dalia ✦

The door closes behind you too softly.

That’s the first thing you notice, the quiet click instead of a slam, like the house itself is holding its breath for what's about to come. You’re still warm from the car, from laughter and music and Robin’s voice shouting over Eddie’s awful cassette, but the second you step inside, the air changes. Cooler. Still. Heavy in a way that presses against your ribs.

Steve is already there.

He’s standing in the living room, not sitting, not pretending to be relaxed. Jacket still on. Keys on the table where they don’t belong, like he dropped them without thinking. The overhead light casts a tired shadow across his face, catching on the dark circles under his eyes, the faint crease between his brows that never quite went away after everything that happened.

He looks… done.

Not angry yet. Just exhausted in that brittle way that makes anger inevitable.

“There you are,” he says.

Not hey. Not you okay? Just that. Flat. Tight.

Your stomach twists, instinctive. You hadn’t told him. It was supposed to be quick—work ran late, Robin suggested drinks, one thing bled into another. A last-minute decision you didn’t think would matter.

You slip your shoes off, slower than necessary. “Hi,” you say, light, like this is normal. Like you didn’t already brace yourself the moment you turned the key.

His eyes flick over you, sharp and assessing. The faint flush in your cheeks. The looseness in your posture. He knows.

“Who dropped you off?” he asks.

“Robin. Eddie.” You lean back against the doorframe, folding your arms, casual on purpose. The wood is cool through your jacket. “Before you start... yes, I was safe. Yes, I had fun. No, I didn’t die.”

His jaw tightens. You see it happen, the muscle jumping like something trying to claw its way out.

“You didn’t tell me you were going out,” he says.

You shrug. “It wasn’t planned.”

“That’s not the point.”

You laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. Too sharp. Too careless. “Oh my god, listen to yourself. You sound like you’re in charge or something.”

Steve closes his eyes for half a second.

When he opens them again, he exhales slowly through his nose. That breath—the careful one. The one he takes when he’s trying to keep himself in check, when the memories crowd too close and everything feels like it could go wrong if he lets go for even a moment.

“I’m not saying I’m in charge,” he says. “I’m saying you don’t get to disappear without telling me.”

You tilt your head, studying him. The way his shoulders are set like armor. The way his hair falls into his eyes because he hasn’t bothered fixing it. He looks older like this. Tired. Worn thin.

“Disappearing?” you echo. “Steve, please. I went for drinks, not into another dimension.”

His eyes snap to yours. Sharp. Bright. “Watch it.”

You push off the doorframe and step closer, invading his space because part of you resents how small he makes the world feel sometimes. Because you’re tipsy enough to be bold, and tired enough not to care.

“Or what?” you ask, voice sweet, almost lazy. “You gonna give me another lecture? Tell me how irresponsible I am for having a life?”

His jaw clenches hard enough that it aches just looking at it.

“You think this is cute,” he says. “You think pushing me makes you untouchable.”

You shrug, a small lift of your shoulders. “I mean… hasn’t it so far?”

The silence that follows is thick, pressing against your ears.

Steve turns away from you and starts pacing. Back and forth across the living room, boots heavy against the floor, hand dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull himself back into control.

“I got home from work,” he says, voice tight, “and you weren’t here. No note. No call. Nothing.”

You scoff. “I didn’t know I needed permission to grab a drink after work.”

His head snaps up. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s what you mean,” you fire back. “You always do this. You act like if you’re not watching everything, something bad will happen.”

He stops pacing. The stillness is sudden, sharp.

“That’s unfair,” he says.

You shrug, bored, leaning back into sarcasm because it’s easier than admitting there’s truth tangled up in it. “Is it? Because sometimes it feels like you need me to be in danger. Like you don’t know what to do with yourself otherwise.”

His jaw tightens. “Careful.”

That word should stop you. It should be enough.

It isn’t.

“You know what I think?” you say, the words coming faster now, slick with bravado and something meaner underneath. “I think if I stopped needing you. If I stopped letting you play hero, you wouldn’t even know who you are.”

The room goes utterly still.

Steve looks at you like you’ve reached inside him and twisted something raw.

You feel it then—a sharp, fleeting pulse of regret—but you push past it, reckless and cruel in the way only people who love each other can be.

“Because without someone to save,” you add lightly, like it’s a joke, “you’re just a guy who peaked early and doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

Steve moves before you can take it back.

