a second, watching the way he spoke, watching how animated he was as he explained his side of the story, as if it had actually been some huge deal that you didn't notice him pining over you. The thought of it was... sweet, and it was such a contrast from what you thought you knew about him before. He really cared about how you felt.

"You know that I would never use you, right?" Steve continued. "Like I really like you. I think I made that pretty clear at the store, but like, if I made you uncomfortable or—"

You reached forward and took his hand in yours. You took it gently at first, testing to see his reaction, before he took your hand in return. He glanced down at where your fingers laced together, as his thumb moved over your skin.

"Steve," you interrupted softly, and his head tilted up to look back at you again. He had been rambling.

"Hm?" He asked, clearly unsure of how to react to what you just said. He watched as you brought his hand up to your mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his hand. When your gaze met his again, you smiled, feeling the warmth of your breath on his hand, your nose brushing against him.

"Take me out." It was a request, a gentle demand, as if he didn't know that you would follow him anywhere at this point.

He grinned at that. The idea was definitely appealing. You saw the wheels turning in his head, imagining all the places that you could go on a date. What movies you could see, which ones would be worth sitting through for two hours with you, and which ones wouldn't. You were certain he had the entire month mapped out already.

"Can I pick you up at five on Saturday? There's this drive in theatre down the next town over." Steve offered, his eyes lit up with excitement.

"Yeah, I'm off on Saturday."

"I know. I've been staring at that calendar in the breakroom all week. I know all the dates you have off." Steve explained, as you looked at him in awe, with your mouth hanging open in surprise. "What? I wasn't lying back there. I had been planning to ask you out."

He didn't seem ashamed to admit it either, as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, then brushed his fingers over your cheek, as if to check that you were really there. You leaned into the touch and he smiled, letting out a content sigh. He took your hand and pulled you towards him, pressing his lips to your temple.

"I should get inside, my parents are probably wondering why I'm home from work so late." You whispered, looking up at Steve, whose face fell. He pulled you a little closer to him, leaning his head down to meet you, as if he didn't want you to leave.

"Saturday." He said it more to remind himself than to remind you. "I'll pick you up here."

"I'll be ready. Promise." you grinned, and he nodded in confirmation. With that, he gave you one final kiss, pressing his lips gently to yours for what felt like an eternity, but ended up only being about three seconds, before letting you go. He sat back up, putting the car back into drive, as you reached for the door handle.

"Have a good night."

"Yeah. You too." Steve smiled as he put the car back in drive.

---

extra lil bonus scene for the platonic!Stobin lovers:

The next morning at Family Video, Steve leaned lazily against the counter, flipping through a stack of tapes with all the enthusiasm of a kid forced to do summer homework. Robin, meanwhile, was loading the last of the returns into a cart, muttering about how she always got the worst tasks.

“You could at least pretend to help,” Robin said, giving him a pointed look as she pushed the cart toward the back.

“I’m on very important rewinder duty,” Steve replied, smirking as he leaned back against the counter.

Robin rolled her eyes. “You’re on very important doing nothing duty.”

She disappeared into the aisles, her voice carrying back to him as she headed toward the adult section. “Why do I always get stuck with the beaded curtain of doom? I didn’t sign up to alphabetize Hawkins’ finest porn collection !”

“Because you’re the captain, and I’m just a humble first mate,” Steve called after her, grinning to himself.

A moment later, Robin’s horrified yell shattered the calm.

“STEVE!”

Steve’s heart leapt into his throat as he sprinted toward the back, shoving through the beads to find Robin standing stock-still, staring at the trash can with a look of utter disgust.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked, panting slightly.

Robin pointed at the trash can like it was radioactive. “There is a used condom in the trash can!”

Steve froze, his stomach dropping. “Uh…”

Robin turned to him, her expression a mix of shock and dawning realization. “Wait. Wait. Harrington. No. Tell me you didn’t—”

“I—it’s not what it looks like!” Steve stammered, raising his hands in defense. “I mean, technically, it is what it looks like, but it’s not like that!”

Robin’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you and—wait— you and her?! In the adult section?!”

“No! Well… yes. But it wasn’t—it was after close!” Steve groaned, running a hand through his hair, clearly panicking. “And it wasn’t planned ! It just… happened!”

Robin stared at him, blinking slowly. Then, she tilted her head. “So let me get this straight. You, Steve Harrington, had sex here, surrounded by titles like Butt Bandits 3 and Debbie Does Dallas? ”

Steve’s face turned bright red as he buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t say it like that.”

Robin then let out a bark of laughter. “Steve, do you have any idea how lucky you are that I found this and not Keith? Can you even imagine? He’d have a field day!”

Steve groaned again, his face still buried in his hands. “Please, don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m not joking!” Robin said, laughing harder now. “You’d never live it down. He’d probably give you some gross high-five and call you ‘stud’ every time he saw you.”

“God, please stop. I’m already dying of embarrassment.”

Robin folded her arms, a wicked grin on her face. “Oh, I’m not letting you off the hook that easily. Who even does this? At work, Steve? In the adult section? What, were you inspired by the ambiance?”

“It wasn’t planned!” Steve repeated, throwing his head back. “It just… happened!”

Robin smirked. “Oh, I’m sure it just happened. ”

“Robin,” Steve said, glaring at her. “Please. I’m begging you. Just pretend this didn’t happen.”

Robin pretended to consider it, then shrugged. “Fine. But you’re taking the trash out.”

“What? No way!”

“Oh, yes way,” she said, shoving the trash can toward him. “You made this mess. Literally. Now deal with it.”

Steve sighed dramatically, grabbing the trash can and stomping toward the back door as Robin’s laughter echoed behind him.

As he reached the exit, Robin called after him, her voice dripping with amusement. “Oh, and for the record? Since she clearly likes you back, maybe next time, take her somewhere that doesn’t smell like old popcorn and desperation!”

Steve froze mid-step, turning to glare at her. “Robin!”

She just grinned, wiggling her fingers in a wave. “Have fun with the trash, lover boy!”

“Gimme’ a french fry.”

It was late, a Thursday night in early September nearing a bit too close to midnight. Your thighs stuck to a cracked leather booth as the ambient hum of kitchen noise took over the burger joint dining room. You were very grateful for this shitty establishment, being it was the only place open late enough for you, and the man that was definitely not your boyfriend, to grab a bite to eat.

A night like tonight typically went as follows:

A text would ping your phone, interrupting you from whatever self care activity you were doing on one of your only nights off during the week, the alligator emoji mocking you as it slid onto the top of your screen.

wyd tn?

You’d pretend as though you’re debating his question; typing out a few potential responses. My nail polish is drying, or I’m watching a movie. Sometimes you consider lying and telling him you’re out at the bar with your friends.

Lucky for you, Gator Tillman was insufferable. You knew better than to tell him something that he could prove wrong in an instant.

You think on it, even though it doesn’t take much other than picturing Gator in his underwear, lying on his bed, lazily brushing his hand against the bulge in his sweats, anticipating your reply. After much deliberation, and realizing that whatever you had to say would make his night, his month, and his entire year, you sigh, and message him back:

come over?

And so it went. Gator was over your apartment no less than twenty minutes later. The movie you were watching long forgotten, the cherry red nail polish you were using to paint your toenails discarded on your coffee table while Gator had your chest pressed flush into your pillows as he drilled into you from behind. Even as the thorn in your side, you had no problem opening up your night for him.

You really hadn’t a single clue why.

Alannah Myles’ “Black Velvet” crackled over the ancient burger joint sound system, the one that funnelled constant oldies into the dining area no matter what time of day it was. Usually you were more grateful for the musical stylings of the late seventies but tonight, no. Not tonight. Even a strawberry milkshake couldn’t ease your headache.

It didn't help that you had a second headache sitting in the booth across from you.

“Help yerself’ princess. Y’aint gotta’ ask.”

Gator’s hand pointed down to the leftover fries on his tray, the other bringing the straw of his root beer up to his lips as he noticed you eyeing his fry basket. His styrofoam cup squeaked, and you winced.

“Thanks,” you mumble, reaching over to steal a fry. Gator’s eyes found yours when he swallowed, his cheeks still flushed from your earlier activities.

Gator Tillman wasn’t a bad guy. Not as bad as everyone in Stark County claimed, anyway. You’d met him at a charity dinner—even though there was nothing particularly charitable about the sheriff’s department— after hearing through a friend that the Tillmans would be in attendance.

You’d chosen a floor length, plum colored evening gown, one that accentuated your curves with its ruching and strappy black heels that stretched a mile high. Was your striking outfit chosen meticulously with hopes that the most powerful man in the county would feast his eyes on you and make you his next wife? A woman never tells. 

Despite the work it had taken to get an invitation, and rub elbows with Stark County elites in order to claw your way to an important table, your attempts to catch the eyes of a married man at a charity dinner were futile. You didn’t accept defeat easily. In fact, you didn't consider it a defeat at all.

Because you’d caught the eyes of his son instead.

Equally as influential, though slightly less powerful, Gator Tillman was exactly the man you needed. He was closer in age, malleable, slightly naive— his only issue being how he was the biggest dick in all of North Dakota.

But since meeting Gator, after realizing he was essentially worthless in your plans to fake it ‘til you make it, you’d begun to treat him like you would any other hookup. You’d leave him to rest during the week, not quite entertaining the thought of seeing him until the weekend, quickly realizing that he was a lot harder to get rid of than any other old hookup of yours. He was consistent about seeing you, that was for sure. Not to mention, he was the best sex you’d ever had.

Your roster had dropped significantly in length; from five or six good options— to just one.

You taught Gator everything he knows and he was never one for aftercare, but the more you saw him, the longer he stayed, graduating from leaving ten minutes after the two of you had gotten cleaned up and changed, to getting comfortable in your bed, looking at you with pillowy eyes as he laid with his arm beneath his head and asked: “Y’hungry?”

It was hard to say no to Gator Tillman. And he most certainly had a hard time saying no to you, too. You’d gained the nickname princess after a few choice words exchanged in a Denny’s parking lot one morning after a typical Friday night booty call. He called you spoiled, and you reminded him exactly why that is.

Neither of you ever addressed the elephant in the room. The question ‘what are we?’ hardly ever came up.

Until tonight.

“So, ‘bout what I said earlier…” Gator’s sentence trails back off into his straw, reminding you of the pillowtalk the two of you shared before getting in the truck to grab a bite to eat.

“Oh God, Gator, can we please not do this now,” you roll your eyes, sticking another fry in your cheek to avoid the topic entirely, “we’ll talk about it later.”

Gator scoffs, sinking into the booth, his backwards trucker hat preventing him from leaning back all the way, “Later. Y’always say that shit. Like later’s ever gonna’ fuckin’ come.”

There’s a pause, it hangs in the air; thick, and tension ridden. 

“Y’know, I’m real sick’a ya’. Stringin’ me along like a damn’ puppet. I ain’t a puppet. I mean somethin’ in this damn town.”

You shake your head, glancing down at your thighs below the table. Goosebumps raised on your legs, the frilly lace trim of your pajama shorts peeking out beneath your oversized crewneck. Regretting the clothes you’d thrown on after the promise of a strawberry milkshake, you reach down and bunch the fabric, the action more of a mindless tick than intentional.

“What do you want from me, Gator? I thought we were just— having fun.”

“Having fun,” he repeats your words with a slight bitterness and a tinge of regret lingering on his tongue, “Sure, gettin’ lead on is lots a’ fuckin’ fun.”

“Listen, it’s fun in its own way, y’know? We make it fun. We fuck, you sleep over on weekends, we fuck again, sometimes I let you stay for a few days after and keep me company while I run errands and clean the apartment. That’s honestly– a lot more domesticity than I’m used to.”

Your strawberry milkshake was dwindling down to the maraschino cherry that you’d let sink to the bottom, you no longer had an excuse for your mouth being occupied to avoid all of Gator’s questions.

“Yeah but, it ain’t fair t’ me. I could ‘ave any girl I fuckin’ want n’ here I am. Wastin’ my damn’ younger days on a chick who ain’t even interested.”

Something about the words he spoke plucked at your heart strings. Gator Tillman, of all people on this earth, discussing how he could have anyone he wants, seemed to strike a nerve.

“Yeah? That’s how you really feel huh?” you bite back, crossing your arms tightly in front of your chest. Gator’s face melts a little, but you continue searing bullet holes into his forehead with your eyes. “Since I’m too busy stringing you along, how about you go out and find another girl who’d put up with all of your bullshit? I bet you a million fucking dollars— you won’t find someone half as nice as me, Gator, I can promise you that.”

His nose twitches, your words the hardest pill he’s had to swallow in quite some time. You stay still, your arms still crossed, classic rock still funnelling out through the speakers. The two of you were the only ones left at the burger place.

“I could walk out right now, y’know. Walk out that door n’ never look back at’cha ever again.”

You take one final sip of your milkshake, the limited contents of your practically empty cup making a loud, obnoxious slurp. Gator’s eye twitches, hands clasped in front of him on the table as he uses them to nudge his tray out of the way.

“Too bad you’re my ride.”

He huffs, his lips rolling in on themselves. You’d just made a great point. “I’ll leave ya’ here.”

“No you won’t.”

Without even letting a moment pass, Gator slides out of the booth. You look up at his towering frame, at his leather jacket with the popped collar and the two lines shaved cleanly into his sideburns, wondering if he was actually serious about leaving this time.

He threatened it quite often, but to no avail. You smiled to yourself when all he did was pick up his tray, and yours, to walk towards the garbage can.

It was nearly one in the morning now and the tiredness hit you like a freight train. You yawn, leaning your chin on the heel of your palm as you wait for Gator to sit back down. When he eventually returns, he doesn’t sit. Just towers over you with his hands dug in his pockets. One of them reveals itself, his neon green vape clutched in his knuckles as he takes a frustrated pull and lets the smoke funnel into his nose.

“What’s it gonna take, huh?”

His body leans forward as he presses you. You glance up at him through half lidded eyes. You hadn’t imagined what Gator’s breaking point would look like, and you especially didn’t think it would be happening here, and now.

 “What?”

“What’ll it take? Y’know. T’— win ya’ over? Y’want me t’ buy y’ out? Empty my fuckin’ wallet on useless shit fer’ ya?”

“Gator—” Your sad attempt at cutting off his tangent was helpless.

“I don’t fuckin’ get it, n’ I’m not gonna stop ‘till I figure you out. Y’want jewelry? Lingerie? Roses? Say the word, princess. You’ll make a fuckin’ man outta’ me.”

His tone still rang true to the typical, pompous asshole that he was, but his eyes were pleading. They were wide, and shaky, searching your face and awaiting a response. Waiting for you to say anything at all. After a moment, you slide out of the booth, crowding his space and mirroring the upper hand he thought he had on you, your front pressing against the cool leather that made up his favorite jacket. His breath hitches, but you just cock your head, letting confidence surge through you like lightning. That same tenacity that won him over to you in the fucking first place.

“Well?” Gator urges, his arms crossing over his chest, swallowing indignantly when your eyes narrow at him. You press a finger to his chest, and his heart damn near stops.

“Roses ain’t enough for a girl like me.”

—

It had been a little over a week since you’d heard from Gator. Normally, you wouldn’t even blink. 

You’d go about your weekend as usual, working through your appointments at the salon; sweeping all the loose hair off of the floor, tossing the linens in the dryer and closing up shop just before sunset with enough time spared to make evening plans.

You were usually elbows deep in the washbowl to clean it when Gator would text you, twenty minutes before quitting time, asking if you’d prefer him stopping to pick up food, rather than taking you out later. Sometimes, the message would be risqué enough to make you pull your hand out of the water and toss your phone onto the pile of towels beside you, blush creeping onto your cheeks as Gator would so kindly remind you with a photo of what was waiting for you after his patrol was over.

But tonight, the washbowls were cleaned, the floor was swept, the linens were tumbling and the lock to the salon doors clicked; hues of orange and purple dusk painting the midwestern sky. Tonight, everything was the same.

Besides the text from Gator, which never arrived.

You sat in your car, the air conditioner finally kicking in after a few minutes. You untied your apron and peeled it off, tossing it into your hot pink work bag that sat laden with styling tools and hair products in your passenger seat. The drive home was nothing out of the ordinary; you cracked the windows like always, letting the breeze hit your face as you hopped onto the highway.

You tried to shake the thought of that stupid text; the one that would make you roll your eyes and chuckle down at your phone with enough of a giddy smile to make your coworkers start asking questions. Gator was not husband material; he was barely boyfriend material and he sure as shit wasn’t worth all of the trouble you went through to keep him around. But you just couldn’t help it. 

You couldn’t help him either.

Your knuckles tightened against your steering wheel cover at merely the thought of him. How he was never able to commit to plans, claiming to be slammed with work when you’d caught him in that lie on multiple occasions, at the bar out late with his cop buddies. You thought about the countless nights where he’d grunt the wrong girl’s name, and how he’d get all pissy and ignore you once you did the same.

All of these negatives would’ve outweighed the positives to any normal girl; one with enough dignity and sanity to know that the sheriff’s impudent son was nothing but bad news. 

However, the more you considered it, the more you realized that there was not a single man in Stark County that was as pussy-whipped for you as Gator Tillman.

You pulled into your apartment complex just as the sun fell past the horizon. You had not a plan in sight; not even to watch a movie or do some desperately needed self care. Just a pile of laundry waiting to be folded and an oven bake pizza ready to be eaten entirely alone. When you walk up the two flights of stairs leading to your apartment, your bracelets and keychains jingle and occupy the space around you, temporarily stopping the incessant thought of Gator, Gator, Gator.

You were also trying to stop yourself from checking your phone; you hated how much of a hold that that stupid little pixelated alligator had on you. Shaking the thought for one final time, you pushed open the door and—

Oh.

When your apartment door swings open, you are presented with a full view of your kitchen table, as usual, and it was exactly how you left it; your little pink appointment book left open, pens and highlighters strewn across the open pages as you struggled to jot down appointment times before rushing out the door. Your unfinished hot tea beside it, the tea tag resting beside a smudge of lipstick around the rim.

But there was something else there that you would’ve never expected. Hell must’ve frozen over.

Atop your kitchen table, you gasp at the sight— a gorgeous (and massive) bouquet of wildflowers. Daisies, white lilies, snapdragons, marigolds, and lavender all tucked and arranged neatly into a clear glass vase. One that was definitely in the back of your kitchen cabinet and probably needed to be cleaned. You approached the flowers slowly, as if thinking too hard about any of this would make them disappear.