One moment he’s across the room, the next he’s in front of you, forcing you back until your shoulders meet the wall. He doesn’t touch you, but the space he claims is absolute. His presence presses in, heavy and overwhelming, all coiled tension and restrained fury.

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he says quietly.

Your heart stutters. You force a smirk that doesn’t reach your eyes. “I stop when I want.”

That’s when he snaps.

His hand slams into the wall beside your head, close enough that the sound cracks through you, close enough that you flinch despite yourself. He doesn’t hurt you. He doesn’t need to.

His voice drops, low and rough, stripped of humor, stripped of restraint.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

You see it before you feel it.

The way Steve’s face hardens, not into anger exactly, but into something more restrained. Something pulled tight by years of fear he never learned how to put down. The overhead light carves shadows beneath his eyes, turning them dark, almost bottomless, the blue swallowed by something heavier. His lashes cast sharp lines against his cheeks when he looks down at you, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might crack.

His breathing isn’t steady.

That’s what gives him away.

Each inhale drags in too deep, each exhale pushed out like he’s forcing himself not to say something worse. His throat works when he swallows, the muscle in his neck pulsing once, twice—control, control, control.

You realize, distantly, that you’re drunker than you thought.

Because instead of shrinking back, instead of feeling properly scared, heat curls low in your stomach. A dangerous, traitorous thrill. His anger looks good on him. Terrible and magnetic and yours.

You can’t help the tiny smirk that pulls at your mouth.

You look up at him through your lashes, deliberately slow, letting them fan your cheeks as you blink—wide-eyed, innocent. You tilt your head just slightly, like you don’t understand why he’s upset. Like you’re not enjoying this.

His jaw tightens further.

Your mouth opens automatically, another comment, another challenge, but you freeze.

Because he’s not joking.

His eyes are dark now. Focused. Not amused. Not entertained.

“You’ve been pushing all night,” he says, every word deliberate, carved out instead of spoken. “Testing me. Seeing how far you can go.”

Your throat bobs as you swallow.

“And now you’re gonna stand there,” he adds, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes your face, “and tell me you didn’t mean to cross a line.”

You can’t.

Because you did.

Steve straightens abruptly, stepping back like he’s physically pulling himself away from the edge. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching, jaw still tight, eyes briefly closing like he’s counting down from something dangerous.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says. “You’re gonna stop acting like nothing has consequences.”

When he looks at you again, it’s slow. Deliberate. Calculated.

“And later,” he adds, voice dropping, “we’re gonna talk about this attitude.”

Your stomach flips—not fear, not exactly. Anticipation laced with dread.

He grabs his keys and heads for the door, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “think before you open that mouth.”

The door closes behind him.

It’s much later when he finally comes home.

You haven’t moved from the couch. The TV hums softly, some mindless late-night rerun playing to no one. You haven’t really been watching, just staring, replaying the look on his face over and over, your buzz long since dulled into something heavier.

The door opens.

Steve steps inside, quieter this time. He doesn’t smell like a bar. No alcohol. Just him, and faintly, unmistakably, cigarette smoke.

Your chest tightens. The WSQK rooftop. His place to think. Or brood. Or fail at calming down.

It didn’t work.

You know that the moment his eyes find you.

You roll your eyes and huff, loud and deliberate. From the corner of your vision, you catch the way his mouth twitches, an incredulous little chuckle as he shakes his head.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

He shrugs off his jacket, movements controlled, almost ritualistic. Rolls up his sleeves, exposing forearms still corded with tension. Loosens the tie at his throat like it’s choking him. Only then does he look at you again.

You snap your gaze back to the TV.

“Still acting like a brat, I see,” Steve says coldly.

You tuck your knees into your chest and turn the volume up.

He crosses the room in two long strides.

The remote disappears from your hand. The screen goes black.

“Hey—” you start, scolding, but the word dies in your throat when you look up.

Steve is towering over you.

Arms crossed. Muscles flexing beneath his shirt. Moonlight spills through the window, painting his face in cool blue shadows, sharpening his cheekbones, darkening his eyes until they look almost black.

“It’s time to talk about how disrespectful you were earlier,” he says.

You stand slowly, chin lifting. “Oh please, Steve. You’re not exactly scary.”

His mouth curves, but not into a smile, something sharper. Wicked. His eyes flash, dark and decisive.