As you step closer, you can see a small notecard, folded in half, propped up to be standing. You shake your head when you drop your bags, your heart pounding in your throat as you stride to the table and pick up the notecard to read it:

To the girl that thinks roses are worthless.

Crazy bout you,

G.

A puff of air leaves your chest; you could practically hear the smugness of those couple of sentences in his voice. The note was sweet, and thoughtful, but something was missing. It still had that jagged edge, that punch in the gut that feeling left you empty, yet somehow still incredibly full. 

Gator wasn’t the kind of guy to leave thoughtful notes. To go out of his way to buy extravagant bouquets of flowers, or round the hood of his truck to pull open the passenger door for you and carry you bridal style over puddles in the rain. You didn’t think he had it in him.

But to your surprise, and absolute dismay, Gator Tillman does indeed have a heart.

You chew on your lower lip, putting the note back down where it originally was and running a hand through your hair.

“Gator?”

You call out to your suspiciously quiet apartment, knowing he had to be lingering. The flowers were fresh, still smelling like they would if you were to pluck them straight from the dirt. You tiptoe towards the hallway, noticing your bathroom door cracked, the light left on.

At first, you were annoyed— hoping Gator didn’t do anything stupid like pick your locks or use a cutter to chop up your deadbolt. But you soon remembered the spare key hidden beneath your doormat, you’d told him about it once when he jokingly offered to feed your pet hermit crab while you were away. He frowned almost immediately, turning to you and saying “yer’ lucky no one ain’t break inta yer’ shit n’ snatched you up while yer’ sleepin’.”

You really should be more cautious, you thought. Surely he’ll scold you for it later.

“Gate?” you call out again, this time walking towards the outer threshold of the bathroom and standing just outside of the door. Rather than a response, you hear the sink turn on, and the sound of brushing teeth.

Behind the door and sure enough, there Gator stood. Content. Unbothered. Shirtless. Complexion fucking radiant beneath the warm lighting of your vanity, as if the sun were setting against the hundreds of moles splattered across his shoulders. A pair of charcoal grey sweats hung low on his hips, the patch of hair that started at his belly button and led down past the waistband of his pants contorting when he turned to face you. It was the last thing you had your eye on.

“Let m’self in,” Gator announces, toothbrush tucked in his cheek, mouth sudsy.

“I can see that,” you reply, noting only now that the hot pink glitter toothbrush he was using was indeed yours and not the one you kept for him in the cabinet.

He continues to brush his teeth, leaving you dumbfounded in the bathroom doorway. Feeling somewhat self conscious, despite seeing Gator in much less fabric than this, you shrug your cardigan off, letting it hit the floor with a fwup. Gator’s head snaps to face the sound of you ridding yourself of an article of clothing, his hair soft and tousled and falling into his eyes the second he moves his head.

His hair was quite cute without all of that gel and pomade pushing it back. Seeing him like that, like this, in a way that rarely anybody else did, was a blue moon you were grateful for.

“Those flowers,” you begin, stepping towards him timidly, “they for me?”

Gator pauses his brushing, locking eyes with you in the mirror.

“Who th’ fuck else would they be for? The damn’ hermit crab?”

“Don’t be a jackass. They’re pretty.”

You cross your arms over your chest, now standing side by side with him in the mirror. You scan your own reflection, letting your eyes wander over to his. There was something about standing beside Gator whilst he got ready for ‘bed’ in your bathroom mirror that made your stomach turn. His broad shoulders squared, towering over you while he rested a hand on his hip, the bit of pudge that fell just above his waistband torturing you at just the sight of it. Gator looked ravishing in the light of the vanity, like he was a permanent fixture in your picture of domesticity.

This wasn’t the first time the two of you shared a bathroom counter, and it definitely won’t be the last.

“Y’know,” you murmur, after letting the silence hang for only a moment too long, “you didn’t have to get me anything.”

Gator finally finishes his brushing, leaning down to spit out his toothpaste and swish his mouth out with water. He maintains eye contact on his way back up, blindly reaching over to snatch your little purple hand towel off of the hook and pat his mouth dry.

“Whatcha’ should really be sayin’ is, ‘gee, thanks fer’ the flowers, Gator. M’sorry I ain’t talk to ya’ in a damn week’...” 

“What?!” you snap your head to face him, agitated enough by the sound of his contemptuous tone, “You were the one who was ignoring me. You always text me on Friday nights!”

Gator’s mouth opens to retaliate, but clamps shut, as if he were actually stopping to think about what he was about to say for the first time in his life.

“So, you’re finally admittin’ it.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Huh?”

Gator chuckles, it's wry, and condescending. He swivels to face you fully, glancing down at you through his lower lashes with that signature smirk plastered on his face. It makes you want to reach up and smack it right off of him, but the warmth of his body as it approaches yours makes your knees buckle.

“Yer’ admittin’ that you wait up fer’ me on our Friday nights. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Instead’a actin’ all high n’ mighty, like y’ve got better shit ta’ do while I’m eatin’ yer’ pussy ‘till there’s tears in yer’ eyes—”

“Gator,” you snap.

He puts his hands up, feigning innocence, “Just sayin’.”

Your jaw ticks when that shit-eating smile of his doesn’t fade; he wasn’t just being a dick for the fun of it, making you blushy and flustered because he enjoys the shade of rosy pink your cheeks and forehead get whenever he reminds you of just how good he is with his tongue.

He was being a dick because he knew he was right.

“How long y’ gonna keep this up princess?” Gator breaks the silence, it wasn’t long but it was certainly tense.

You glance down at the bathroom counter, noting the fresh men’s razor that was now resting beside your vanilla cupcake scented lotion, “Keep what up?”

“This,” he motions between your bodies with his fingers, “Feel like I ain’t gotta explain much else.”

“Still don’t know what you mean.”

Gator sighs. He doesn’t want to say what’s on the tip of his tongue, though by the looks of how pale his face had just gotten, holding it in and biting it back (like he always does) wouldn’t do him any good in this case.

“Y’seem like the typa’ woman who knows what she wants. ‘Been tellin’ yer’ little friends fer months that I ain’t boyfriend material— yet, here I am. Practicl’y livin’ in yer’ damn apartment. Every weekend. I ain’t miss a beat since the first time I met ya’, neither— I get you dinner, I buy ya’ fuckin’— stupid ass flowers n’ write ya’ cheap notes t’ try n’ make you smile. Shit, ain’t sure what else it’ll take.”

Gator sounded more exasperated than he did angry, as he ran a hand down from his temple to rest on his jaw. He gazed into his own eyes, searching deep within his reflection as he shook his head in disbelief.

“Y’ain’t got shit to say t’ that, do ya?” he scoffs, a wry chuckle slipping past the absolute audacity, “I figured.”

“Gator…” you said, knowing exactly the words he wanted to hear, yet unable to admit them. Mainly to yourself.

He scoffs again, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just that dumb, snarly expression he wore on his face like it was glued there. 

“Yeah. Figured…” he repeats, stepping away from the counter and stepping behind you as he watches you lose yourself now, in your own reflection.

“…I’ll be in yer’ room if y’ wanna fuck about it.”

You didn’t realize your mouth had been open, but upon hearing his words, you pinch it shut. He finds your eyes, and they blaze with passion. With fury. With— a little something else that you could quite put your finger on.

“What?”

“Y’ ‘eard me,” he shrugs, “I ain’t stutter.”

When Gator walks out of the bathroom, you stand in the mirror dumbfounded. The flowers, the note, the ignoring you for a week as a cry for attention. You hated that he knew it’d all work on you. You absolutely despised how this pathetic, cocky fuck knew you like the back of his hand. You hated it so much that it was actually— endearing.

A crooked smile twitches onto your cheeks, not long before you’re turning away from your reflection and walking out of the bathroom towards your bedroom.

Gator Tillman; the man you swore up and down wasn’t boyfriend material, finally had a fair chance.

Not that you’d let him know that, anyway.

It isn’t a long walk to your bedroom, but the ten footsteps you took felt more like a hike up a mountain. You’d stopped a few times midway, deliberating whether or not giving Gator what he wanted was a bright idea. You were already his biggest enabler just from letting him sweeten you up with his bittersweet way of flirting and attentive tongue.

Fuck it, you hadn’t much left to lose.

Gator is already on your bed, sprawled out like he belonged there and truthfully, he did. He claimed that spot just about every Saturday morning.

One of his knees was propped up, with one arm tucked behind his head as he used the other to scroll mindlessly on his phone. His clean, loose hair was tucked away, almost into his signature slick back but slightly less uniform due to the lack of army grade gel. You purse your lips when you gaze at him, leaning your arm against the door jamb.

“You’ve got a starin’ problem, princess,” he hums into his screen, not looking over at you, as if he can feel your eyes searing into his cheekbones.

“I know you want me to admit it. But I won’t.”

“I gave up on tryna’ get yer’ stubborn ass t’ say it out loud a long time’ago. I know whatcha’ want. All’s left is fer’ you ta’ give in. Ain’t nothin’ else to it.”

You furrow your eyebrows. Damn you, Gator Tillman. Damn your sweet hazel eyes and the way you smell like the ground before it rains. Damn your big strong hands that engulf your smaller ones and leave dark bruises on your hips that only the two of you could see. Damn your sweet, sappy affection and your hardass way of showing it.

“What’re ya’ puttin’ on a show fer?” he interrupts the natural flow of things, much like he always does, and finally pries his eyes away from his phone to look at you, “Nobody else ‘ere but me.”

“I’m not— putting on a show. I just— it’s a lot to think about, okay? A lot to consider. Being tied down, and stuff.”

You hadn’t even noticed how many steps into the room you’d taken. Closer to the bed. Closer to a waiting Gator, who had discarded his phone completely and let his arm rest against his stomach.

“You n’ I both know there ain’t nobody else in that little black book ‘a yers, princess. Y’ve been mine since we met.”

“That’s not true,” you say, your voice trailing off at the end in dishonesty, “I have plenty of people on my roster.”

He scoffs, eyes rolling as if to dismiss you and say, get over here and stop talking before we really have an issue.

“Yer a shit fuckin’ liar, I can tell ya’ that much.”

And just like that, you’re on top of him. Mainly to shut up that smart mouth.

His hands are gripping your ass, grinding your hips down onto the chub tenting up in his sweatpants as he licks and moans into your mouth. Your hands found his tousled locks; long manicured nails taking one hand to push his bangs away from his face, the other curling around the clipped hair at the base of his neck.

He bucks his hips up, earning a soft moan from you as he pulls away from your kiss. He doesn’t go far though, his nose bumping against yours, the two of you already panting.

“Y’done bein’ a stubborn brat?”

“Are you done being a cocky piece of shit all the time?”

Gators hand slides up your back beneath your tank top, finding your bra and unclasping it blindly with practiced precision. You suppose that was your answer to that question.

“Maybe we both got things we ‘oughta work on.You’re a raging bitch, I’m an idiot. But ‘ey, if we’re gonna be fucked up, at least we’re fucked up t’gether, right?”

You gasp, and without thinking, lay your palm right across his cheek. His head jerks to the side with the force of your smack, jaw already turning red as he tries to hide his smirk by curling his tongue.

“Don’t— call me a bitch, Gator. What the hell’s your problem? It’s like you’re trying to end up in the fuckin’ doghouse.”

“Thought I’d been in it fer’ weeks now. The fact that I ain’t even there yet is news t’ me.”

Before you could retaliate, Gator’s kissing you again. He’s got you shimmying out of your bra beneath your tank, making you lift one arm, then the other, before pulling it off and tossing it to the side to be lost with the rest of your dirty laundry. He finds your newly bra-less tits instantly, cupping and massaging them as you rest your weight on him.

He sucks in a deep breath, his tongue tangling with yours. The feeling of your body on his was something he’d been deprived of only for a few days, but it had felt more like an eternity in his mind. The feeling of your teeth sinking into his bottom lip while your hands trailed his chest was a drug, and he was an addict. Nowhere near ready to get clean.

“Gate’,” you say his name clipped against his plush lips, as he holds you tightly to lift you with him to sit with his back against your headboard, “I, uh—”

You’re officially straddling him now, still connected, though his lips have traveled down to explore other places and his hands have reached into your shirt to fully pull out your tits. You were now exposed, trying your hardest to just spit out the words you wanted to say in such a weak and vulnerable moment.

Meanwhile, Gator was on another planet— his mouth found the tops of your breasts, already suckling at the sensitive skin there and leaving bruises in his wake. You toss your head back when his tongue grazes your nipple, not taking it into his mouth just yet.

“Hm?” he hums, mouth clearly occupied.

“Gator I just— I’m sorry, okay? I just— fuck,” you’re interrupted when he bounces you slightly on his lap, providing you with some momentary, desperately needed friction.

“You’re sorry?” he parrots you, more so in shock rather than him not hearing it, “‘You actually apologizin’ fer’ once? Or am I fuckin’ dreamin’?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m being unfair to you.”

“Well, shit. ‘Think I just ‘bout came in my pants from ‘earin’ ‘at,” he teases, using his hips to bounce you a couple of times on his lap, laughing when you roll your eyes, pull up your shirt, and cover your face with your hands.

Gator pries your hands away from your face, leaving you with a pout as he takes them into his own, rubbing the tops of your knuckles with his thumbs. “Can you just— not ruin a moment for once? Seems like it’s all you’re good for these days.”

“I’m good fer’ ruinin’ a lot more than moments, princess. Speakin’ of, how many pairs’a panties do I owe ya?”

“At least ten,” you try to fight a small, sweet giggle, but simply cannot, “but who’s counting?”

The corner of Gator’s mouth curves up into a smirk, still mindlessly rubbing circles on your hands. You stare at him for a moment, wondering how a man like him— a cocky, abrasive, nepo baby— could be dumbed down to nuts and bolts when it came to you. Sure, he was still himself; but he was softer. He was more patient, and willing, eager to learn everything you had to offer him.

You were never really sure why you kept coming back to Gator Tillman, or why you even stayed at all. But the way his eyes sparkled as he looked back at you like you were made up of all the stars in the sky made you damn sure now.

“I wanna try this, I think,” you say, a sheepish admission. You don’t specify what exactly it is you’re willing to try, but hey, it was something. Something Gator had been trying to pry out of you for months now.

“That right?” he affirms, “You sure you ain’t hit yer’ head on one’a them blowdryers at the salon?”

You chuckle, the first easy feeling you’ve felt since getting home and the most at peace you’d felt in a week, “Yes, I’m sure. But if you try to pull some shit—”

“Lemme’ stop ya’ right there,” Gator interrupts you with a finger pressed against your mouth, “and make sure that you ain’t got no shit’ up yer’ sleeve ‘neither. I wan’ all cards on the table, princess.”

Without a word, you slither your right hand from his grasp and hold out your pinky, it trembles in midair but it is indeed—

“A promise?” Gator raises his eyebrows, “What exactly am I promisin’?”

“Promise we’ll be good to each other. We don’t have to be saints but, shit.”

“Y’know damn well I ain’t a saint. Never have been.” You nod, lips pursed, because well, he’s right.

“And neither am I. Hence why,” your pinky wiggles, “a promise. To try, at least.”

Gator grumbles like a petulant child, like you’d just asked him to solve a Rubik’s cube with his eyes closed. Like being a good man was rocket science because to him, it really was. It was the end of the world as he knew it.

But rather than giving you a nothingness sort of answer, he sighs, holding up his pinky to mirror the one of yours that you’d left stranded in midair.

“Promise. I’ll be the man y’wanna tell yer’ friends about. I ain’t perfect but, shit, I’d be anythin’ fer’ you.”

Gator locks his pinky with yours and all you could do was grin, like a damn idiot. He knew you had nothing else left to say, having already spoken up to your emotional bullshit wordcount limit and that was fine with him, what mattered now was that he had his answer. 

He’s known since he met you that you were his girl. Gator’s girl. All that was left was for you to admit it yourself.

Gator uses your hooked pinkies to pull you back into him, lips ghosting across your cupid’s bow before taking it into his mouth. He focuses on your top lip for a while, kissing you and pulling back, your hands finding his jaw and cupping his face to absorb and savor whatever tenderness this moment had left in it. For you knew it wouldn’t last much longer. Gator Tillman was not a damn sap.

His tongue slides past your waiting, parted lips, gliding across your bottom teeth and asking much less respectfully for entrance than usual. The heat from before rises again, interlocked pinkies long forgotten as his hands now keep your hips caged in and pressing against the hard on in his sweats.

“Mmh,” you moan, your hand sliding down from his jaw towards the patch of hair on his chest, “Gate—”

“Off,” he mumbles. Demanding as always, but it was a tone you were used to. Knowing exactly what that command meant pulled a dumb, excited grin out of you.

“Yes sir,” you joke, dismounting his lap and kneeling beside him. His hands linger on your hips, shifting up even further on the headboard and spreading his legs. Enough room for you to fit between them.

“Go ‘head, sit.” Gator’s hips settle at the top of the mattress, stretching one arm behind his head lazily while the other pats the empty space between his legs — you lick your lips, hiding your smile as you lean forward and place a kiss on the mole right beneath his jaw.

“Gonna’ make me feel good?” you smile against his jaw, pressing your lips against his temple before a strong arm slithers around your waist and pulls you down prematurely, making you squeak.

Gator grumbles, impatient. “Takin’ too long.”

You’re seated with your back against Gator’s front now, adjusting your legs to mirror his as his hands waste no time sliding down the front of your tank top to cup your breast. You arch your back, pressing your shoulders against his chest and letting your head rest in the crook of his neck.

Gator takes your hardened nipple between his forefinger and thumb, rolling and pinching it as his head ducks down to kiss your craned neck. His other hand is large, and overbearing, taking up half of your face as he intends to cup your jaw.

“Wanna’ see how wet y’ get jus’ fr’m me touchin’ ya like this,” he mumbles, his voice muffled and gruff as you listen to it through the side of his face, “Wanna watch that sweet pussy clench ‘round nothin’ n’ have you cryin’ on my fingers b’fore y’ can even think ‘bout touchin’ my cock. That sound alright ta’ you, princess?”

You were buzzed by his words alone. One thing about Gator, there was never a dull moment. No matter the circumstance, the intensity remained; being around him and with him lied within the thrill of the chase — you never knew exactly which Gator you were gonna end up with.

Sometimes you had the pleasure of spending a rare evening with soft and desperate Gator. The Gator that had one too many whiskey sours and got dropped off at your complex embarrassingly early into the night by one of his cop buddies. He’d lean against your door jamb with a lazy, drunken smile, pleading with those pools of honey he calls eyes to come in and let him suck your tits and curl his fingers inside of you while you pet his head and choke on your own moans.