In a heartbeat, the distance between you is gone.

You gasp as the world tilts, your breath knocking out of you as he scoops you up with ease, strength unmistakable, inescapable. He throws you over his shoulder.

“Steve! Put me down—oh!”

Your protest cuts off as his grip tightens, and a sharp crack against the exposed flesh of your ass from Steve's hand.

His voice drops close and dangerous, promise heavy in every syllable.

“Not tonight,” he says.

You bite your lip from the excitement coiling inside you. The anticipation of whatever punishment Steve has in store for you. The possibilites are endless, and it nearly has you melting. You can't help but grind yourself on his chest, feeling the way his nails digs into your skin. How his muscles feel against the pressure under your sleep shorts.

Steve kicks open your shared bedroom, kicking a basket out of the way that you were supposed to empty two days ago. He tosses you on the bed, a soft bounce from the force.

You brush back the hair that fell in your face, bracing yourself up by your elbows, looking at him with your wide lecherous gaze.

He's not looking at you as he unbuttons his dress shirt. "Take off your clothes," he demands. Peeling off his shirt, tossing it somewhere in the room. You listen, but with malicious competence. You started with your fuzzy socks, tugging them off slowly, smirking when you heard the clinking of his belt pause. You then slowly untied your sleep shorts, though the ribbon was crumpbled from being washed because you have it perfectly tied to only having to slip them on anytime you wear them. The ribbon was knotted and frayed. In reality, all you really needed to do was tug them down, but the scoff from Steve's lips felt like fire under your ribs.

You looked up and saw Steve pushing his slacks down, kicking them elewhere, the bulge under his boxers tenting. His jaw ticked watching you purposefully take your time, shimmying them down your legs. You really could have been completely bare in seconds but you were enjoying seeing his jaw grind, and his shoulders pull taut. Because you knew, as soon as you touched him, he would be a puddle. That all his tension and anger would be over in seconds, and you would be the one back in charge.

Steve rolled his eyes as you took your time hoisting your sleep shirt over your head. He had had enough. He crawled on the bed, scowling, ripping the shirt off. You smiled sweetly at him, your hand moving toward your favorite part, the pudge of his stomach, but he quickly grabbed your wrist, shaking his head.

"Nope. You're not allowed to touch me tonight," Steve orders.

"But baby..." you coo, pouting.

He mimicked your puckered bottom lip, blinking, his voice gentle and condescending at the same time. "Should have thought of that before you ran your mouth, honey."

You let out a laugh, raising your brows. "You won't be able to finish if I don't touch you."

Steve's smiles crookedly, petting your hair like he's supposed to be comforting you. He then plants a chaste kiss on your lips, making you sigh. It's so soft, and you think maybe he has forgiven you.

You were wrong. He pushes you all the way down, his hands cuffing your wrists to your sides as his mouth attacks your neck, sucking, biting, marking what's his. He nips your collarbone as he moves south, your back arches from the wet sounds of his tongue, and the heat of his mouth on your skin.

He looks up, "Can I trust you to listen if I let go of your hands?"

You nod.

He pulls back, his hand cupping your face, your lips puckering out, making you look right at him.

"Words, honey. I know you like to talk so anytime I ask you something, you're going to use them. Okay?"

"O...okay," you pant as his tongue found your hardened nipple.

He asks again. "Are you going to touch me if I let go?"

"N- shit!" Steve presses himself into you, his cock, still hidden under his underwear, grazing your thigh. "No," you breathe out shakily.

"No, what?" He pushes.

"No... Steve."

Steve let's go your wrists, wedging his knee between your thighs so he can sturdy himself. He hovers you, his mouth still sucking on the flesh of your breasts, both hands fondling them with such delicate care.

The tension in his shoulders doesn’t disappear; it rearranges itself, settling into something solid and grounded. When he lifts his head, placing another rough kiss on your mouth, the light catches his face just right, and it knocks the breath from your lungs in a way that has nothing to do with desire alone.

Steve Harrington has always been beautiful. That’s never been in question. But like this, when he's focused, unyielding, deliberate, it’s different.

His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes in soft waves that make him look younger than he is, gentler than the edge in his voice suggests. His lashes are dark and thick, casting shadows against his cheeks when he looks down at you, and his mouth, usually quick with a grin, a joke, a deflection, is set firm now. Determined. Certain.

There’s care in it.