But most of the time, you were graced with who you liked to call rough and tough Gator. The man you’d met in the coat closet at that charity dinner. The man who’s had you bent over and splayed out on more surfaces than you could count. The man whose mouth was so dirty, his words alone would make you tremble. 

That was the man you were dealing with right now. Regardless of any feelings involved.

“Fuck,” you whisper, bordering a moan, Gator’s fingers still working at your nipple while the other hand reached into your tank to pull out your other breast. He massaged that one too, his strong thighs resting beside your hips and caging you in. You could feel how hard he was, thick length pressing against your back through his favorite pair of sweatpants.

“How’s’at feel? Talk ta’ me.”

“You— God, Gator, feels s’… so good.”

“Yeah?” he hums, pressing a couple more open mouthed kisses to your neck.

“Mmmhm.”

You crane your neck to connect your lips once more, tongues tangling, savoring the taste of one another. You truly couldn’t get enough of him.

And it kind of made you sick.

“Gator,” you sigh, against your better judgement as you knew there was a method to his madness, “Touch me? Please?”

Your core throbbed at just about everything that was occurring at the moment — Gator’s fingers tampering with your peaked nipple, the other hand moved on from massaging your breast, now resting on your stomach just below it. Your back pressed against him, the warmth of his body just adding to the fire fueling in your abdomen. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the pattering of his heart. Every single last bit of it had you worked up.

Every last bit of him.

“Aht,” Gator tuts; you hoped he wouldn’t notice you subtly pushing his free hand down towards the band of your yoga pants, but he shakes it away within seconds, “It ain’t gonna be that easy t’ get whatcha’ want, princess.”

“That— that’s not fair,” you mumble, face still contorted in pleasure as he flicks at your nipple now.

You moan loudly at the action, at the thought of him being cruel enough to hold out on you. A self assured sigh puffs from his chest before he says, “Life ain’t fair.”

You grumble, body slinking further down in between his legs. You wanted to stomp your foot like you were a kid again. Gator knew that you weren’t used to not getting what you wanted, in fact, he knew it better than most things. So when the realization hit that he was holding the baton now, all he could do was smile.

“Gonna’ have y’ beggin’ fer these fuckin’ fingers ‘till ya’ jus’ can’t take it no more, yeh?” His voice is low, and gruff, and enough to make you moan in itself. Each time he massaged one of your tits, the other hand came down and slid across your stomach, nearing closer to your waistband each time.

“Fuckin’— tease,” you spit.

“Oh, I don’t think I’m the tease, princess,” Gator says, amusement clear in his tone as he watches you fall apart, piece by piece, “Kept me waitin’ for a week like it was nothin’.” 

He lowers his hand to your thigh, feeling it twitch beneath his hand as it skims over your skin. If there was one thing Gator loved, it was making your body need him. Breathe him.

“Yeahhh, see? I ain’t the tease here. Yer’ just impatient.”

He cups both of your tits then, working his thumbs over your nipples and chuckling to himself when you squirm impatiently.

“Fuck you.” You really couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Not ‘till you beg fer’ it.”

His hand teases you again— a fine line between that and torture. His fingertips had breached the waistband of your yoga pants, tucking themselves beneath the bunched up fabric and skimming right above the top of your underwear. You bite your tongue, not wanting to give into his power trip just yet. But you end up choking on a moan when his pointer finger slips beneath your panties and runs along the crease where your thigh meets your groin.

“Shit— Gatorrrrrr,” you whine, “stop iiiiit.”

“Yeah? S’at what you want?”

Before you could reply and start shaking your head no no no God please no, Gator yanks his hand from your pants. He rests it at his side, nudging his nose into the crook of your neck as you whimper helplessly.

“You’re so— annoying.” you mutter.

“Why? You were the one who told me t’ stop.”

Your lip quivers, so frustrated and pent up sexually that you could actually start to cry. Gator’s body reacts to the way you tense up, you feel him frown against your jaw.

“S’matter, sweet thing? I told’ja it wasn’t gonna be easy.”

“Are you punishing me?” you ask, breathless, “Is that what this is? Trying to make me feel bad? Some dumb power trip to feed that— gigantic fucking ego?”

He’s back to sliding his hand towards your pants again and you could barely stand to sit still at this point. Your core was throbbing, your cheeks were flushed like you were running a thousand degree fever. Gator’s lack of reply only makes you more frustrated.

“Does it feel like yer’ bein’ punished? I thought everythin’ we get up ta’ in this bedroom is all in’ good spirits. ‘Promised ta’ be good t’ each other, no?”

It doesn’t take much for you to boil over — you were hot headed, and short tempered. Another thing Gator liked about you. He knew you wouldn’t play those puppy dog, beggar games with him. Hence why, he fully expected what happened next.

You huff and grab his hand, shoving it down into your yoga pants and using your index finger to guide his between your folds.

The two of you groan. You from the relief, and him because—

“Christ, yer’ fuckin’ soaked.”

You’re left trembling at the feeling, his blistered palm pressed against your pelvic bone as he curls that single finger inside of you slowly. But it wasn’t enough, no. Not for you. Not for the girl who thinks roses are worthless. 

You needed more.

“Gatoooorrrrr,” you whine, the irritation in your voice pairing well with the way your hips were bucking up impatiently to meet him. Gator chuckles from behind you, watching you squirm and try with all of your might to fight the feeling of melting like clay in his hands. But you knew eventually he’d give into your sweet sounds, just like he always did.

“Whatdaya’ want from me?” 

“You know what I want from you,” you seethe, annoyed but knowing he can see right through it. He always could.

He huffs a short laugh, breath warm on your neck, before he flits his tongue out over your heated skin, tasting soap and sweat and groaning a little; you feel it thrum his chest against your back, more than you hear it.

“‘Less ya say it I ain’t gonna know…” he teases, bordering on singsong, and presses his finger a little deeper inside of you, even as you turn your wrist, trying to entice him to do something else, add another finger, rub your clit, anything.

“You just”一you gasp between words一“love digging yourself into a hole.”

“I’m diggin’ a hole now?” he asks, pulling his finger out of you and rubbing through your folds, purposely avoiding your clit, focusing just on the sensitive, quivering space around your slit. “Thought I was in the doghouse.”

“If you thought I was a bitch before…” you say, clenching your teeth as you curl your hips up into his hand, trying to have him accidentally-on-purpose enter you again. But he’s onto you, and he doesn’t, successfully dodging your slit like he fully knows what you’re doing.

“Ya gonna finish that sentence, princess?” he asks, moving his free hand to cup your breast again, squeezing it, his large hand enveloping it as he pinches your nipple between his thumb and middle finger, rolling it just enough that you dip your head back onto his shoulder and whine, loud. 

Gator snickers.

“Takin’ that as a no.”

You have no words, nothing but the hot breath in your lungs and the pressure between your legs, already so worked up you might explode, but he’s giving you no outlet, no relief, no way to alleviate any of it. He’s just working you over, barely even fingering you, his wrist resting against your thigh, not quite two knuckles deep as he lazily strokes at the inside of your cunt, just enough so you can feel it, feel him there, and that’s it.

“Yer fuckin’ drippin’ fer me,” Gator says, his voice low, gravelly, right in your ear. Your breath hitches, your stomach tenses, your thighs twitch, just from the sound of it. “Feel that?”

Without waiting for an answer, and in one quick motion, he lets his finger slip out of you, then presses two back against you, dragging the pads of them up through your folds, gathering up your fluids and smearing them all over your mound, the spongy skin absorbing his touch as he slathers your own mess all over you, wetting your skin enough that when he moves his hand back down, you feel your panties stick to you.

He’s avoiding your clit on purpose, and you know what he wants一what you don’t know is if you want to give it to him yet. Your heart and your body is telling you一 Yes, give in. Ask for it, beg for it, tell him you need it, need him. Your mind disagrees. The longer you draw it out, the more you’ll have him wrapped around your little finger. Because that’s what is happening here. He thinks he’s winning, but you’re consuming him. He’s yours.

“Gator,” you whimper, voice weak, shaky.

“Mhm,” he hums, letting you know he’s listening, but might ignore you anyway. His fingertips drag over your wet lips, finding your soaked hole tucked between them, and as he sucks a kiss to your neck, he enters you again, stretching you just enough that you miss him, even though you absolutely have him.

“You,” is what you manage, sighing softly and turning your face toward him. He’s above you, the back of your head on his shoulder and you arch your back, pressing up enough that you can kiss his neck too. He pauses, waits, his fingers wedged deep in you now, deeper than before. Your arousal is pooling in your panties, probably soaking through to your yoga pants down onto the bed, but you can’t worry about that now.

“Me?” he says, turning to look down at you, the angle a strain on both of you, but he manages to just about meet your eyes.

“Yes, Gator一you一” you stammer. “Enough… pl-please?”

“Ya think so?” he asks, and you feel his thumb skim over the sticky skin of your mound, graze where your labia parts from itself, but he doesn’t dip in between them.

“I do,” you say, nodding, tilting your head a little to kiss the underside of his jaw, the mole there that you’d given a peck to before too.

“Well then一who’m I t’argue?”

You gasp, deep and hearty as he twitches his thumb down just enough to find your clit, and as soon as he touches it you feel yourself gush even more around his fingers. You’re absolutely drenched, and you know, it’s because of him. Not just how he’s touching you一him.

“Yeah, ‘at’s my messy girl,” Gator eggs you on, his choice of words a little too relevant to the situation, “Love them’ sweet sounds you make. Y’gonna cum all over me? Soak my fuckin’ hand?”

Your heart was pounding out of your chest, Gator’s thumb still deftly flicking at your bullied clit while his index and ring fingers curled deep inside of your dripping heat. It was disappointing– at least to you– just how efficiently Gator was able to get you to the finish line, how well he was able to pick up on your signals and whisper sinful things in your ear until you simply couldn’t take it anymore. Your head feels like it weighs a ton as it falls limp onto his shoulder; you could practically hear the brazen smile on his face as he realized he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“Gator,” you whine, your eyes pinched shut. His pacing was torturous.

“Hmm?” he hums in response, his mouth occupied with nipping at your jaw, chest rising and falling just as quickly as yours.

“Stop fuckin' playing,” you snap, but it's half-hearted and weak, because you're so wrung out that you can't even manage to keep the attitude.

“Who's playin'?” he asks, but his demeanor changes, his wrist presses tighter against your thigh, and you can feel as he teases entrance with a third finger.

“Fuck—” you gasp aloud, the word cut off as your cunt squelches around him, three fingers now stretching you around them as he lowers his hand from your tit to get that down between your legs too. Your eyelids are fluttering, your thighs tensing up as your heels dig down into the bed beneath you, and you whine when he lifts his thumb from your clit, only to half-scream his name as he replaces it with his other hand, two fingers slicking across the hard little bead with precision. He's moving too fast—your mind can't keep up with your body or maybe it's the other way around—but the next thing you know, you're cumming, back arching away from him, chest bowed up and your mouth open in a silent scream. No—wait—you are screaming, nonsense mixed with his name, loud cries of pleasure as he fingerfucks you through it, his touch on your clit relentless as you soak your underwear, your leggings, your bedsheets beneath you.

You come down with tears pricking the corners of your eyes, your cunt still spasming around his hand chest kicking, heart pounding in your ears. And then, to top it all, his lips brush the shell of your ear from behind as he speaks.

“Missed me, huh?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, breathy and shaking, because what use is it to play around anymore? He knows, you know—your fucking neighbors have certainly just found out—so why bother pretending? “I'm so wet,” you mumble, because you can't think of anything else to say and when you close your legs you feel it, the mess he made of you.

“All f'r me,” Gator whispers, and it's almost softer than you're used to, almost like it's something he doesn't even want you to know.

You don't respond and there's a lull, quiet and secret, just the two of you in your bedroom, as you start to regain your faculties and your lungs stop burning from all the panting and gasping you were doing minutes ago.

Gator slips his hands out of your yoga pants, smearing your release all over your stomach beneath your tank top, but you don't mind if he doesn't, because what he's actually doing is pulling your back against his front, hugging you.

Gator Tillman is hugging you.

You shift a little in his hold, turning a few degrees and then turning more fully, rolling onto your knees, perpendicular to him until you finish the movement and face him. His thighs are still splayed out on either side of you, and now that you're taller than him, he looks up at you, thick eyelashes almost obscuring his eyes, but not completely. Leaning down, you kiss him, capturing his lips with yours as you cup his face with one hand, the other tangling into the thick patch of hair on his chest.

He kisses you back easily, letting you take the lead, and his hands settle on your hips before tugging the hem of your tank top up—way too eagerly to be chill, and you laugh as he breaks the kiss, not by pulling away but instead by just yanking your shirt up and over your head, catching your nose on the way.

“Dick,” you mutter.

“Accident,” he replies, leaning up toward you again, lips parted, wanting your mouth back on his.

“That's a funny way to say sorry,” you reply, but kiss him again, because his mouth is soft and warm and never disappoints.

“Got yer apology right here,” he mumbles against your lips, and you glance down between your bodies to see him tugging at his cock through his pants, palming the outline of his member through his sweats.

“You could literally just say 'my bad,'” you chide him, but you sit back on your knees and push him to lie back against your pillows with one hand, while the other pushes his own off his cock and you begin to rub it instead, feeling it twitch against you a little as you rub at the head through the fabric cloaking it.

Gator sighs, tipping his head back against the headboard, but keeps his eyes on you, your bare tits swinging as you have your way with him, or start to.

Sliding your hand down his front, you tug pointlessly at the already loose drawstrings of his sweats and then curl deft fingers into the elastic waistband, tugging it down with one hand and then two. He lifts himself up for you, just enough that you can pull them down around his thighs, rigid cock flagging over his thigh as you expose it, heavy balls set between his legs and you try to resist the urge you get, but fail—you shimmy back a little on the bed, fold yourself up as best you can, and wrap one hand around his hefty cock while the other fists his sweats, tugging them down and out of your way.

Pressing your palm flat against his stomach, pushing his length against his front, you rub your palm up and down over the underside as you lick at him, the sensitive fold of skin between his cock and balls, and then lower, laving a wide stripe over his sac.

His hips kick and you hear him above you, a quiet little shocked gasp leaving him as you lick his balls, closing your eyes as you hum to yourself, then draw one in between your lips, sucking softly at it and having him just about losing it above you.

Cock dripping precome against his front, every time the heel of your hand nears the head, you hear Gator whine under his breath as you suck his balls and not his dick.

“Fuckin'—” he tries, but he can't finish the thought, because you're rubbing the pad of your index finger over the wet slit in the head of his cock as you tip your head a little to the side, switching up what's in your mouth as you give the other one a little attention.

Above you, Gator lifts his hands, curling both into his hair as he watches, your sweet little filthy mouth working at his balls, sucking them into your mouth in turn, sucking fat kisses to each side, before you look up at him and smirk, and he feels his abdomen clench up, because he thought he knew, he really did, what he was bargaining for, and yet here you are, surprising him all over again. Making him—feel too much, all over again.

With your hand down beside his thigh, you push yourself back up, leaning over him to let your lips just barely trail over his as you start—finally—moving your hand on his cock, fingers wrapped around him, thumb teasing the weeping tip every time you near it. Gator tries in vain to keep himself quiet, and then completely fucking gives up when you speak, voice low and weighty, your mouth brushing over his as you do.

“Let me hear you,” you request, and almost like he was waiting for you to ask, he looses a groan, his chest rumbling as you take his lips again, kissing him. You move your hand to his shoulder, tongues swiping together as you stroke him off, slicking his precome over his heated skin, your soft hand on his silken cock easing the slide. He bites at your lip, drawing you in even closer, and deepens the kiss as he licks into your mouth, his hands back on your hips, sliding up your side until he moves them around to your front.

You tip your forehead against his and look down, into his eyes, as his hands explore your front, your stomach and your waist, fingertips sinking into your plush skin as he finally arrives exactly where you both want him: Your tits. He cups your breasts and pinches at your peaked nipples again, rolling them between his fingers as you move your hand faster over his cock, the friction enough that it's got him acting up—he pulls on your nipples and you whimper, biting his lip hard enough that he hisses and pulls back.

“Dick,” he says, and you laugh loud enough, heartily enough, that he snickers too, not able to help it.

You drag your hand all the way up his length, letting him go, his cock falling against his thigh again with a quiet slap of skin-on-skin, but before he can complain, you only cup your hand beneath his mouth, and yours due to the proximity, and meet his eyes.

“Spit,” you say, following your own order, letting a glob of saliva land in your palm; Gator does the same, and when you wrap your hand around his hot prick again, the difference is noticeable to both of you, but mostly him—his hips kick up at the slick, wet slide of your hand over him, and his lips closed around your tongue, sucking it into his mouth desperately, needing you as close as fucking possible.

You kiss him back, heated and desperate, but as your hand moves between your bodies, working him slow and steady, the kiss devolves into something languid, slow and weighted down with an unspoken meaning; unspoken because you’ve never let yourselves define it, and also because you have no idea what it is or could be. Maybe you don’t want to know. Maybe you’ve always been too afraid to.

But the kiss—even though what is transpiring between you and Gator transcends a simple lip lock—it’s not new and yet it’s unexplored territory between you anyway, being good to each other. Being open, and brave, and letting him in. Trusting that he won’t make you regret it.

“Fuck, baby,” Gator groans against your mouth, and the name does something to you, your heart twanging away at your ribcage as you push yourself closer to him, your free hand curling into the soft, short hair at the nape of his neck, and it’s almost like he doesn’t realize what’s got you in such a tizzy until it hits him that he just called you his baby, out loud, and then it gets him too. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, your arm trapped between your body and his, one of your thick thighs fumbling to the outside of his, so you’re straddling his leg, half on top of him as you try to work your hand over his length, letting him fuck up into your fist just as much as you’re moving the ring of your fingers along his cock.

“Gator,” you whimper, tearing your mouth away from his to look down at him from where you’re just above him, your eyes meeting his—his pupils are blown wide, his thigh trembling against your sopping cunt where you’re sitting on it, and he stares straight into you, holding the eye contact as you feel his cock jump in your hand, and then he’s cumming, hot, thick lines of spunk landing on his stomach, your arm, the sheets beneath you, and the whole time he’s just looking up at you, lips mouthing your name and “baby” and “fuckin’ love—it, love it” and you’d never assume he was going to say something else, but the thought has you trying to press your thighs together again, even though you can’t with his leg in between yours.