That’s what hits you hardest.

Not the strength. Not the authority. But the way his hands, even when they’re holding you still, are careful. Like he knows exactly how much pressure to use. Like he’s paying attention to every breath you take, every shift of your body beneath him.

Steve plants wet smacking kisses down past your naval, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. But before he takes them off, he burrows his face right in the center of your clothed cunt. He takes a deep inahle, his mouth sucking the pool of wetness that drenches the soft cotton.

You buck your hips, trying to grind your pussy into his face, but he smacks the plush of your thigh. He shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. That's not how it works."

Then he tears the delicate fabric down your legs, immediately spreading your legs wide. "You know, you never have to be mean to me to get my attention, sweetheart. It's like you were wanting to pick a fight so I'd do this."

Steve sucks his teeth. "I mean, how long were you aching for me to fuck you?"

You try to squeeze your thighs, to relieve the pressure of your swollen clit. Steve is quick to push them back, making you whine. "Honey, that was a question."

"All day," you admit. "Been thinking about you all day since I saw you making coffee shirtless this morning."

Your eyes dance over his bare chest.

His chest is broad and solid, not sculpted to perfection but real, warm, lived-in. A dusting of dark hair spreads across his skin, thicker at the center, trailing downward in a way that makes your breath catch. It’s soft-looking, not rough—something meant to be pressed into, not admired from a distance.

Your gaze follows the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

There’s a plushness to him that you love, a softness that doesn’t take away from his strength but deepens it. The faint curve of his stomach, your favorite part, the part you always reach for without thinking, moves when he exhales, warm and inviting. It’s the kind of body that feels safe. Like it could hold you there indefinitely, like nothing sharp or cruel could exist while you’re tucked against it.

Steve finally rids of his boxers, his thick swollen cock slapping his stomach. It's dripping of pre-cum, and everytime it makes you wonder how the hell he hasn't killed you with it yet. How the hell it even manages to fit.

You think your misery is over, that he's finally going to fuck you.

"Get up." He says.

You listen, scrambling to your knees, mouth ready to take him, but you frown when he crawls back on the bed, then flops on his back. You don't have time to ask before he's pulling you on top of his chest, your bare dripping pussy dragging over the coarse hairs as he pulls you closer and closer.

"You're going to sit on my face, okay?" He says.

You've only sat on his face one time before, and he had to beg you to do it then. You were always scared it was too much, that you'd suffocate him. There was no begging this time. It was an order.

You gulp, nodding, then remembering. "Yes, Steve."

He smiles, kissing the inside of your thigh, before hoisting you over his face. His hot breath fans your pussy, the warmth sticking to your wetness, before he slams you down.

An immediate, husky groan vibrates through you as he puts his tongue to work against your clit. His fingernails dig in your thighs, pushing himself further into you. You try to grind yourself against his mouth but he holds you tighter, preventing you from any form of friction.

You feel your body weakening, hands against the wall, crying out in pleasure. You wish you could grip his hair, but you knew he would swat your hand away. You find the courage to look down, meeting his gaze.

And his eyes—

God.

They’re darker like this. Not the sharp rich hazel that watches doors and windows and exits, not the one always counting threats.

These are heavy-lidded, unfocused at the edges, glossy with drink and heat and something dangerously close to trust. They follow you when you move, slow and intent, like he’s trying to memorize the way you look hovering over him.

There’s no fight in them right now.

Just want. Just openness.

His lashes flutter when you shift, breath hitching softly in his chest, and for a moment he looks almost dazed, like the world has narrowed down to this exact angle. His tongue quickens slightly, you feel his lips curved with the ghost of a smile he hasn’t realized he’s wearing.

He palms your ass, pulling and tugging at the flesh that's sure to leave a mark as soon as he starts lightly smacking it. You bite your lip, listening to his throaty moans, mixed with the soft cracks of his palm against your ass, mixed with the way you're high-pitched moans release from your mouth. It's mixed with schlick sounds of him licking, slurping, and ocassionally teeth grazing your clit. It's mixed with the creak of the mattress underneath you two.

His tongue has not entered inside you once, but he still manages to pull an orgasm out of you.

"Steve oh my god, Steve." You shout. You shake. You burn from the heat pouring out of you.

But Steve doesn't stop, he's still licking and sucking. He' shifts you barely, so that this time his tongue can enter your aching pussy. He's swilling your sweet finish, tongue swiping your walls.