His body relaxes back into the pillows, and before you can fathom your next move, he’s got his arms wrapped around you, pulling you down beside him, rolling over to face you, and he’s kissing you again with abandon, and you’re whining quietly into his mouth as he reaches down and slips his hand inside your loose pants to grab at your ample thigh, sliding up to grope at your ass cheek before he reaches further, sliding down, his fingertips teasing your puffy lips and easy slit.

“Pl-please?” you ask, and you’re not sure what it is that you want, but you need it.

“Roll over,” Gator says, and you shimmy away from him, enough to move flat onto your stomach, glancing at him to check if this is how he wants you. But he isn’t looking—he’s stood up from the bed, kicking off his sweats and just going into your bedside table to grab a rubber, because he knows already that’s where you keep them (and also because he put them there). Once he has one, he looks over at you and smirks, leaning a little to the side to swat at your ass. “Still wearin’ these?”

“You said roll over, not ‘strip,’” you retort.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he muses, lifting the condom to hold one corner of the wrapper between his lips for a moment, and then he kneels on the bed with one leg, pulling your bottoms off for you and playfully patting your ass before he climbs back onto the bed behind you, “Y’know what I meant.”

There’s a lull in the room as you watch Gator tear open the condom wrapper, admiring his body in the last bit of setting sunlight that flooded your mesh curtains. The curve of his waist, the slight bit of plushy pudge and a happy trail that he sported so well. Golden beams casted onto his supple, birth-mark laden skin like he was a goddamned renaissance painting. A notch of concentration forms in his brow as he rolls the condom onto himself; the only thing you could do now was watch him over your shoulder in pure adoration. 

He looked… beautiful. 

You’d really been meaning to tell him that.

When he finally settles behind you on the mattress, your universe realigns itself— there you both were. Just you, and Gator. The only two people to ever exist, together on a Friday night. His hand snakes down your thigh, goosebumps rising in the wake of his calloused palms.

“Love havin’ y’ like this,” he murmurs, switching right back into sex mode— as he so stupidly called it that one time when the two of you were fucking in the back of his cruiser and you smacked your head on the moon roof. Laughed for a moment, then back to sex mode.

“Yeah? You must think I’m hideous if your favorite position is when I’m turned around.”

The joke lands in your mind, but you feel Gator’s arm tense up, “You got fuckin’ issues.”

“Well, you’re the one fucking me so, what’s your excuse?”

“Girl’a my dreams ain’t come with a warnin’ label, shit,” he murmurs, lips ghosting the shell of your ear as the warmth of his torso radiates onto your back, “All’sit said in the manual was ‘batteries not included’.”

You look at him over your shoulder, straining your eyes into a glare even though it packs no heat whatsoever, “A vibrator joke? Really?” 

“Nah that— s’not what—”

“Girl of your dreams…” you interrupt whatever excuse he had by repeating his own words, the sentiment lingering on your tongue like honey, “hm.”

“What? Whatdaya hummm-in’ for?”

Your cheeks tinge pink before saying anything else, suddenly feeling more exposed than you had all night. 

“Hope you got a warranty is all,” you shoot back shyly, “no refunds.”

Gator chuckles from behind you, his hand now running mindless lines up and down your side. His fingertips occasionally dip down to traipse lazily across your stomach and over the swell of your hip. “No take backs, huh? Even if I kept th’ receipt?”

“You’re way past thirty days. Company policy.”

You feel Gator smiling against the back of your neck, his hips mindlessly, inherently rutting forward, hard cock now flush against the dip in your back. Your entire body shivers at the contact, reminding you exactly where you were.

“Well can’t’cha make an exception?”

His hand snakes between your bodies to palm at his dick, his knuckles brushing against your ass as you feel him angle it towards your dripping slit— already so ready for him. But the both of you were far too stubborn to drop the bit.

“Nope, sorry.”

Without even thinking, you lift your leg, separating your slick thighs to make way for him. The tender playfulness of the moment has you in a whirlwind, gasping quietly as you feel his tip prodding at your entrance, sliding back and forth between your folds as he gathers your wetness. He moans right into your ear; he simply cannot help it. 

“Ya sure?”

“Mmh,” your breath hitches, cunt pulsing in the absence of him, “positive.”

“This— is a dumb ass bit,” Gator laughs again, breathless from the feeling of just how wet you still are, how eager and ready you are for him, “Gonna make me ask ‘fer a manager ‘er somethin’?”

You wanted to roll your eyes and huff at him, but he had you in quite a compromising position. So, instead, you just craned your neck behind you and kissed his cheekbone. Your lips stayed in their place, brushing against his skin as you whispered, “You’ve got her right here.”

With your lips still pressed against Gator’s cheek, he sinks into you, the both of you moaning in tandem at the stretch, the feeling, the everything. He bullies his way inside of you, that first stroke of his always so antagonizing and slow.

“Fuuuuuck,” Gator groans, as if he’d been deprived of you for years, “Missed this fuckin’— God, I missed ‘ya.”

You’re too busy trying to level your breathing to say anything back to him. The initial stretch and pressure of him filling you up—especially when he’s being so tender and languid—always whips you right into another galaxy. You’re always on another planet when you’re with Gator, though. One where the two of you are the only ones on it. 

He starts to fuck into you slowly, deeply, his tip prodding at the spongy spot that makes you see stars with every damn stroke. Your inner walls tense around him and your room is so so quiet, leaving you with nothing but the sound of your breathing, syncing with the beating of your hearts. Those were the only sounds you were paying attention to, anyway.

“Gator I— so— so fuckin’ deep—” You blubber incoherently when his free hand snakes beneath you and grabs ahold of your throat, loosely holding grabbing onto the pressure points between his thumb and pinky. 

“Y’swore up n’down that I ain’t the man fer’ ya…” Gator’s lips tickle your neck as he speaks into you, his teeth slightly grazing against the sensitive skin there, a spot he usually loves to bite, “…Baby, this pussy was fuckin’ made fer’ me.”

The way he speaks, and fuck, that stupidly sexy midwestern twang of his. You could turn around right now, push his back into the headboard and ride him until his wheels popped off. Everything about him drove you absolutely up the wall. But instead, you just sighed, your face flushing red as he fucked into you oh so slowly, so tenderly, so generously, like a man who really wished he’d gotten to do this sooner.

Gator’s hand moves from your throat, down to cup one of your tits. He pinches your pebbled nipple between his fingers and kisses your neck, stopping just below your ear to suck at the skin there, hard enough to leave a mark.

The both of you were blubbering, moaning messes, rhapsodizing incoherently about one another and holding onto whatever part of your bodies you could reach. Your manicured nails dug into his forearm, leaving crescent shaped etchings in their wake. The sweat from Gator’s temples dripped down onto your collarbone. You couldn’t get any closer to him if you tried.

“Baby,” there it was again, “you’re perfect. Perfect f’me. Squeezin’ me so damn tight I might die. Jesus fuckin’— Christ.”

Gator picks up the pace, and immediately you’re tossing your head back in pleasure. Your entire body ran hot the moment he lifted up your thigh and started to fuck into you— hard. Fast. Deep. 

That was Mr. Rough n’ Tough. Here to fucking stay. 

“Gatooorrrr, fuck me—!” You gasp, your knuckles turning white as you grab onto his forearm for dear life. Behind you, he fucked you like a beast; animalistic grunts leaving his chest, a sadistic smile threatening to creep onto his face as he notices your coherence fading.

“Atta’ girl,” he praises, “y’ain’t like me fer’ all that time, huh? Look at’cha now. Gotcha’ droolin’ all over me while I fuck you dumb. Y’love that shit, don’tcha?”

“Y—yes,” you breathe, your orgasm on the verge of snapping like the springs on a broken mattress, “Gator, yes!”

“Lemme’ hear— hear ya’ say it. Tell Gates how much you fuckin’ love it— shit—”

“I love you, Gator! I fuckin’ love you!”

Your orgasm rips through you like a bolt of lightning, eyes rolling into the back of your head as Gator’s pace comes to a slowdown, the two of you coming in perfect synchronicity. His breathing is heavy against your shoulder, sparing you a couple final strokes as his hips sputter to a stop. You sigh, your body impossibly warm, drenched in enough sweat to swim in.

He huffs, finding the stability in his limbs to slide himself out of you, “Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed.”

After a moment of quiet, the two of you are on your backs on your respective, unspoken sides of the bed. It always ended this way— the two of you knowing you needed just a moment to recover, yet not wanting to be apart long enough to disconnect. So, every time without fail, Gator’s hand dropped between your bodies, and your pinky found his, interlocking them and laying there while stars fogged your eyelids and the air found its way back to your lungs. Tonight was no different.

“Y’meant that shit?”

You turn your head without lifting it from the pillow to see that Gator was already looking at you.

“‘Meant what?”

“What you said. You said you loved me.”

Despite the darkness that now overtook your bedroom, Gator's eyes still shimmered. He may not think so, but they always looked prettier in the moonlight.

You open your mouth to reply, not wanting to leave such a heavy question hanging in midair. But Gator beats you to the punch, squeezing your pinky tightly before whispering;

“I love you. So much more.”

—

The next morning was spent tangled in your duvet, your eyes fluttering open as the morning sun broke through your chiffon curtains. You groan, too fucking early, and let your arm swing over to the opposite side of the bed.

Normally that would’ve sent a smack right to Gator’s back. And he would’ve slept right through it too, if only he was actually there.

When you finally process that he’s not in bed, you jolt upright, holding your blanket over your exposed chest, a small wave of nausea pinging in your stomach.

“Gate?” You call, your voice hoarse from the activities of the night before, but to no response.

It doesn’t take much to put together the context clues; his sweats still on the floor where you’d left them last night, the neon green vape perched upright on the nightstand that was on his side of the bed. The relief in realizing that Gator was still here made you sigh out loud before sliding out of the mess of your bed and onto the floor.

Gator Tillman wasn’t a morning person. He was hardly an early afternoon person either, typically sleeping until around 1-2pm on his Saturdays off. After getting on a pair of pajama pants and a loose fitting tank top, you padded your way out to the kitchen to find Gator upright, fully attentive, and not sleepwalking like that one time.

“G’mornin’ princess.”

You walk towards him, watching him reach up into the cabinet to grab the box of Apple Jacks that you keep for him in the cabinet.

“You’re up— early,” you say, trying to hide the utter disbelief in your voice.

“Only ‘cause I felt the unshakable urge ta’ make you breakfast. Now can it n’ sit, y’ain’t want yer’ cereal t’ get soggy.”

You’ve had enough moments of rolling your eyes and scoffing at him to count for a lifetime, so instead, you bit back a smile, chuckling to yourself as he whistled while bending down to grab the carton of milk from the fridge.

“Apple Jacks, huh? I get the dicking of a lifetime and a private chef who makes his clients his own favorite cereal, all in twenty four hours? This must be my lucky day.”

Gator smacks his teeth, hitting the fridge door closed with his hip as he holds your bowl of cereal in hand. You can’t help but let your eyes traipse down to his happy trail, down to the pair of boxers he most certainly pulled out of the pile of clean laundry that sat on top of the dryer waiting to be folded. 

“Felt like it was only right ta’ feed’ja after I had ya’ speakin’ tongues last night. Coulda’ swore y’ said you loved me…”

Gator chews on the inside of his cheek when he sets the bowl of cereal down on the table in front of you, standing beside you and waiting for you to sit.

“You must’ve been hearing things,” you tease him, stepping closer and pressing your chest to his, “Pretty sure I said that in English.”

“God forbid a man wants ta’ be flirty. Yer’ a pain in my fuckin’  ass”. 

You laugh at his snide, puckering your lips to meet him in the middle for a small peck, like it’s a toll he needs to pay before you sit down to eat your cereal.

“And for the record, I meant it,” you say, batting your eyelashes. His arms snake around your waist and he leans down to steal another kiss. Then another. Then another. 

“Yeah yeah, I figured. Took ya’ long enough t’ admit ya like me only fer’ ya ta’ say th’ three most important words like, an hour later.”

There it was, that Gator Tillman attitude, the one you revered. The one you adored. The one you loved. 

“Shut up.”

“Hey, y’can’t be speakin’ ta’ me like that! We’re like, boyfriendgirlfriend now. Shit’s gettin’ real.”

You shake your head and sigh with the biggest smile you could muster, so big it made your face hurt. So big it made Gator swat your ass to get you to sit down in your chair. He pulls out the one beside you and sits too, leaning his elbow on the wood and just admiring you as you pick up a spoonful of Apple Jacks. 

“Boyfriendgirlfriend,” you repeat, lifting your legs and putting them down to rest across his, “Gator Tillman, you’re a wordsmith.”

“Ain’t that the proper terminology?” He asks, a slight hint of this is a genuine question prodding through his usual snarl. 

“We’ll workshop it,” you shrug.

Gator runs a hand through his hair, the soft brown locks fanning up and over his forehead. You could still see the sleep in his eyes, it brought out the smattering of freckles on his cheeks.

“I do love you,” you speak again, breaking the silence and reaching for his hand with your free one. He takes it instantly, immediately starting a pattern of rubbing small circles against your knuckles, “Thought you might wanna hear it— when I’m fully coherent.”

Gator’s smile is unlike one you’d ever see on him. It’s warm and sweet, laced with the remnants of the promise the two of you made to each other the night prior. If you could look into his mind you’d see that he’d have no problem sitting there to watch you eat cereal for the rest of your lives.

Gator pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, the heaviness of his worn leather boots on the woven rug the only sound. He kneeled down by the worn recliner, taking a closer inspection.

"Better not find any other prints 'side his on this here .38."

You turned around from the window very casually, adjusting the loose silk of your robe to be more decent around your freshly showered body.

"You won't, considering I haven't fired a gun since my daddy took me hunting back in '96. And I was terrible at it." You had a little smile then, at least a ghost of one.

"Your daddy was a hell of a shot, though," Gator said, still examining the gun. "Don't reckon that's something that skips a generation."

"He'd have disagreed with you."

Gator grunted, thinking about your old man. He'd been a shark in cheap clothes, all jaw and cold eyes, the kind of man who'd sell you the shirt off your own back and make you thank him for it.

"Gotta take your alibi, protocol and all..." he took out a small black notepad from his utility vest, tearing his eyes away from the supple skin of your thighs as he stood again.

Wasn't the time to be thinking about your thighs, with your husband cooling in his chair ten feet away. Gator Tillman, however, wasn't always known for his good sense.

"Tell me 'bout your night."

You looked thoughtful, a slight furrow in your brow as you replayed the evening.

"Brian came home around seven. I had dinner ready. He was already drunk when he got here. Started up almost immediately, something about the Johnson boy shorting him on a feed bill. I just... let him talk. Let him get it all out, as is my wifely duty."

You said the word ‘duty’ like it was something bitter on your tongue. Gator scribbled on his notepad, though he wasn't writing any of that down.

"He moved to the recliner after dinner, put on the news. Had me... soothe him a little."

Gator's eyebrows raised at that, finally looking up a little from his notepad. "Soothe 'im?"

"I'm sure you're well versed in the art of fellatio, Deputy Tillman." You stated it plainly, like reading a grocery list. "It was the only thing that quieted him down when he was in one of his moods."

Gator choked on his own saliva, coughing into the crook of his elbow. You didn't even blink.

His eyes flicked to your lips just as you wet them slightly to speak again.

Lucky bastard, he thought.

The thought came and went, replaced by the familiar sting of something complicated he always felt when he was near you. You were trouble. Always had been. Not in the flashy, obvious way like himself. The quiet, deep water kind of trouble.

"I went upstairs to take a shower, freshen up. It's not really lady like to smell like cheap whiskey and your husband's climax." Your own self disgust was a palpable thing. "I came back down an hour later and he was like this."

You gestured to the lump of a man in the chair.

"You didn't hear the shot?" He asked, leaning in a little closer to the body.

"The shower was running," you said, your eyes holding his. "Water's loud. The pipes in this old house groan like ghosts. And I was in there for a good long while. Trying to wash him off me. He wasn't exactly a neat man. Clearly."

You gesture to his state of dress and general self care, the blood, and the unceremonious way it soaked into the fabric of the old, stained recliner.

Gator grunted again, stepping back from the body. He circled the room, a methodical prowl. He ran a gloved finger along the dusty top of a bookshelf, looked under the desk. For posterity or whatever.

"Why'd you think he did it, last night of all nights?" He looked at the half-empty glass, the spilled whiskey. "Anything different 'bout him? Besides the usual, I mean."

There had been. Obviously.

But not last night.

Brian Olson was not a smart man. He was a bully, a coward, and a thug, with a loud laugh and a cruel grip. He was also not suicidal.

Your father, on the other hand, had been a genius. A ruthless, charming, monster of a man. And you were your father's daughter through and through, to the end of his days and beyond.

While your now deceased husband had not been smart, his daddy did own the county's largest feed and supply business. The late elder Olson was also a mess of a man, a drunkard who used his fists instead of words. But he ran a damn good business, so that didn't matter, right?

A match made in hell for you, no doubt. A business transaction that bound your father's influence to Brian's, in what was the most profitable way. A transaction that would also bind you to Brian.

Feed bags were great hiding spots for unmarked bills, illegal arms. You'd known since you were a girl that money and violence were the same language, just spoken in different dialects.

Gator knew it too. Not as an academic, but as a son. He'd learned it sitting at Roy's knee.

The women of Stark County were nothing more than pawns in the brutish games of men. And, despite your 'pedigree', you had been no exception. In fact, you may have been one of the most valuable pieces of all.

It had always been a race between your father and the dear old Sherriff. Your family farm would have added more land to hold the Tillman empire, and vice versa. But your father's stubborn greed had created a stalemate.

A land war would have drawn too much attention. So you were a treaty. A treaty sealed with blood and a cheap gold band.

And so, the rat race between the Olson's and the Tillman's first born sons was born. And the finish line was your marriage bed.

Your whole life had been a tug of war, orchestrated by your father, between two grown men, and the sons they'd made in their own image. You'd simply been the rope.

Naturally, the Olson's won out. Your father was always too big for his britches and the idea of getting a leg up on Roy Tillman in the great Midwest arms race was more tantalizing than any partnership with him. He knew the sheriff would never actually treat him as an equal, just another crony.

You'd be remiss if you didn't admit to yourself that, sometimes, you imagined what life would have been like if that war had ended differently. Maybe with you and a younger, less jaded Gator Tillman running off together in a beat up truck. Leaving the rot and the violence in the rearview mirror.

"He seemed... different, sure…" you finally said, your voice dropping to a near whisper. You were good at this. You were an artist. "Quieter. Not the shouting drunk I'm used to. The sullen kind. The kind that starts thinking too much."