"Baby, I... I can't..." you plead, feeling him ask for more, rocking your hips over his mouth, his nose pressing on your clit, the added pressure making you gasp.

Steve moves you so he can speak. "Yes you can, baby. I know how desperate you are to be fucked today. You can give me another. Can't you? That's a question."

"No... Steve... holy fuck." Tears prickle your eyes from his mouth sucking your clit again.

It's the quick flicks of his tongue and him rocking you against him that makes you spill out another shaky wanton moan. Your head bows forward, eyes narrowed as he looks up at you. This time he doesn't revel your undoing, instead he tosses you on your back, rolling on top of you.

His lips are swollen and wet. The proof of your orgasm dribbles his chin.

His mouth greedily finds yours. "I'm gonna fuck you now, okay?" he pants, snaking between you two, gripping himself, pumping to get ready to slip inside you.

You bat your eyes, biting your lip. You aren't sure if you can take it, your insides are jelly, and your pussy is sore. "Okay," you whisper, despite yourself.

As Steve lines himself up to enter, you speak again. "Stevie, I'm sorry for what I said."

Then, you do what you've wanted to do this entire time, your palms falls on his chest, and wanders down to his stomach, fingers ghosting the freckles, flesh, and hair. Your hand splays on the pudge, scratching it gently, tugging the thatch of dark fleece.

Steve's eyes are wide, and he whimpers, "Fuck... baby... no I told you not to touch me... shit." A ruined sound comes out the back of his throat.

You watch in satisfaction as his cock pulses and twitches in his hand. He quickly puts the tip in, one long thrust, and his own acute moan breaks free before he's pulling it back out, thick ropes falling on your bare stomach. It's warm and slick against you.

His shoulders are slouched, chest heaving, collecting himself before his eyes catches yours. He swallows, throat working, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before finding your gaze again, softer now. Almost shy.

One of his hands lifts, hesitating then settles at your waist like he’s reminding himself he’s allowed to touch. "I take care of you when you mouth off, and now I'll have to take care of you because you don't listen."

You tilt your head, knowingly, eyes flashing daringly. "Oh no. I'm so scared."

Because if it were real, then… that would be something.

And you don’t do “something.” You don’t like “something.”

Because “something” has weight. Teeth. Expectations.

And Steve? Well.

Steve is—

He’s lonely.

That’s what this is.

No, seriously. That’s the whole thing.

You didn’t clock it at first. Thought maybe he was just hot and bored. Smooth in that lazy, practiced way that makes everything feel like a dare. He flirts like he’s handing out candy. Smiles like it’s a reflex.  

But it’s not boredom.

Steve Harrington is lonely.

The kind of lonely that clings to skin like summer sweat.

The kind that seeps in slow—after years of being everybody’s something and then, suddenly, nobody’s anything.

The kind that turns touch into a transaction. That turns you into a distraction.

He speaks in half-jokes and full smiles. Loose shoulders, quick grins. Charm so polished it starts to sound like an echo—hollow, if you know what to listen for.

But when he touches you—god, when he touches you—

It’s like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s scared he won’t get another chance.

And somehow, that’s what keeps bringing you back.

Not the sex. Though—yeah, okay. The sex is good. Annoyingly good.

The kind that makes you forget your name. That has you laughing one second and gasping the next. The kind where he holds your hand through it and whispers ridiculous, tender shit into your neck. Nonsense, really. Things no one should find hot, and yet… you do.

But that’s not why you stay.

It’s not the sex.

It’s what happens after.

It’s the way he presses a hand to your lower back when you shift beneath the covers, like he’s making sure you’re still there. It’s the way he gets up first, hair a mess, pulling on flannel pajama pants that hang low on his hips while he makes you scrambled eggs.  

Burnt edges. Drenched in pepper.

You wrinkle your nose and grumble about having breakfast at 2 PM.  

He slides the plate toward you with a smug little, “You’ll eat what I give you and you'll like it.”

You always grin.

“You’re lucky I’m easy,” you tell him, mouth full.

He shrugs, sips his coffee (three sugars, no shame), and says, “Yeah. I am.”

You think that’s a joke. Maybe. Hopefully.

You don’t ask.

You don’t ask a lot of things.

Like why he waits to kiss you until your hands are under his shirt. Or why he pulls you in like he wants to keep you there, and then lets you go as soon as the sun comes up. Why his eyes go distant when he thinks you’re not looking.