You let the silence hang in the air, heavy and full of implication. Gator watched you, really watched you. He saw the way your hands, though perfectly steady, were clasped a little too tightly in front of you. The slight, almost invisible tremor in your bottom lip.

"Jus' us here," he started as he walked closer to you, hands on his hips, the notepad now tucked away.

You were still in your robe. The silk clung to your generous curves and the thought alone made the hair on Gator's neck stand up.

"You can talk to me," he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.

"Nothing to talk about. I think the situation is pretty clear, deputy."

He gritted his teeth at the professionalism spilling from your lips.

"No wire. No damn body cam. Can search me real thorough if you don't believe me." Gator gestured to himself, a small smirk playing on his lips. It was a clumsy, boyish attempt at something else, at cutting through the performance.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, and for a second, the grieving widow mask slipped. He saw a flash of something ancient and weary in their depths. The look of someone who has seen too much, done too much, and is still standing.

"Is that so?" you asked, your voice a little softer now. A little more like you. The you he remembered from dusty county fairs and stolen moments behind the beer tents.

"It is funny though..." he turned to the body, a finger pointing in the general direction of your late husband's corpse, "...that your old man went and had that 'accident' on the farm not even six months back. Now this." 

He clicked his tongue. "Just a real run of bad luck for the menfolk in your life."

It was a direct hit. A carefully aimed shot to see if you'd flinch.

"He was never very careful with the wood chipper." Just the right amount of clipped, distant grief. The kind that comes when you're more angry at the inconvenience of a death than the actual loss.

Gator felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. You were magnificent.

He took another step closer, close enough to smell the clean, soapy scent of your skin, the subtle hint of jasmine from your shampoo.

"See, I know that. And you know that. But the boys up in the big leagues, they might see a pattern. An' you know Roy isn't a fan of outsiders sniffin' 'round his county. 'Specially not about money, or land, or pretty widows who inherit 'em both." He kept his eyes on you, letting the threat of Roy Tillman, the tyrant of Stark County, hang between you.

But, to you, it wasn't really a threat. You had planned this. You knew exactly how Roy Tillman thought. You knew that he would respect a move this bold, this clean. He might even admire it.

"I can handle a dangerous man, Gator." It held multiple meanings, and the sound of his name on your lips, in this hushed, blood-scented room, went straight to his groin.

"I know you can," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "That's what I'm worried about."

He reached out, not to touch you, but to trail a single gloved finger along the polished wood of the desk. His lips were by your ear now, the artificial cherry scent flooding your senses.

"I know about the hit."

For the first time since he walked into your home, he had played the right card. He heard your breath catch. Just a little hitch, so small anyone else would have missed it. But Gator had been listening for it. Waiting for it.

You turned your head, your cheek brushing against his perfect smirk before he pulled back to look down at you.

"Just you?" Your words were measured, careful.

"Jus' me." Gator let out a deep sigh, shaking his head a little to mock actual care for your piece of shit husband. "Poor ol' Brian just never could keep his mouth shut after havin' a few."

He looked back to the body. "Runnin' it at the VFW last week. Talkin' big 'bout how he was finally gonna be a real player. Had a meet set up. Some fella from out east. Big money. Somethin' about a new route."

It was true.

You found out about the target on your back a few weeks ago. Brian had taken a call, thinking you were busy outside tending to the laundry. He'd used that barking whisper he always used when he was trying and failing to be discreet. You heard everything.

'You were never getting one over on me, you piece of shit' , you wanted to scream at your husband's corpse.

He would have gotten everything, if he had more sense than greed. But then, that's what ultimately killed him. That and very thorough aim from a .38 revolver after you laced the rim of his nightly glass of whiskey.

Sometimes you were grateful for the farming upbringing your father’s blood money gave you. Useful skills like cooking, baking, and even gardening. The things every future wife should know.

Wolfsbane was a funny thing.

Too much could kill him, and while cardiac arrest wouldn't be shocking for a guy like him, it didn't feel vindicating enough. No, a smaller, more strategic amount would make him paralyzed, nerves overstimulated before the fatal blow. Pun intended.

Stark County wasn't known for its forensic department, and the aconitine would already be broken down in his body by the time of the autopsy.

If the deputy sheriff didn't already know you so well, it would have been the perfect murder. A textbook staging of a lonely man's last despair, all set against the backdrop of a county more concerned with the price of crops than the finer points of evidence collection.

But he did know you. Better than anyone alive. And that was the problem.

And you weren't sure if you'd chosen him for that reason or another entirely. Perhaps it was a little bit of both. You needed a gatekeeper. And you wanted an audience.

"Guess he won't be collectin' on that route," you said softly. Your gaze was fixed on your husband's slumped form, but you saw Gator's reflection in the dark window. You saw the way he looked at you.

"You ever think 'bout it?" he asked, the question coming out of nowhere, soft as falling snow. "Runnin'?"

The word hung in the bloody air. It was the same question he'd asked you years ago, under a different sky, behind the splintered walls of the county fair's funhouse. The answer was the same now as it was then.

"Every day."

A beat of silence. The only sound was the tick of an old grandfather clock in the hall, a sound so constant you usually didn't hear it. Tonight, it sounded like a countdown.

"I'm a deputy now, darlin'," he said, and the word was a plea. "And in my expert opinion, this here's a suicide. Tragic, but clear. A man with demons couldn't fight 'em no more."

He paused, letting the weight of what he was offering settle.

"No reason for the state boys to get involved. None at all."

Your eyes finally left the window, meeting his.

"Gonna call in the clean up crew. They'll bag'im and tag'im, take'im to the morgue. I'll write the report myself."

He finally reached out, his rough fingers ghosting over your exposed shoulder. They were calloused from rope and rifle, but he touched you like you were glass. He was so close now you could feel the warmth of him, a stark contrast to the manufactured, dead heat of your home.

If you had felt the shape he drew on your skin, a clumsy heart, you didn’t draw attention to it

"Shouldn't stay here tonight. Isn't right for a woman to be in a house with a ghost so fresh."

He was right. And he was giving you another out.

"Can set you up with a room over at the old inn just off the interstate. Muriel rents 'em out cheap, and she doesn't ask no questions. Part of the charm."

It was a plan. A carefully constructed escape route, built with the same quiet competence as the crime scene in front of you.

"I have money, Gator. I can pay for my own room."

The words were sharp, a small, unnecessary pushback against the sudden rush of his help, his proximity. You didn't want to owe him anything. Owing a Tillman was worse than owing the bank.

"Keep your money, darlin'," he said, not flinching. "Consider it a county expense." A corner of his mouth twitched. "Welfare for the recently widowed."

You watched him, a predator watching another predator. You assessed him. He wasn't like his father, not entirely.

There was a boy underneath all the bravado. One desperate for approval he'd never get. The boy who once showed you how to skip rocks across Miller's Pond until the sun went down, the one who taught you how to drive a beat-up Ford stick shift when you were sixteen, your father's lessons in finance and cruelty forgotten in the fading light.

You liked that boy.

You just weren’t sure you trusted the man he'd become.

"The sheriff may not like you giving the county's money away," you said, your tone flat, testing him.

"See, funny thing is..." his gazed trailed over you once again. "I reckon you already thought about that."

Checkmate.

The thrill of your intelligence being seen, acknowledged, was almost as intoxicating as the thought of Brian's blood on your hands. That's what you had been counting on. That he'd respect the game more than the rules.

"Divorce?" he tutted. "Now, that would've got messy. Lawyers and judges and money changin' hands. All that paperwork. Not to mention the whole county runnin' their mouths about it, callin' a fine thing like you 'used goods', a sinner, all that."

He shook his head, a mock sympathy on his face.

"A widow though... a widow gets respect. A widow gets insurance, she gets property. A widow gets to keep her name, and all that comes with it."

"A widow is still a single woman in a county run by men who hate them," you countered, the challenge lighting your eyes.

He grinned. A real one this time. "Not if she knows who to stand behind."

Gator had always been smart about a select few things. He knew survival. He understood the currency of fear and loyalty. He was also, in this moment, a man looking at a woman he'd wanted since he understood what wanting was. And he was smart enough to know you were a prize, and a weapon, all at once.

"I'd prefer to be beside someone." Your correction was subtle, a whisper-thing of a sentence. "Not behind them."

His breath hitched. The game between you shifted, the stakes rising imperceptibly. He had expected you to take the deal, to play the role of the fragile thing he was protecting. He hadn't expected you to rewrite the rules before the ink was even dry on your husband's death certificate.

"However..." you brushed past him. "Posterity is a useful thing to have, deputy."

Gator watched the way your hips swayed as you walked to the bar cart in the corner of the study. His father would have been proud, if you weren’t a woman, he thought as you poured a fresh glass of amber liquid over ice. The casual way you took up space, the easy way you navigated this world of smoke and violence.

"A woman is like a gun in this county, you know," you began, your back to him as you poured, the crystal of the decanter catching the low light. "Valuable for what she can do, who she belongs to. A man will boast about the one he's got, clean her, admire her. Run his calloused hands all over her..."

He pictured his hands all over your smooth skin and had to physically fight a shudder.

"But she’s still a weapon at the end of the day. And a weapon needs a steady hand."

You turned, swirling the whiskey in the glass. "She needs a place to rest her trigger without the fear of being discharged by a clumsy fool with an itchy finger."

Gator's jaw tensed. He hated how good you were at this. How you could twist him up with words as easily as he could tie a knot.

"You have steady hands, Gator Tillman," you said, your gaze dropping to them, resting on his hips. "You always have."

You held the glass out to him. An offering. A truce.

He took it, his fingers brushing against yours. A jolt, sharp and electric, went up his arm.

"Hardworking hands like that with no ring..." you hummed, stepping even closer, the scent of jasmine and clean skin overwhelming the lingering smell of death. "They must get awful lonely."

It wasn't subtle. A new terms and conditions page for the unspoken contract between you.

He downed the whiskey in one go before putting the glass on the cart, the burn a welcome distraction.

"Look," he started, his own patience wearing thin. He hated feeling like the mouse in your game, especially when he was supposed to be the cat. "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted." Your response was simple, honest in a way that was more terrifying than any lie you could have spun. "Freedom. My land. And to not have to touch another man I don't want to, for as long as I live."

You paused, your eyes scanning over the utility vest he wore, the way the fabric strained slightly against his chest. A flicker of something -appreciation, maybe- before it was gone, replaced by that cool, assessing look.

"But that's not what you asked, is it, deputy? You asked what I want... from you."

You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. A shiver traced a path down his spine, straight to his groin again. He hadn't been touched like that in... years. Not with this kind of deliberation. Not with this kind of promise.

"I want your silence. Your protection. I want Roy Tillman to see me as an asset, not a threat. You can arrange that."

Your touch moved to the collar of his shirt, your thumb brushing against the bare skin of his throat. He could feel your pulse, or maybe it was his own, hammering against your touch.

"And I want..." you leaned in, your lips just barely grazing the shell of his ear. "...I want someone I don't have to pretend with. Someone who already knows the monster under the bed."

This was it. This was the price. Not just his silence, but... more. His complicity. His partnership. A piece of him he wasn't sure he could afford to give, but one he suddenly, desperately wanted to.

"I'm the perfect wife, Gator. Your father knows this. Hell, I gave my shitbag husband the best head of his life right before I put a bullet in his brain," your voice was a caress. "Imagine what I can do for a man who actually deserves it."

Gator's mind raced. He pictured you in this kitchen, in this house he'd get to call home, the smell of your perfume in the air instead of stale cigar smoke. He pictured you laughing, a real laugh, not the polite, brittle thing you wore in public. He pictured you in your shared bed, the sheets tangled around your legs.

"Your daddy has been trying to get you a wife for years," you continued, your fingers trailing down his chest, the rough fabric of his flannel a poor barrier. "A meek little thing to pop out a few Tillman brats. To look pretty while he pulls your strings. All because the Olson's got to me first."

You had a knack for peeling back the layers of him, for seeing the parts he kept hidden. The boy desperate for his father's approval, the man who was starting to realize he'd never get it.

"I am not meek, Gator. And I am not little. But I am lethal. And I am efficient."

You let out a small, breathy laugh against his neck. "Your father would never see it coming."

You knew Roy Tillman. You knew him the way people in this part of the state know the coming of winter - an inevitability, a force of nature. You knew that Roy saw people as tools, to be used and discarded.

And you knew the best way to beat a man like that was to become the sharpest tool in his shed. A tool he thought he controlled, but one that could cut him when he least expected it.

Gator's hands, which had been hanging limply at his sides, came up to grip your waist. They weren't gentle. They were proprietary and claiming. His fingers dug into the soft silk of your robe, pulling you flush against him.

"This just a business deal, to you? Way t'fuel that bloodlust of yours?" he muttered, his lips brushing against your hairline.

"Do you think I would put all my cards on the table for someone I simply consider a business partner, Gator?" you whispered back, tilting your head to give him better access to the curve of your neck. "I'm many things, but I'm not foolish."

You felt the rumble of his groan against your skin. His head dipped, his nose trailing along your collarbone as he inhaled your scent. For a moment, he was just a boy again, standing a little too close to you behind the barns, smelling of summer and youthful desperation.

"I'm not heartless. But my heart hasn't had a say in my life for a very long time," you continued, your voice hypnotic. "Maybe it's about time it did."

You reached up, your hands framing his face. You saw the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the permanent slump of his shoulders from bearing a weight that was never truly his to carry.

"Get this mess cleaned up. Get your daddy on board and make him think it was his idea. And then when you're done, meet me at the room you promised. Alone."

His eyes met yours, a storm of confusion, desire, and a dangerous sort of hope warring within them.

"And I'll show you," you murmured, your thumb stroking the slight stubble growing in on his chin, "what a woman who wants to put her hands all over you is capable of."

Gator held your gaze for a long moment, the room silent save for the ticking clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. He was weighing the options, calculating the risks, but he was also drowning in the promise in your eyes.

It was the biggest gamble of his life. To step out from his father's long shadow and walk beside the sun.

He leaned in, closing the last sliver of space between you, and captured your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.A sealing of a pact written in blood and whispered promises.

"I'm gonna call 'em, in, bring the cruiser 'round the back," he said against your lips, breathless. "Wait for me at the kitchen door. Don't touch nothin'."

He pulled away, the absence of his body heat leaving you feeling suddenly cold. He straightened his uniform, ran a hand through his slicked back hair, and turned on his heel, before a quick backward glance.

"Put somethin' decent on. The sight of you in that robe's gonna give poor Walt from the coroner's office a heart attack." A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "And that's a sight I'd rather reserve for myself."

Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the ticking of the clock and the cooling corpse of your ex-husband.

The room at Muriel's inn was nice, cozy and homey. The floral wallpaper was slightly faded, the bedspread a heavy quilt of mismatched squares.

It was the kind of room where good, simple people came to rest their heads.

And it was currently the room where you lounged on the bed, in a simple black nightgown, a glass of cheap red wine in your hand, a novel about someone else's drama lying forgotten beside you.

You had done as Gator asked, put on something "decent". A simple pair of dark jeans and a plain, cream-colored sweater before he'd led you out through the back door. He'd wrapped an arm around you, a perfect performance of grief and support for any prying neighbor's eyes. The whole drive to the inn, he hadn't said a word. Just a grip on the steering wheel and the scent of cherry vape smoke filling the car. Couldn't risk any eyes or ears of the cruiser picking up anything less than a tragic widow. Protocol and all.

Now you waited. The cheap wine was sour on your tongue, but the warmth spreading through your chest was welcome.

A knock at the door. Not loud, but not tentative. A solid, purposeful rap. Three knocks, evenly spaced.

You got up from the bed, wine still in hand, and opened the door.

He stood there, the yellow light of the hallway casting long shadows behind him. He'd shed the uniform for a black shirt, dark jeans, and that damn leather jacket.

"You didn't have to dress like a widow too, you know." You gestured with your glass towards the all-black ensemble.

"Figured it was respectful." he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. The click of the latch was unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

The room suddenly felt too small, too full of unspoken things.

He took in the scene: you in your black nightgown, the wine, the open book.

"Yeah, because you came here for such a 'respectful' reason, Gator." you snort, taking a sip from your glass as you let your hair down from its clip.

"You look good," he said, his eyes tracing the path of your hair as it fell around your shoulders.

"So do you." you reply, your voice low as you set your wineglass on the dresser and lean back against it, elbows on the smooth wood of the top. "All cleaned up. Like you didn't just spend your evening cleaning up my mess."

"Our mess now," he corrected. He took a step closer, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly. The space between you shrank. "Just us now... no pryin' eyes... don't have to put up that cold front, got 'nough of that outside..."

He was right. Out there, you were a grieving widow. A tragic figure in a town that would eat you alive if they smelled weakness.

In here, you were just you. And he was just him.

You watched him, your head tilted, a predator's curious stillness. You would let the mask drop when you were good and ready, and not a moment before.

"Did he bite?" you asked, changing the subject.

Gator let out a humorless laugh, a short, sharp burst of air. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of familiar frustration.

"Wants me to bring you over for a 'family dinner' tomorrow, as a gesture of his 'generosity'." He huffed.

That was code for talking business once Karen put the twins to sleep. The business being how it only made sense for you to marry his son now, to combine the Olson land and the Tillman's to ensure some bullshit security that Roy himself didn't even need. Roy Tillman saw a woman as a vessel for the next heir, not a person. A broodmare for his legacy.

A slow smile spread across your face."Yes, because Roy is just the king of generosity. Presenting me the prodigal son on a silver platter."

You let your eyes travel down his frame finally. The broad shoulders, before your eyes were dipping down to his waist, solid in the chest and a little soft in the middle. God, how you wanted to sink your teeth into any soft spot he had.

"Don't get me wrong," Gator said. "He's plenty suspicious. Wants me to keep an eye on ya. 'Make sure the little lady is settled'. 'Keep an eye on the books'. All that."

"And by keeping an eye on the books, he means he thinks I hired someone for this job, huh? Since I'm such a bad shot and all."

"’fraid so, darlin'. He thinks you're a mastermind with a killer's instincts, but not a killer's hands. He's almost right." The corner of his lip ticked upwards. Gator's eyes had a dark, glittering quality to them, like he was enjoying this as much as you were.

"Well I guess we'll just have to fudge the books up a bit." You shrug. "Make him think whatever it is he wants to think."

"Figured you'd say that." He looked at you, a long, heavy look that stripped away all the pretense. This wasn't about the money or the land or the revenge anymore. Not entirely.