You tell yourself he just needs the connection. That you’re just a body. A placeholder. A habit.

But he gets so quiet sometimes. After.

That strange, suspended kind of quiet, when the sweat’s dried and the room’s gone still. When his arm is still slung over your waist and his gaze is locked on the ceiling like it's got answers he doesn’t.

Not asleep. Never asleep.

Just still.   

Like he’s bracing for impact.

Once—just once—you asked, “You good?”

And he said, “Yeah.”

But he said it in that voice. The soft one. The one he uses when he’s lying.

You could’ve pressed. But you didn’t.

Because this isn’t a real thing.

It’s just comfort.

Borrowed heat. Mutual use. Skin and breath and the occasional earth-shattering orgasm.

That’s it.

Until one night, he says something.

And it changes everything.

…

Steve Harrington is a leaner.

You noticed that before anything ever happened between you.

Before the late nights. Before toothbrushes and t-shirts that weren’t yours. Back when he was just a name, a familiar face at parties with warm drinks and bad music. The guy with the hair and the reputation.

One night, you ended up on the same couch.

By accident. Well, mostly.

You’d had one too many drinks and slumped into the cushions like your bones had melted. Someone handed you a bottle of water and asked, “You okay?”

That someone was Steve.

He didn’t say much else. Just sat next to you, a respectful distance away, not even close enough for your knees to brush.

You said something dumb. He laughed. Asked a follow-up question.

And that’s when you noticed it.

The lean.

Steve Harrington leans like it’s instinct. Like gravity doesn’t pull him down, it pulls him toward. Like his body craves closeness and he never learned how to resist it.  

But then when your hand brushed his thigh while reaching for a bowl of chips—

He froze.

Just for a second. A flicker. A sharp inhale. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of thing.

But you didn’t miss it.

You noticed.   

…

It started stupid. You tell yourself that a lot.

Especially when you’re staring at yourself in his bathroom, brushing your teeth with the toothbrush he bought you, trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing.

It was stupid. An accident, really.

He called one night. Said, "I can’t sleep."

You said, "That sucks."

Then: "Can I come over?"

And: "Sure."

Just sex. That was the deal. No strings, no expectations.

There were rules, in the beginning.

No cuddling. No staying over.

No kissing unless clothes were already off.

That one lasted exactly one round.

Because on the second night, he kissed you first. Before either of you had taken off a single layer. Like kissing was the point, not the sex.

And afterward? He held you. Just an arm across your waist, skin warm, breath steady. Like you were his favorite teddy bear. Or a security blanket that talks back.

And he didn’t ask you to stay, but when you fell asleep there, he was already awake by the time you opened your eyes. Lying there. Watching you.

Like he hadn’t slept at all.

It was fine. Totally fine.

“Just friends,” you’d said.

And he nodded. “Yeah. Totally.”

But his fingers were laced through yours when he said it.   

…

Sometimes he says things you don’t know how to hear.

Like that weekend after finals. Both of you a little drunk. Loose-limbed and grinning for no reason. Buzzed on cheap beer and end-of-term freedom, on the promise of summer stretching out like a dare. You were parked outside your place, engine off, windows fogging in the humidity. Music low, the kind of old-school ballad Steve pretends to hate but knows every word to.

You kissed him over the console of his Beemer. Messy, open-mouthed, like the world was ending and tongues were currency—a last-ditch effort to spend everything before it was too late. He laughed into your mouth, and you felt it everywhere.

Then, soft and slurred:

“Missed you this week.”

You smiled. Didn’t answer.

He kissed your neck like he could hide into it.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Didn’t ask if he meant your mouth or your body or just the convenience of you.

You just climbed into his lap.

Straddled him.

Ground down on him like you were trying to forget how soft he’d sounded. How scared.

And he let you.

Because Steve Harrington always lets you.

…

Tonight, it’s raining.

You show up at his door soaked to the bone, hoodie dripping, pajama pants clinging to your legs. There’s water in your eyelashes, in your socks, probably in your dignity.

Steve opens the door like he’s been waiting. Like he knew.

“Jesus, get in here,” he mutters, tugging you inside by the wrist. “You’re soaked.”

He peels off your jacket, pushes your hood down. His knuckles brush your cheek.  

His hands feel warm. Or maybe cold. You can’t tell anymore with him.

…

He makes soup.

Chicken noodle, way too much pepper.

You sit on the counter in dry clothes that smell like him while he stirs in silence; barefoot, bedhead, wearing sleep pants and an old Hawkins basketball tee with a hole in the collar.   

He hands you the bowl and watches you blow on the steam.

Then he puts on a movie neither of you ends up watching.

He sits close, arms touching from shoulder to elbow.

It’s nothing.

Except, with Steve, nothing always feels like everything.

Because he doesn’t move away.

He leans.

…

Touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Steve Harrington is affection-starved. Love-starved. He’s been handing his heart out to people for years and getting scraps in return.

He was the king of a kingdom that left him stranded in his own tower.

Now, he wields proximity like armor. Like glue. Stick close, so maybe they won’t leave.

You sit next to him, he leans. You stand near him, his fingers brush yours. You yawn, and suddenly he’s cradling your head, smoothing your hair like you’re going through something traumatic.

You’re not.

You’re yawning.

And it would be funny, if it wasn’t all so completely, irreparably fucked.

…

The rain's louder now.

Not quite a storm, but loud enough that it fills the room with its own kind of hush. Soft and constant, like white noise between thoughts.

Steve leans back against the couch, head tilted, throat exposed. The light from the TV paints him in soft blues and grays.

You look at him too long. Then say, quietly:

“You don’t let people touch you much.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I mean, you do,” you say, glancing at his hands. “But not really.”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Okay, detective. What’s that mean?”

You shift, pulling your knees up.  

“It means…” you pause. “That you act like it’s natural. Like touching’s easy for you. But it’s not.”

His eyes drift away. His throat bobs.

Then, a low chuckle. Pained and impressed in the same breath. “Jesus. You should be a therapist or something.”

“So I’m right?”

He goes quiet for a bit. Just tugs the blanket higher over your knees.

“People think I’m good at it,” he says eventually. “Being… I don’t know, flirty.”

“You are,” you say, like it's a fact. And it is.

He laughs, soft and empty. “Yeah. Well. I’ve had a lot of practice.” 

He starts picking at a loose thread. Doesn’t look at you.

“But that’s all it is. Practice. I think… I think I just got good at pretending.”

A pause.

“My parents weren’t really... around. You know? And when they were, it was all rules. Appearances. Be polite. Be perfect. Don’t embarrass the family.”  

You stare at your lap. “That sucks.”

He stiffens a little. “I’m not saying it for pity.”

“I know,” you bump your knee against his. “And don’t worry, you’re not getting any.”

He snorts, soft and real.

But then his hand stirs in his lap, tightening around the blanket, white-knuckled. It’s subtle. A detail most people wouldn’t notice.

But you do.

You always notice.

So you reach out. Slip your fingers between his like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Laced together, palm to palm, thumb brushing over the tense tendons in his wrist.

He freezes. Just for a second.

Then his hand twitches. Loosens. Curls back around yours.

He holds on.

…  

Steve Harrington has always been golden.

Golden boy. Golden skin. Golden smile. The kind of person who walks into a room and soaks up all the oxygen without even trying. The kind people fall for in flashes, bright and fast and dizzying.

They love parts of him. The hair, the grin, the effortless charm. The storybook confidence that makes everyone else fade to grayscale. But if they looked closer—and most don’t—they might notice a flicker of something else. Something dimmer. Something tired.

You notice.

You always notice.

You see the way his smile stutters, the half-second where it slips before he wrestles it back into place. The way he shrugs off compliments like they sting. Laughs off praise like it doesn't fester in his chest long after it’s said. Like he doesn’t believe a word of it, even when it’s true.

He’s used to it, you think. Being loved for the surface. Wanted for being golden.

Never seen for what’s underneath.

But that’s not the Steve you want.

You want this Steve—sleepy-eyed, soft-voiced, weirdly-good-at-playing-with-your-hair Steve.

The one in faded sweatpants and mismatched socks, slurping soup too loudly and pretending your knee against his isn’t the most intimate thing that’s happened to him all week. 

The one who sings along to bad radio ballads in the car and gets quiet when you ask him about childhood birthdays. The one who never learned how to ask for love—only how to give too much of it away.

You want the mess. The ache. The scared little boy behind the golden grin.

You want to know what song he hums when he’s doing his laundry. What memory makes him smile when no one’s watching.  