"You've looked good these past few years, you know." You dart your tongue, more red from the wine, to wet your lips. "More solid than you were in high school."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "A lotta' things have changed since then. You 'ave."

You pushed off the dresser and closed the distance between you, your fingers deftly going for the zipper of his jacket. "Mmm, you think? I've filled out too. Haven't left the house much since Brian and I got hitched. Didn't like me leaving too long. Probably worried about me catching some man's eye. Sure he was real glad for the added weight."

Your words were casual, but they carried the poison of a thousand resentments. You slid the jacket from his shoulders, and it pooled on the worn floral rug with a soft thud. Underneath, the black t-shirt was thin, worn soft, and clung to the hard lines of his chest and soft give of his stomach.

"A little extra cushion never stopped me from sneakin' glances at you over the years." He murmured, reaching out to catch your wrist as your fingers went to the hem of his shirt. His grip was firm, a question in it.

"That so?" you asked, your eyes locking with his. "What'd you think about when you looked?"

His thumb stroked the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist. "You know damn well what I thought about."

"Say it," you commanded, your voice a low thrum. "I want to hear you say it."

Gator let out a shaky breath, the control he'd been clinging to finally splintering.

"Thought about what it'd be like to have this." His other hand came up to trace the curve of your hip over the silk of your nightgown, grabbing the generous flesh there in his calloused grip. "Pressed all against me while I fuck ya the way you deserve."

Your lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. This was the truth. This was the want you knew had been simmering beneath the surface of him. The boy in the truck had grown into a man with deeper hungers.

"And how do I deserve to be fucked, Gator?" You accentuated the word in such a teasing way, sure to rile him up.

"Hard," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "’til you can't remember yer own name. ‘til the only god you can pray to is me."

A shudder went through you, a response to the possessive promise in his voice. You had been controlled, used, and objectified your entire life. But this wasn't that. This was mutually consuming. A fire you both willingly walked into.

"Sounds sacrilegious, praying to false idols and all..." your gazed slowly trailed downward, as your hands toyed with his belt buckle.

"I'm the realest damn thing you'll ever touch," he grinned. "You want me to show you?"

You answered by pulling his t-shirt over his head. The worn cotton whispered against his skin, and then he was bare from the waist up in the dim light of the room. You had a few moments to take him in. The solid chest, dusted with dark hair, the soft plane of his stomach, the surprising strength in the lines of his shoulders.

"You know, I always hated church..." you admit as your flick open the buckle you'd been playing with, and unzip his fly. "The constant up and down, the kneeling..."

You tugged his pants down as you lowered yourself to the floor, knees hitting the hardwood. "But I think I've found some use for it now..."

Gator's hand went to your chin to make you look up at him. "You have, have ya?" He teased, before letting his thumb graze your bottom lip. "I'd like to see what that pretty mouth looks like saying its prayers."

The sight of you, on your knees for him, nearly made his own buckle. All those wasted years, of watching you from afar, of watching you become another man's property. You let out a pleased little hum and you nuzzled your cheek against the hard line of his boxer briefs, the softest of kisses placed against the cloth.

He shuddered at the contact, his other hand moved to tangle his fingers in your hair, not roughly, but with a surety that spoke of a long-held need finally being met.

He was so hard already, the shape of him prominent against the thin fabric.

"That seems like a very... big ask..." you tease, kissing up his clothed shaft, the thickness of him undeniable. "I should get a real look at it."

Slowly, you peeled the fabric down. The trimmed dark hairs at the base of him, then the flushed, heavy reality of his cock. He let out a low hiss as the cool air of the room hit him.

"Jesus..." he breathed out. It was a prayer, a curse, and an exultation all at once. "Look at that..."

He wasn't talking about himself. He was talking about the reverent way you looked at him. The hunger in your gaze that was so much more potent than the performative act you'd described doing for Brian.

"What? The old drunk not measure up? You act like you've never seen one before."

His words were a mockery, but your hands were gentle. They were so gentle, so reverent. Your thumb brushed over the tip, collecting the bead of precum there. 

"Gator Tillman," you looked up at him the same way you always did, putting him in his place with your words. "You know damn well what you have going for you. You're not that kind of stupid."

The compliment was backhanded, a left hook after a feint, but it made him preen anyway. You saw the way he stood up straighter, the way a boyish pride warred with the predatory hunger in his eyes.

"Smart girl," he muttered, his grip on your hair tightening just a fraction. "Always too damn smart f'me..."

"Good thing you're not looking for a wife you can push around, then, huh?" You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock. "Wouldn't last a day."

You watched his face as you licked the leaking tip, tasting the salt of him. The gasp he let out was the most honest sound you'd heard him make in a while.

"Someone's gotta make you work for it..." you said, your lips wrapped around him for a brief, teasing moment before pulling away again. "But I think you'll find the work is the reward."

Before he could answer, you took him into your mouth properly, a slow slide. You were methodical. You explored him, learning the shape and feel of him, the way he twitched against your tongue.

Gator was lost to the sight and sensation of it. You, this woman of smoke and silences, on your knees before him, worshiping him with a mouth that had, just hours ago, spoken so coolly of murder. It was a holy act and a blasphemy, all in one.

"Christ, woman, where'd you..." His breath hitched as you took him deeper, your tongue doing something clever and sinful that had his hips jerking forward of their own accord. "Don't stop..."

You had no intention of stopping. This was your territory. A place of quiet command, where your hands and your mouth held more power than any gun.

He looked so good like this. Head thrown back, the column of his throat exposed, the soft moonlight from the window catching the dark hair on his chest. 

Your hand found purchase on his thigh, after tugging his clothes down more, rubbing the warm, solid muscle there, feeling it tense and flex beneath your touch as he fought for control. Your other hand moved to cup the heavy weight of his cock, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin in a rhythm that mirrored the movements of your mouth.

You drew back, leaving him wet and glistening in the dim light. He let out a moan of protest.

"Easy there, deputy," you murmured, your voice a rough, silken thing. "You're gonna wake the whole inn."

He let out a ragged laugh, looking down at you with those dark, hungry eyes. "Muriel's deaf as a post. 'Sides, let 'em hear. Let 'em know you ain't mourning that prick."

You smirked, a slow, sinful curve of your lips. Your hand began to move over him with a newfound purpose, over the soft skin of his stomach, before stroking him again.

"I don't know about that. Might have to keep it down for the main event. We wouldn't want the fine folk of Stark County to think their deputy’s future wife is... a screamer."

That had him. The word 'wife' hung in the stale, cigarette-scented air.

His fingers tightened in your hair, a possessive, grounding gesture. "Yer somethin' else, you know that?" he breathed, the words dripping with arousal and deep fondness. 

"Just being honest..." You murmur as you kiss over where his stomach was slightly plush, just above his shaft. You such a little to leave your mark on him, a subtle, possessive brand in the soft light of the room.

You were marking your territory. Not with your name on a deed, not with a ring on a finger, but with the imprint of your lips on the soft flesh of him. The rest could wait.

Gator looked down at the faint pink mark, then back at you, and a slow, predatory grin spread across his face.

"Careful now, darlin'," he murmured, the sound vibrating through his chest. "You keep that up and I'm gonna forget my own name."

You looked up at him from under your lashes. "Make sure you make me scream it enough then."

Then, you took him back into your mouth, no longer teasing. This was an act of consumption, a claiming. You hollowed your cheeks, your tongue working him with a precision that spoke of long-denied desire. Your pace quickened, the room filling with the wet, rhythmic sounds of your efforts and his ragged breaths.

"Gettin' there," he gritted out, the muscles in his thighs taut as cords. "Christ, you're good at that."

With one final, hard suck, you pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to him for a brief, shining moment.

"Can't let you have all the fun," you said, pushing yourself to your feet.

He watched, mesmerized, as you stepped out of your nightgown. It was a simple thing, but the way you let it pool at your feet was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

You were all curves and soft skin in the dim light. The generous swell of your hips, the fullness of your breasts, plush skin of your thighs.

"Fuckin' hell..." He groaned, stepping fully out of his pants and briefs, kicking them aside. He closed the distance between you, his hands immediately going to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The feel of your bare skin against his was a revelation, a homecoming he hadn't known he was searching for.

"Gator," you breathed, your hands tracing the lines of his shoulders.

"Yer all woman, aren't ya? No more hidin'," he murmured, his hands roaming your back, the curve of your ass. He was a man of the land, and this was territory he wanted to claim. To know every dip and hollow. He wanted to map you with his hands, his tongue, his cock.

Those calloused hands gripped the fat of your ass, squeezing hard. You could feel him, hard and heavy against your belly.

"All this gonna be mine?" he growled, a low, possessive sound in the back of his throat.

"It's always been yours," you whispered back, and the surprising truth of it hit you both. In a life lived for others, this one fierce, selfish want had been a constant thread.

He picked you up then, as if you weighed nothing, and a surprised gasp escaped your lips. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your arms around his neck. He carried you the few steps to the bed, laying you down against the worn quilt as if you were something precious.

"M'gonna make you forget him," he promised, his body a heavy, comforting weight over yours. "Forget every last one of 'em."

"You already have," you said, and it wasn't a lie.

He lowered his head, not to kiss you, but to press his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Gonna let me' ave a taste of that heaven you been hidin'?"

You tilted your head back, baring your throat to him in a gesture of absolute trust, a silent invitation. "Take it."

After placing some kisses there, Gator began to move downwards, a slow pilgrimage. His mouth was hot and wet on your skin. He wasn't in a hurry. He savored you, like a man who'd been starving.

He paid tribute to the delicate hollow of your throat, the dip of your collarbone. He laved the swell of your breasts, his rough hands molding them, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks.

Then he took one in his mouth, and a sharp cry tore from your lips. He sucked, hard, a pulling, possessive pressure that sent a jolt straight to your core. He grazed the sensitive bud with his teeth, just enough to make you gasp, to make your back arch off the bed.

"Yer a loud thing, weren't lyin' about that." he murmured against your skin before giving the same treatment to its twin.

"Only for... someone who knows what they're doing," you managed to get out, your hands threading through his hair, holding him to you.

"Oh, I know what I'm doin'," he promised, his voice a low rumble against your skin. "Gonna give this pretty gash the attention it deserves."

He shifted, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs wider. The anticipation was a force, coursing through your veins like lava. 

Then he was there.

His tongue was a thing of wonder. It was no gentle, tentative exploration. He knew what he wanted, and he took it. He licked a broad, flat stripe up your slit, and the sensation was so overwhelming, so right, that a sob escaped you.

"Tastes better'n I imagined," he groaned, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for him. "An' I imagined a lot."

He ate you like a man at a feast. His tongue delved into you, tasting, exploring. He found your clit, that bundle of nerves, and circled it, again and again, until you were a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him.

His tongue plunged into your entrance, fucking you with a wet, desperate rhythm that had you seeing stars. You'd never been touched like this. Never been seen like this. Brian had seen sex as a transaction, a messy obligation. This... this was worship.

"Gator," you gasped, your hips bucking against his face, chasing the pleasure he was giving you.

He was filthy about it, letting you ride his face. His nose pressed against you, he breathed you in, the smell of your arousal his new favorite scent. He pulled back just enough to spit on your cunt, a shocking, crude act that made you clench around nothing, before diving back in.

"Fuckin' soaked for me," he rasped, his words vibrating against your folds. "Messy little thing."

And you were. You could feel it, the slickness on your thighs, the sounds filling the room were wet, sloppy, obscene.

Your hands fisted in the quilt, your back arching as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. His fingers joined his tongue, one, then two, pushing inside you, curving just right.

"There it is," he growled against your clit, finding that spot, that perfect, agonizing spot inside you. He knew he'd found it by the way your entire body went rigid, a choked moan tearing from your throat.

"Fuck! Gator, don't stop," you begged, your pride dissolving into need.

"Wasn't plannin' on it," he mumbled, doubling his efforts. His fingers pumped into you, scissoring, stretching, while his tongue worked your clit in tight, relentless circles.

The world narrowed to this. To the feel of him, inside and out.

"That's it, gimme that sweetness," he coaxed, his free hand pressing down on your lower belly, amplifying the pressure, the pleasure. "Lemme have it."

And you did. The orgasm ripped through you, an all encompassing event that left you gasping and trembling. Your thighs clenched around his head, your heels digging into his back as you rode the wave, your cries filling the small room.

He didn't let up, drawing it out, wringing every last drop of pleasure from your shuddering body until you were a boneless, panting mess on the bed.

When you finally came back to yourself, he was kissing his way back up your body, his lips and chin dripping and slick with you.

"See?" he murmured, hovering over you, a smug, triumphant look on his face. "Told ya I'd make you scream."

You reached up, your hand tracing the line of his jaw, your thumb smearing your own wetness across his skin.

"Show-off," you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss. It was a messy kiss. You could taste yourself on him, and the intimacy of it, the  unvarnished want. 

He settled between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

"Had ta get ya all wet f'me," he rasped, his hands planting on either side of your head, caging you in. "You're ready for me, ain't ya?"

You didn't answer with words. You just rocked your hips up, taking just the tip of him inside you.

"Mmm... impatient," he chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Alright then. You want me so bad, you can do the work."

He stayed perfectly still, a heavy, solid weight, the challenge clear in his dark eyes.

"Asshole," you muttered, but there was no heat in it, only a fond, exasperated affection. 

Your hands found his ass, gripping the firm muscle, and you pulled. A slow, delicious slide as you took him inch by inch.

"Fuckin' hell," he groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder as you sheathed him completely.

For a moment, you both just stayed like that, breathing, adjusting.

"Like my girl greedy fer it," he murmured into your skin. "Like she's been waitin'."

You just clamped down on him, a silent, punishing squeeze that had him seeing stars.

He gripped your thick thighs and lifted them up higher to wrap around his waist and began to move. The pace he set was merciless. This wasn't the slow, sweet lovemaking of romance novels. This was a hard, deep rhythm that had the headboard slamming against the wall in a counterpoint to your cries.

"Oh, she loves this," he growled. He looked down at you, his dark eyes wild, devouring the way your breasts bounced with each thrust. "Took too long, didn't it? Tired of that bastard wastin' all this good pussy."

The words were filthy, but it was the truth. Your body was a kingdom your husband had been too foolish and too selfish to properly rule. Gator was taking up the mantle of conqueror.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice a raw, commanding thing. "Tell me how much better I am."

"Fuck, Gator... you're..." you gasped, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back. Words failed you, lost in the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, possessing you.

"Louder," he grunted, adjusting his angle, hitting that spot inside you that made sparks dance behind your eyes.

"You're so much better," you sobbed, the admission torn from you. "God, you're better."

You were a clever woman. You knew words were currency. But here, with him, honesty was more potent. The genuine praise was something he'd always craved without ever being able to name it.

That was it. His praise kink, his desperate need for validation, laid bare. You felt a thrill that had nothing to do with the pleasure coursing through you. It was the thrill of understanding your weapon. Of knowing exactly where to press. Without having to do any thinking, because he was made for you.

He shifted again, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder.

"Gonna make you my wife. Gonna breed this pretty pussy 'til it takes," he snarled, the possessive words a stark, primal counterpoint to the surprisingly tender way his thumb stroked your ankle.

You'd been a wife before. A title bought and sold like cattle, an alliance sealed with a kiss and a signature. But this was different. This was a siege, and you were the one manning the walls, deciding who got past the gates.

The new angle was devastating. He was hitting that spot, over and over, the pleasure so intense. 

"Love the way you fill me up," you panted, your hands gripping the headboard now, using the leverage to meet his punishing thrusts. "No one's ever... fuck... no one's ever been this deep."

"Look at you, fuckin' back on me," he groaned, the words strained. His dark eyes were fixed on the place where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, over and over.

"Knows what she wants," he praised, like he was breaking a wild mustang and finding it a perfect, eager ride.

He shifted, pulling your other leg up to join the first, effectively folding you in half. He was impossibly deep like this, a solid weight pinning you, a cage of muscle and sweat and raw, ragged want.

"Just like that," you whimpered, your control finally shattering. "Just like that, Gator. Don't stop."

He moved one of your hands from the headboard, lacing your fingers with his and pinning it to the mattress beside your head.

"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. He held your gaze, his hips never ceasing their relentless rhythm.

"This pussy's mine now," he stated, a simple, brutal fact. "Ain't no one else's. Ever again."

"Yours," you breathed, the word a vow.

"Say it again."

"It's yours, Gator. All yours."

He let out a choked sound, a victory and a surrender all at once. He had you. And you had him.

He brought a thumb down to where you were joined, pressing, circling your clit with a precise, devastating pressure.

"Cum all over this cock," he growled. "Wanna feel you squeezin' me. Wanna feel ya claimin' me right back."

The second orgasm hit you harder than the first, a violent, shattering thing that ripped a scream from your throat. Your cunt clenched around him, a series of tight, rhythmic pulses that milked him, pulling him deeper.

"Fuck!" he groaned, his hips stuttering. With a few final, deep thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt. 

Thick spurts of warmth filled you as he came with a shudder, burying his face in your neck. His body was a heavy, dead weight on yours, but you didn't mind. You held him, your hands stroking the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck.

"That's my girl," he murmured into your skin, the words ragged with aftershocks. He kissed the tender flesh of your neck. "Takin' all of it."

You lay there for a long while, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. The only sounds were the frantic beating of your hearts, slowly returning to a normal rhythm, and the distant hum of a truck on the interstate. After a few moments, Gator stirred, propping himself up to look at the mess between your bodies, your legs still tangled around him. You felt him soften inside you, a finality in that simple biological fact.

"Mmm," he hummed, a smug sound of deep satisfaction. He let your legs fall softly around him and watched as he slowly pulled out, followed by a warm trickle of your combined release. He used two fingers to spread your folds, a proprietary gaze on what he'd done.

"Oh, she's pretty like that," he murmured, almost to himself. "All fulla’ me." He scooped up some of the mess on his fingers and brought them to your lips. "Taste us."

You obeyed, your tongue swirling around his fingers, tasting the salt, the musk, the proof of his claim. You watched his eyes darken as you did, a fresh wave of desire rolling off him.

"Greedy," he chuckled, withdrawing his fingers. He flopped onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, a slow, blissful smile on his face. "Well, shit."

"Well, shit, indeed," you agreed, stretching languidly.

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. You took a moment, a real one, to study him. The rise and fall of his chest, the way the dim light caught the dark hairs on his chest. 

"You're my problem now, Tillman," you said softly, the words carrying a surprising weight. "And I'm yours."

He moved his arm, looking at you. His eyes were soft, the predatory haze replaced by something warmer, more vulnerable.

"Always have been," he said, the admission quiet as he pulled you closer, tucking you against his side. His arm came around your waist, holding you in a possessive but gentle embrace. "Just took us a while to get 'ere."

You laid there together, tangled and messy. It was the most alive you've felt in years. 

"God, I'm glad he's dead," you said, the words a simple, pure statement of fact.

Gator's arm tightened around you. "Me too." There was no judgment in his voice, only a grim, shared satisfaction. He ran a hand through your hair, a gesture that felt startlingly intimate.

"I'm never gonna treat you like he did. Y'know that, right?" He was looking at the ceiling, but you could hear the sincerity in his words, the boy peeking through the man.

"I know." You turned to press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

"Won't lay a hand on ya unless you're askin' for it." He hesitated. "And I'll... I'll listen. To what you have to say."

You knew this was hard for him. The Tillman men weren't raised for conversation. They were raised for commands.

"I'll hold you to that," you said, your head resting on his chest, still mindlessly placing kisses on the sweat damp skin.

He grunted in response, a comfortable, weary sound. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. Sleep was a siren's call, but you fought it.

"Hey," you murmured, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his stomach.

"Mmm?"

"What happens now? With your father."

Gator sighed, the sound ruffling your hair. "We go to dinner. You smile, you cry a little. You play the part of the grieving widow, so sweet, so fragile." His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to his.

"He'll eat it up. A pretty, helpless thing like you. With all that land, all that money. He'll see a bargain."

"And what will you see?" You asked, your gaze steady.

Gator was quiet for a long moment. He looked at you, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time.

"A partner," he said, the word feeling foreign on his tongue, but true. "Someone who ain't scared of the dark. 'Cause she's already livin' in it."

A small, genuine smile touched your lips. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Yeah? Well, I love you. So it's not 'ard." He said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, a fact as simple as the sun rising in the east. Like it was a fact he'd known for a decade, one he'd been waiting for the right moment to share. 

He was looking at the ceiling when he said it. He'd always been better at loving things with an engine or a trigger than a person. The confession had come out of him with a grunt and a scratch on his belly, as casual as if he'd commented on the weather.

You pushed yourself up on your elbow again, the worn quilt pooling around your hips.

"You mean that? Don't joke about this."

Finally, he turned his head to look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes was so naked that it made your chest ache. The smug, predatory deputy was gone, replaced by the boy who used to throw rocks at the old water tower just to hear the echo.

"When've I ever joked about you?" he asked, and he was right. Every look, every touch, every loaded word between you had always been laced with a terrifying seriousness.

"I do, too, you know," you admitted, the words feeling foreign on your tongue, a language you hadn't spoken since you were a girl. "I think I have since we were seventeen and you tried to fight Dale Jennings for saying I was stuck-up."

A slow grin spread across his face.

"He had it comin'. You ain't stuck-up. Yer smart. Big difference."

"Yeah, well, getting your nose bloodied over me in the parking lot of the Bowl-A-Rama is a formative experience for a girl," you said, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

"I'd get my nose bloodied for you again tomorrow," he promised.

"Oh, I know you would. You're very predictable that way."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the kind that only comes from years of unspoken history.

"Predictable? I think you mean reliable," he corrected gently, shifting to wrap an arm around you, pulling you flush against his side.

You let out a soft laugh, your head pillowed on his chest. "Same difference, coming from you."

He squeezed you, a playful warning.

"Keep running that mouth and I'll have to find somethin' to fill it," he murmured, but there was no heat in it, only a lazy, post-coital contentment.

"You're all talk now, Tillman. You're spent."

"We'll see about that in the mornin'." He yawned, a wide, jaw-cracking one.

You listened to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. It was a sound you could get used to.

"You really think we can pull this off?" you asked, your voice small in the quiet room. "The whole... happily ever after thing?"

Gator was quiet for a moment, considering.

"My dad's a lot of things, but he's not stupid. He's gonna poke, he's gonna prod. But he's also a man who likes to win. He sees your land, yer family's money... he sees an empire. But he's not gonna look too close at the gift horse's teeth if he thinks it's gonna carry him to the finish line." He paused.

"We'll just have to be smarter. And you, darlin'," he kissed the top of your head, "are the smartest person I know." 

You smiled into his chest. It was true. And that was the problem, wasn't it? Smart women were dangerous. Especially to men like Roy Tillman.

"Now get some shut eye." Gator grunted, pulling the covers over you both. "Gotta get my energy up to fuck ya in the mornin'. Then again in the shower."

You chuckled, the sound muffled by his chest. And for the first time in a long, long while, you closed your eyes and let the world go, feeling the steady rise and fall of the man you loved, the man you were about to con the devil with.

Over a year had gone by since that night, and things didn't go quite as planned. 

Just as you had the plan set, Roy caught wind of where his ex wife was living now. Nadine was his white whale, and he'd do anything to get his once child bride back under his thumb. 

Including making his son do his dirty work. 

But Nadine, a woman after your own heart, was a crafty one. The whole ordeal left Roy to rot in prison and Gator was no longer under his thumb. 

You had used every resource you could to get him a deal. Rural North Dakota meant there weren't many onlookers for what did go actually down, and that meant that Gator Tillman was no longer. 

As far as Stark County knew, he died from his wounds, and you along with him.

"Careful, it's hot." You say as you hand him a cup of tea, sitting next to him in your shared home.

The east coast was a place of ghosts and new beginnings for the both of you. Here, no one knew you as that rich girl whose father died mysteriously, or that fuck-up working for his violent father.

No one knew the old you at all. They knew your new names and your new identities.

Gator felt for the handle of the mug as you sat with him. 

"Fuck..." he whispered when he felt how hot it was. "Weren't lyin'..." 

"I'm not in the business of tricking my blind husband." you said gently, as you leaned over and kissed his cheek.

It had taken months of recovery. Even after he was released from the hospital, he was a shell of the man he was. The wounds had blinded him, and that had been the final curse Roy had placed on him. A cruel reminder of the debts he inherited from his father

"Could just call me your husband, don't have to add 'blind' to it," he grumbled, but leaned into your touch anyway.

You let out a soft sigh. "It's not an insult, Gator. It's a fact. Like how you have brown hair and you're a grumpy bastard in the mornings."

He took a cautious sip of the tea, his movements still a little clumsy, a constant reminder of what he'd lost. The doctors said he'd adapt. They said he'd learn to navigate the world by sound and touch. But they didn't understand. This was a punishment, not just a physical ailment.

The one thing keeping him from completely spiraling was you. He could feel you before you entered a room, a change in the air pressure, the faint scent of your perfume. He could map the floor plan of this house in his mind, each step you took a familiar landmark.

"Still ain't used to it," he admitted, setting the mug down on the coaster you'd placed in its exact spot.

"Given last night, I'd say you're adapting just fine. You certainly don't have trouble finding what you're looking for in the dark," you teased, your fingers trailing down the strong line of his forearm.

A slow, lazy grin spread across his face. He reached out, his hand moving with a new, practiced confidence. It found your waist, then slid around to pull you closer. "Funny girl. You know, my other senses are gettin' real sharp. Can practically smell when you're gettin' yourself into trouble."

"I'm a saint now, remember? I retired from my life of crime," you said, though your tone suggested otherwise.

"Right," he drawled, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking the skin just below your eye. "Only thing criminal 'bout you now is how good you feel. An' the way you spent all that money on new curtains. For a house a blind fella lives in."

"They're for me," you countered, leaning into his touch. "And for the hypothetical nosy neighbors who like to peek. Besides, it's my father's money. Or rather, my money. I think I've earned the right to spend it on absurdly expensive silk drapes if I so please."

He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "That you ‘ave."

It was a shared truth between you, one of many dark little secrets you both nurtured.

"Should put'em to good use. Close 'em up so the neighbors can't see me taking you here on the couch," he said, a dark smile playing on his lips.

You laughed, a genuine sound that always seemed to startle him a little. "It's ten in the morning, Gator."

"My clock's broken," he countered, pulling you in for a real kiss. He mapped your lips with his, a familiar, cherished territory. "Ain't had a proper look at you in a year," he murmured against your mouth. "Least you could do is let me get a proper feel of ya whenever I damn please..." 

"You had a ‘proper feel' of me not eight hours ago."

"Wasn't proper ‘nough," he grunted, his hands already starting to wander. "Can never be proper ‘nough."

You let him pull you onto his lap, the plush of the couch yielding beneath your combined weight. This was your sanctuary now. A house you'd paid for with blood money and a fresh start you'd bought with your silence.

His hands roamed your back, tracing the curve of your spine with a practiced intimacy. He'd memorized you, every dip and swell, with a soldier's precision. Without sight, every other sense had been amplified, each touch a revelation.

"Your hands are warm," you commented softly, your own hands resting on his shoulders.

"Yeah? Give 'em something to feel then, mama..."

He took your pajama top off with a new found confidence. He couldn't look, but he could feel. He leaned down, his mouth finding your breast with an unerring accuracy that still made you catch your breath.

His tongue swirled around the peak, a hot, possessive brand. He'd always been a mouthy bastard, and now it was his primary way of reading the world.

"Don't think I can wait for the bedroom," he murmured against your skin, one hand untying the drawstring on your pants, the other cupping your ass, pulling you flush against him.

"Then don't," you breathed, rising up on your knees just enough to let him shove the silk down your hips.

"Can't even wait to get these off ya..." He groaned when he felt how wet you were already, running a finger through your folds.

"Fucking Christ, you were made f’me," he growled.

You arched into his touch, a silent invitation for more.

He shoved his sweats down enough to free himself. He was already hard, the head of him a heavy, insistent presence against your thigh. "Need you," he grunted, the words a raw, needy thing.

You didn't make him wait. You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, sinking down onto him with a slow, deliberate sigh.

"That's my fuckin' girl..." he groaned, his head falling back against the couch as you took him in, inch by perfect inch.

"Still greedy, too," he breathed, his hands moving to grip your hips.

"Only for what's mine," you replied, your hands braced on his shoulders as you began to move.

"All yours baby..." He laid against the back of the couch, letting you set the pace. His world had been reduced to a universe of touch and sound, and you were at the center of it all. The soft fall of your hair against his skin, the little hitch in your breath when you rolled your hips just right.

You found a rhythm, a slow, grinding pace that was more intimate than any frantic quickie. 

You pushed his hair out of his face, something you loved doing now that he never slicked it back anymore. He let you. This gentle act always made him still for a moment.

"Gonna make a mess of ya," he promised, though the words lacked their usual bite, softened by the reverence of his touch.

He was right. He was. You could feel the slickness where you were joined, the obscene sounds your bodies made as you rode him.

"Mmm the way you ride, honey." He bucked up into you, a deep, powerful thrust that made you gasp and grab onto him tighter. "Like you were born to do it."

You laughed, a breathy, breathless sound. "Guess I just needed the right saddle."

He chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest and into you. "Yeah? Needed the right cock to break you in?" His hands gripped your ass, squeezing hard.

You didn't answer with words. You leaned down and bit his shoulder, a sharp, possessive nip. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark. To claim him, right back.

"Crude," you chided softly, your lips tracing the mark you'd made. "But not wrong."

You loved this. The way he could be so gentle, then so animalistic. All for you. The world thought Gator Tillman was dead. That the brutish son of a tyrant got what he deserved.

But in this quiet house on the coast, he was alive. And he was all yours.

"My girl's gettin' close," he murmured, his senses tuned to you like a finely tuned instrument. He could feel the change in your breathing, the way your movements became more frantic, less controlled.

"Want it to stick this time, we've been trying so long... make you mine all over again..." You said against his neck, your words a prayer.

"We will. We will," he promised. He wasn't much of a man of faith anymore, but he believed in this. In the two of you, tangled together on this couch, a world away from the dust and bad blood of Stark County.

"Fuck... don't stop," you pleaded, your control finally shattering. 

Your orgasm hit you, a blissful wave that left you trembling in his arms. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your body shaking with the force of it.

"That's it baby, let me fill you up, give you what you need..." He held you through the shudders, continuing to meet your faltering hips with deep, steady thrusts until he followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could.

"Fuck yeah..." he moaned. "That one's gonna take, that one's for keeps..."

You stayed like that for a long while, a sticky, sated mess. His softened cock still inside you, a comforting, possessive presence.

After a few minutes, he carefully shifted you, lifting you off him and settling you beside him on the couch.

"Don't let that drip outta you, mama. Put your hips up on a pillow..." He nudged you with a knee, a clumsy but caring gesture. He had become obsessed with the idea of something truly his and yours. A clean slate. A do-over.

You complied, grabbing a decorative pillow from the arm of the couch and tucking it under your hips.

He grabbed the waist band of his sweats, pulling them back up with a grunt.

"Your tea's gone cold," you noted, your voice lazy and sated.

"Y'woke me up enough, don't worry 'bout it." He found your hand, lacing your fingers through his.

"I'll make more," you offered, starting to sit up.

He laid down, tucking you against his side. "Stay."

You settled against him, your head on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a familiar comfort. He was blind, but he could still see you clearer than anyone ever had.

"It's a good day," he said after a while, his fingers stroking your arm.

It was. There were no ghosts in the house. No memories of violence or betrayal. Just the smell of sex and chamomile tea and the faint, salty tang of the sea breeze coming through the open window.

"Yeah, it is." you say softly, lips against his chest.

He hummed in agreement.

"I love you," he said. The words were no longer a foreign language. They were an everyday occurrence, like the sun rising.

"I love you too."

You didn't need to say it back, but you always did. He felt it in the way you arranged the furniture so he wouldn't trip. In the way you described the changing colors of the leaves in the fall. In the way you let him, a man whose hands had caused so much pain, touch you with a terrifying tenderness.

It was an odd sort of happiness. A fragile thing built on a foundation of blood and lies. But it was yours. And it was real. And as you lay there, your fingers intertwined with his, you knew you wouldn't change a thing.

It’s hard to maneuver the phone between your shoulder and ear with your polish brush in one hand and your foot in the other. Steve’s blabbing about something and you’re trying so hard not to let his tone affect you, even though you’re already dressed up in the nicest lingerie you own.

“You know you don’t have to,” he says, which stills you temporarily.

“Deal’s a deal,” you sigh, grimacing as a bit of black polish gets on your cuticle.

“Yeah, you sound really devastated.”

“Shut up.”

“Just saying,” he continues, doing that fake innocence schtick. “An hour’s a pretty long time, y’know. And it’s the Harrington Torture Chamber, after all.”

Your face heats and you can’t quite concentrate on painting anymore. “Oooh, and what’s that entail, again?”

“See? You’re already trying to get off and our date’s in three hours.”

You scoff. “First of all, I don’t get off on torture. And second, it’s not a date.”

“What would you call it?”

“A contractual arrangement.”

Steve sucks a breath in through his teeth. “Ouch. So that’s what you think of me as, huh?”

“You’re my coworker, too.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

You have to return the nail polish brush to its container, getting a bit overheated. “What now? Gonna see how long it takes for me to fall for you?”

“Uh, no. You already have.”

You scoff again, pulling yourself out of your little Harrington stupor. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I know you’re upset I didn’t fuck you at work,” he drawls on, “but I didn’t want to get interrupted. You know? Gotta take my time with you. I’m thinking we go for an hour and two minutes since that’s what I had left over.”

“The deal was for one hour.”

“Yeah, but what’s two more minutes? …Huh. I guess that is a long time for you.”

Steve is just as much arousing as he is annoying. “Eighteen minutes is not nearly as impressive as you think.”

“Oh, really?” he says. “Let’s try some math out, huh? What’s sixty minutes divided by eighteen?”

“I don’t know, a little over three?”

He speaks to you like you’re a dog. “Good girl! That’s right. Three point three three three three three… why don’t we round it up to an even three point five?”

“You’re big on rounding up, huh?”

“And didn’t you cum twice? Am I remembering that correctly?”

Your heart hammers under your bralette. “Yeah?”

“Okay, then let’s say that three-point-five times two is seven. So that means, with my track record, I can make you cum seven times tonight.” His voice gets a little lower. “And believe me, it’s my intention.”

You’re a little gobsmacked. “You’re out of your goddamn mind, Steve. Since when did you get so good at math, anyway?”

“It’s not really math, it’s like… sex numbers.”

“Very hot, Steve, keep talking like that,” you deadpan.

“Weren’t you just cumming twice on my hand on a dirty couch in the break room of the Hawkins Family Video for the chance of a few hundred dollars? Or… was that someone else?”

You swallow. “I’ll see you at nine, Steve.”

“Nine. Three hours. One hundred and eighty minutes. Ten thousand and eight hundred seconds.” He gasps. “Oh, ten thousand, seven hundred ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven….”

“Goodbye, Steve.”

“… ninety-four, ninety-thr—“

You hang up on him. Three hours seems a bit too long to wait, though he will never know you think that.

You knock. Three, quick rasps, your heart beating quick under your ribcage. You’re about to adjust your skirt again but the door swings open with such ferocity it makes you gasp.

“Hi,” Steve says, beaming brightly. You can smell the sandalwood and pepper on his skin and he looks so good that you feel your cheeks heating.

“Eager much?” you force out, feeling awkward while he just stares at you, unwavering, perhaps as if he’s trying to use x-ray vision to see under your clothes.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, reaching for you, pulling you inside quickly. You nearly stumble in your heels, ones you’ve only worn once before. You’re realizing now how bad of an idea it was, but it doesn’t quite matter as Steve kneels to take them off for you.

Steve on his knees is a much more comfortable dynamic for you.

“Wow,” you laugh, lifting your foot slightly so Steve can slip your shoe off, “what a gentleman.”

“I’m not wasting any time here,” he says, a big, warm hand on the back of your calf as he helps you lift your other foot. “Should’ve just came naked so we could get to it.”

“Those weren’t in the instruc—!”

Your breath catches in your throat as Steve’s hands travel higher, up the backs of your legs, fingers tickling your thighs. They rest at the edge of your lacey underwear, and your brain suddenly isn’t working anymore.

“—tions.”

“Lace? All for me?” he grins smugly.

You nod slowly. You can’t really beat the “I got dressed up to get boned by Steve Harrington” allegations.

“And here I thought you didn’t like me.” He stands, crowds you against the front door. “Could smell your pussy, by the way. Must have been a long ride here, huh?”

“Rob - Robin?” you ask, mouth dry.

Steve’s doe eyes look gently into yours. “She’s giving us some privacy.”

You can hardly breathe. “What a good friend.”

Steve licks his lips, leans in a little closer. “Uh-huh. The best.”

“You have fifty-five minutes left,” you breathe.

His thick brows twitch together. “No no no. We haven’t even started yet.”

You scoff and he rolls his eyes at you, breaking away, giving you some much needed room. It’s sort of incredible how hot he makes you. It’s akin to how adoringly irritating you find him.

“C’mere,” he says, beckoning you to follow him, and you make your way to his bedroom. It’s much cleaner than you anticipated - pristine, in fact, and it smells like his laundry. All clean and floral with the undertone of spiced cologne. He even set up candles, really enhanced the atmosphere.

“Plaid,” you point out, gesturing to his bed.

“What? Not good enough for you to get plowed on?”

“Plowed?”

“Bad choice of words.” He turns to you, hands on his hips. “Let me tell you precisely what I’m planning on, okay? And you tell me if something doesn’t sound good.”

“Okay?”

Steve licks his lips, then sits on the edge of his bed. He beckons you to him again, patting his thigh, and you gingerly step forward, sliding into his lap just as you were a few days ago. His hands find the swell of your ass and he keeps them firmly planted there. “First fifteen minutes I’ll spend taking off your clothes and letting you get comfortable.” He pulls you forward, your cunt catching on his jeans, making your breath hitch. “Then I think I’ll spend the next twenty getting to know this greedy pussy a bit better.”

“It’s not greedy.”

“Whatever you say. I know I’ve gotta spend some time stretching you out - so damn tight on my fingers. Then the next twenty-five - twenty-seven, if you’ll have me - I’ll see if my cock really can fit in you.”

You swallow harshly, entirely too hot and entirely too seen.

Steve quirks a brow. “How’s that sound?”

“Sounds good,” you say softly, your fingers instinctually playing with the hair curled at the back of Steve’s head. “And - exactly how many times are you going to cum?”

Now he’s blushing. “I’m not - not really worried about that.”

Your brows furrow. “Wh—? You don’t want to cum?”

You’re flipped suddenly onto your back, landing with a loud oof!. Steve rolls on top of you, caging you in with his forearms. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“Do you think that would make this any weirder?”

“Yes or no, sweetheart. Didn’t ask for lip.”

“Well, you sort of d—“

He doesn’t kiss you. His lips find your jawline and the feeling - the closeness - shuts you up. You gasp softly and reach for his shirt, tangling your fingers in the soft cotton of his polo. You’re overwhelmed with the scent of him and the fresh sheets below you at first, and then overwhelmed with the ticklish pleasure of his lips finding your neck.

“So, you dressed up for me?” he mumbles against your neck.

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you like me or somethin’?” Steve cuts you off when his lips plant against your skin, sucking sweetly. You sigh in response. “Yeah, figured.” He moves a hand to the hem of your shirt, fingertips ghosting against your hot skin. “Can I see what’s underneath?”

You nod and he pulls away, pupils blown wide. He looks a little pathetic, in a cute way. Cheeks flushed, hair messy, chest heaving.

“Getting this excited over a pair of tits?”

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “C’mon, help me out.”

You sit up with him, watching his face closely for every single reaction he has. You watch him swallow before he pushes your shirt up above the swell of your breasts, revealing a blue-grey, lacey bralette. Nothing entirely special, but Steve’s eyes widen, and he swallows again before looking back up at you.

“So?” you whisper, nervous.

“Take—“ he clears his throat. “Take your shirt off.”

You do so quickly, and you’re pushed gently back down onto your back while Steve melts down to the floor to work on your skirt. Though he doesn’t do much - just lifts it up again, staring straight at the wet spot on your matching underwear. You feel vulnerable, staring up at his ceiling, too nervous to look down at his hungry eyes.

“What time is it?” you ask suddenly, snapping Steve out of his pussy-drunk trance.

He groans. “Are you serious?”

You prop yourself up on your elbows. “It’s been five minutes, right?”

“You’re pushing it,” he says, then taps on the face of his watch. “I’m keeping track.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Fine.” He makes quick work of taking it off, then reaches for your wrist. “Here. Since I’ll be so busy, you keep track. Remember what the timeline is?”

“Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five.”

Steve doesn’t push the two extra minutes thing because he already knows you’re not going to adhere to this whole “one hour only” schtick. “Exactly. Better keep good track of time, or we’ll have to end before the good stuff happens.”

“You mean when you plow me?”

He ignores you. “Think you can do that?”

You nod.

“Gonna need you to get up for me again.”

You groan, but stand, aided by Steve, who takes your hands and tugs you up. He switches places with you, sitting again, then does a motion with his finger. Turn around.

His hand finds your zipper at the back of your skirt and he slowly tugs it down before letting the fabric fall in a heap on his floor. Both of you are silent, your heart beating hard as you wait for his next move. Those hands find your hips again, and he pulls you down onto his lap, facing away from him.

“You look divine,” he mumbles, hooking his chin over your shoulder, his hands splaying out across your stomach. He kisses the junction of your shoulder and neck, giving you goosebumps. “Really, all this for me?”

You laugh breathlessly. “You’re my only hookup tonight.”

“Lucky me,” he mumbles into your ear. Your pussy throbs, his hands moving higher. “Who else has seen you in this, huh?” And he snaps the strap of your bralette for emphasis.

“Just - just you.”

“You buy this for me?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” His hands crawl upwards, fingers dipping beneath the lacy band and then higher until he’s cupping your tits. “You comfortable?”

You nod, biting your cheek to stop you from whimpering.

“Feel what you’re doin’ to me?” he asks into your ear, rutting his hips up.

You moan and Steve chuckles, kissing your skin again. “Harrington Torture Chamber isn’t all that bad, huh?”

His fingers pinch your nipples and you sigh, leaning back into him. His lips press against your neck again, leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on the sensitive skin. You whine when his fingers tug and pull, completely at his mercy, hands useless beside you.

“Like having your tits played with?” he asks. “You’re gonna ruin my jeans, honey.”

“Oh, don’t.”

Steve twists your nipples a little harder - not any less pleasurable, but enough to make you gasp. “We’re a bit past the bullshit, aren’t we? You’re bitched out on my lap again and you want to act like you’re not soaked?”

His legs part, spreading yours open with him, and he moves one strong hand down to your cunt. You moan brokenly at one swipe across your clothed clit, and Steve tsks. “Must have trained your pussy to get wet around me, huh?”

You squirm, but Steve traps you on his lap, one arm crossed across your chest and the other cupping your pussy. His fingers still play with your nipple, hardening it under the fabric. His other hand rubs you through your underwear, and he keeps your legs open even when you try to shut them.

“That too much?” he asks, concerned.

And you sort of hate that he’s asking, because you have to shake your head and verbally admit that you like what he’s doing to you. “No.”

“Thought so,” he mumbles, sounding relieved. “You must have a thing for getting pinned and played with. Or do you just have a thing for me?”

“Shut up,” you whine, fingers clutching at the forearm around your torso. Your head falls back against Steve’s shoulder and he kisses along your jawline, fingers moving slow and methodical.

“Make me,” he presses, fingers gently pinching your clit now. You gasp and whine, squirming again, but this time attempting to get more. “Look at me.”

You look off to the side to see him, brows furrowed, eyes hooded, mouth agape. Steve nudges your nose with the tip of his and he gets so close, like he might kiss you - but instead, he talks against your mouth, breathing your air. “Look at you. So pretty, baby, so good for me, yeah?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Pussy’s so nice, honey.” He’s panting a little into your mouth now, readjusting his grip on you. “So wet and silky, gonna feel so good around my cock. You want that?”

You nod again, lost in his eyes, hardly paying attention because your clit is tightening, pleasure gripping your lower stomach like a vice.

Steve smiles, nudges your nose with his again. You’re so entranced, trying to lean forward so he’ll kiss you, but he asks, “What time is it, honey?”

“Huh?” you moan.

“The time, pretty.”

“Oh, shit!” you gasp, twisting your arm towards you. Your stomach drops, though you aren’t sure why. “It’s - it’s - um, it’s been twenty —“

Steve moves his arms away from you, leaving your pussy neglected. You whimper, reaching for him again, but he pats your thigh. “C’mon, up.”

“But —!”

Steve seems rather unfazed despite the throbbing hard-on he’s subjecting you to. “Told you to pay attention to the time. Now we’re over, and that means five minutes less of my cock inside of you. Up,” he repeats, taking you by the hips and helping you stand.

You’re a little lost - mind hazy over your thwarted orgasm. But you let him lay you on his bed, on his fluffy, expensive pillows, while you drip onto his sheets.

Steve kisses the tip of your nose. “And you thought I’d cheat, huh?”

“That - you didn’t even make me cum,” you attempt, narrowing your eyes. “Thought you were aiming for seven?”

“I’m re-strategizing.” He crawls downward, resting on his stomach in front of your puffy pussy. Licks his lips, gets sidetracked for a moment before looking back up at you. “I’m just not sure you deserve to cum that many times, you know?”

“Think it would be painful.”

“Not the way I do it.”

You laugh at the absurdity of his statement, opening your mouth to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but you choke a bit when he slips your underwear off. He’s never been this close to your pussy before, and both of you swallow hard. You’re embarrassed, so on-display, but Steve kisses your thigh so gently that you’re able to relax while he slides his arms under you.

You sneak a peek down to look at him. He watches your cunt with fascination, lust, his eyes dark. It’s thrilling.

“Keep ‘em spread,” he says softly, looking to the side to kiss your inner thigh. It tickles. “Know you had a hard time with it earlier. It’ll be worth it. Just trust me.”

“O-okay.”

“Keep an eye on that watch for me.” He licks his lips, talking more to your pussy than to you. “Though I wouldn’t mind staying here for a while longer. It’s so pretty, baby.”

The tip of Steve’s nose presses against your clit. He flicks his eyes up to look at you, already biting your lip. And he inhales, deep, eyes rolling back for half a second before he dips his tongue in and up your folds.

“Oh,” you gasp, legs already twitching together. You try to stay good this time, to let him have you how he wants. It’s very clear that he wants this - unrestricted access to your pussy, his tongue fucking the tight hole, his nose rubbing against your clit. “Oh, Steve.”

He kisses towards, open mouthed, sloppy, then wraps his lips around your clit. Your hands fly to his hair and he grunts, fingers digging into your thighs. He sucks, unrelenting, until you whine. And then his tongue flicks at your clit for a few moments before it goes back to fucking you.

“Feels so good,” you cry, tugging sharply on his locks, vibrating when he groans. “Oh my god, Steve, Jesus - Christ -!”

He’s slow with it, too. Like it’s a meal to savor. Eyes all half lidded and blissed out, nose wet with you, cheeks pink. Every time you think he cannot possibly look sexier, he does. And even though he’s right here, right now, you’re thinking of all the lost opportunities - times when it was slow at work and he could have gotten on his knees to worship you like this. Laying in the back of his car on break while he made you cum - probably twice, again - and walking back inside with shaking legs and a sweaty forehead.

“Look at me,” he says, voice thick, because you’re staring unfocused up at the ceiling.

“Can’t,” you breathe.

He stops, lifts his head up and rests his chin on your thigh. His thumb rubs soothingly against your skin. “Well let’s stop, then —“

“No!” you cry, the manicured hands tangled in his hair pulling him forward, which is apparently precisely what turns him on. He’s back to fucking you with his tongue in an instant, moaning all the while, rutting his cock against the bed. Now you can’t stop staring, while he’s lost in the scent and taste of you.

“Don’t stop,” he groans, referring to the tugging, so you don’t. And you watch him, his eyes opening to look at you, both of your faces turning hot. “Oh, Christ,” he groans, bringing his hand towards your cunt.

His middle finger, long and dexterous, slides in with no restriction. He finds that spongy spot inside of you again while his lips suck and kiss your clit. You feel like screaming, feeling high and so, so blissed out. You rock yourself against his finger, and it takes you a moment to work yourself up to it, but you finally moan, “More.”

He grins. "Greedy."

A second finger. It’s a squeeze, but Steve sticks the landing. Presses up against your sweet spot with his tongue unrelenting on your clit, and he’s certainly coaxing an orgasm out of you. It’s much more intense than the two you’d had with him before. His tongue and fingers work in sync so well that you fear you might cum messy and wet all over him.

Not that you entirely care.

Steve pulls back, just a bit. His lips still move against your clit. “Gonna cum? Feel you clenching down, 's like last time. You’re so tight, feel incredible - gonna feel so good when you cum, honey, let me have it.”

“God,” you choke out, “you’re so obsessed with me.”

He laughs, licks a broad stripe from his fingers up to your swollen clit. “Yeah, guilty.”

Your stomach fliips hard, the band inside stretching to a near breaking point. “Oh my — f-fuck-!”

He stays steady. Keeps stroking your g-spot and sucking your clit. Except now he’s whining, brows furrowed, like he’s a petulant child that wants a treat. One more glance down at him and you’re cumming, back arching. Steve tries to pin you with his arms but it’s simply no use. He chases you, lips attached to you, fingers curling, your hands pulling his hair. He gasps, makes a noise of disbelief, and swallows every last drop of sweetness you give him.

Your vision is hazy. Black tinged. You’ve never cum so hard in your life, and that includes your precious escapade. Your chest rises as falls as you catch your breath, disoriented, legs shaking.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve mumbles, sliding up your shaking form. “That was so sexy, shit — are you okay?”

You nod. You might be in love with him now. His fingers are still buried inside of you, flexing gently. You rock your hips and mewl. “Need you to fuck me,” you rasp.

“How much time do we have?” Steve looks down at the watch on your wrist and tuts. “Aw, man. We only have ten minutes. Guess we should get you cleaned up then, huh?”

His fingers start slipping out of you, but you’re quick to snap your shaking thighs together. “No,” you whimper. You need his cock so bad it’s driving you insane - like something is clawing at your chest and trying to get out.

“What’s that?” He’s a cocky son of a bitch. “You want more time in the Harrington T—“

“Please shut up,” you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist now.

“Are you saying it’s not torture?” His thumb rubs against your clit, flicking it slowly. “Are you saying you like this?”

And here he goes again. Making you fall apart twice in the span of two minutes. Flicking at your clit, hovering his lips above yours, sinking his fingers back into you. Slips a third one in for good measure, knows how hard it’ll be to take him.

“Tell me,” he presses, nose touching yours. You’re going cross-eyed trying to keep up with him. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”

Your resolve diminishes quickly. “Make me feel so good.”

“Was that so hard?” He smiles. “You gonna cum about it?”

You pant and squirm and writhe under Steve. He crooks his fingers up towards your sweet spot again and you cry out just as his mouth engulfs yours. He works smoothly, diligently, and you figure for half a second that his hand must hurt.

Then he’s pulling away, mumbling to himself and quickly shucking his jeans down. You look down, curious. He wears such tight pants that you think you have a pretty good idea of how big he is.

You were off by a few inches.

You can’t help but to widen your eyes. He’s so fucking pretty. A thick path of dark hair leads down to his trimmed pubes, a stark contrast to his highlighted, golden skin. And his cock’s gorgeous. Long, thick, curved towards the tip, head pink and it’s weeping. He pumps himself a few times, already so wet.

“Did you cum?” you breathe.

He doesn’t answer you. Just leans over past you to grab a condom out of his bedside drawer. Rips the foil with his teeth and slides the latex on in one fluid motion. You know he’s done this before, but his agility still surprises you.

Not willing to waste a moment longer, Steve finds his way back on top of you again, sliding himself in between your spread thighs. You hook your legs around his waist. His thumb’s at your clit again and you shiver, mouth falling open.

“Are you ready?”

“As I can be,” you whisper. “You’re a lot to take.”

“I’ll take it easy,” he whispers back. “Relax for me, okay?”

With his fingers playing with your clit, it’s pretty easy. Your eyes fall shut and you focus more on the bundle of nerves, the ever-tightening feeling in your stomach, Steve’s breath fanning against your face. He presses the tip against your hole, rubs himself up and down.

Then he presses into you.

Your eyes widen. Your mouth falls again. You exhale shakily. He’s gotta be a single inch inside and he’s stretching you to your limit.

“I know,” he coos, applying steady pressure to your clit. “I’ll take my time, ‘s okay.”

“So big,” you whisper, delayed, your mind a bit blank.

“I know,” he repeats, but he’s smiling now. “Why d’you think I had to spend so much time on you?”

One inch deeper. You mewl, hands moving to his shoulders. “Cause - b-because you’re - you -“

“You, you, you,” he teases. “Love seein’ you like this, really suits you.”

You don’t have the capacity to argue with him. “Kiss me.”

“Where?” Another inch. Steve leans forward, nose against nose, lips against lips. “Here?”

You nod, awe-struck by his hazel eyes. You plead with your own.

“I’ll never say no to a pretty angel like you,” he whispers. "Don't get too excited, okay? This is a contractual agreement, after all."

Finally - finally - he’s kissing you. Moving his mouth so perfectly, intentionally. Lips soft and a little wet. He tastes like mint and - well - your pussy.

But Steve, he encompasses all of you — his weight on top of you, his lips moving slowly, his hips moving slower. The scent of him in your nose, his warmth transferring to your skin. He pulls his hips back, then slides in. A little deeper. You gasp against him and his tongue slips into your mouth. Now you moan, and he moans, fucking into you shallowly.

“C’mon,” he whispers, “let me in, want you so bad, please.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “I’m trying,” you whimper.

“It’s okay. Doing so good for me, yeah?” He kisses down your neck. The tickle helps distract you from the stretch, and he gets another inch in. Steve gasps, resting his head in the crook of your neck. “You feel so goddamn good.”

He sucks at your skin, running his tongue along it. Thumb still circling your clit. Fucking you shallow, slow.

“You okay?” he grits out.

You nod, rocking your hips. You’re getting used to it, the sharp pain - it’s melting away, all of Steve’s ministrations to help you working. “More, Steve. Want more.”

He kisses up to your ear. “You sure?”

Goosebumps prick up on your skin. “‘m sure.” And just to see what he would do, you say, “Please, baby.”

“Oh, God,” he groans. Pulls back. Thrusts in deeper. “Can’t say shit like - like that.”

It takes you a sec to find your voice. “Like what?”

Back. Forward. Punches the air out of your lungs. “Like baby,” he grunts.

Back. Forward. “Honey.”

Back. Forward. Slips inside you nearly to the hilt. “Handsome.”

Your eyes roll back. Steve’s pace picks up, panting above you. You wish he was undressed so you could see him. You know the chest hair he sports. Want to feel it on your skin, run your fingers through it while he has you like this.

“Why not?” you choke out.