The parts of him that aren’t polished, the cracks that run through the gold. The ones he tucks away because he's convinced no one could ever love them.

You want the parts he hides.

…

You don’t remember how your shirt came off.

One minute you were doubled over laughing—some dumb line from the movie, something even dumber from Steve—and then he’s just there.

Mouth hot on your neck. Hands everywhere. Greedy and reverent in the same stroke, in the way only Steve Harrington can be.

He kisses down your throat, mumbling something against your skin. Something that sounds like, “You’re so beautiful,” voice so full it cracks a little.

Your fingers sink into his hair.

“Steve,” you breathe. “You’re shaking.”  

He lifts his head. Eyes wide and round and glassy.

“I just…” He swallows. “Wanna make you feel good. Let me?”

You nod, throat tight.

You’d let him do anything.

…

He eats you out like he missed you.

Like this is the only way he knows how to say it.

You’re sprawled across his couch, thighs over his shoulders, his arms hooked under your hips. Holding you open as he devours you. Sloppy, desperate, like he missed this, missed you, even though you were here just two nights ago. He groans into you like this is worship, and maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice wrecked. “You taste so good. So wet for me.”

Your fingers twist harder in his hair. He moans at that too; loves it when you tug him closer.

"Steve—"

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles, mouth full. “I got you.”

You arch into him, thighs clamped tight around his head.

“I—fuck, I’m gonna—"  

He groans like he’s the one coming. Eats you through it, grinding his hips into the carpet, riding it out with you. Stays through the twitching and the aftershocks, still licking, like he can’t bear to stop, can’t bear to let you go.

And even when you’re spent, legs trembling, chest heaving, he doesn’t move away.

Kisses your thighs. Your stomach. Your breasts.

Soft, wet little marks. Greedy, but not in the way that takes. In the way that keeps.

You breathe through the haze, arm flung over your eyes because it stings too much sometimes, looking at him.

“You wanna fuck me now?”

…

He fucks you like a confession.  

Slow. Deep. Forehead to forehead. Breathing into your mouth. Nose bumping with each stroke, his breath hitching every time you moan.

Like he’s making love, even though that’s not what this is.

The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of skin on skin, and the soft hush of your name as he passes it from his lips over to yours.

“So good,” he breathes. “So fucking perfect.”

You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, pull him closer.

“I think about you all the time,” he whispers, hips rolling into you. “All the time. Can't—can’t stop.”

You tense, just slightly. Barely a hitch in your breath.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and just barrels forward anyway, words spilling faster than he can catch them. He’s shaking again.

“Can’t get you out of my head. Fuck, you’re all I think about, I—”

And then—

He says it.

The thing.

The one thing you can’t undo.  

“I love you.”

…

Everything stills.

Steve stills. You still. 

He pulls back, blinking fast. Searching your face, fingers twitching against your waist.

You can’t breathe. 

“Steve…”

You say it like it hurts. Like it’s an apology. Like you didn’t mean to hear it, and he didn’t mean to say it.

He sees it, whatever’s written on your face. Sees it and folds in on himself.

His mouth twists, words souring on his tongue.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—”

You kiss him before he can finish.

Messy. Desperate. Mouth open, teeth clashing. Like you’re trying to shove the words back down his throat. Like if you just kiss him hard enough, they’ll sink back into him and never make it out.

He kisses you back, fast and clumsy. Picks up his pace again, thrusts turning erratic, rhythm gone. He comes like that—hands gripping too tight, teeth in your shoulder, breathing like he’s drowning.

He doesn’t say it again.  

Not out loud.

…

You told him once, weeks ago—maybe during the eighth or ninth time, when things were still light enough to float. You were lying in his bed, naked on blue linen, post-coital and quiet. You were staring at the ceiling. He was tracing circles on your arm.

“I’ve never said it,” you murmured.

He turned, frowning. “What do you mean, never?”

“Like… out loud. To anyone.”

“Not even to, like, a boyfriend?”

You snorted. Gave him a look. He just frowned deeper.

“I mean, it’s just words, right?” you shrugged. “Doesn’t really mean shit. Not unless you show it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded, like he was filing it away.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess.”   

…

The scariest part isn’t that he said it.

It’s how little changes after.

He pulls out. Kisses your forehead. Disappears for a towel, water, wipes, the whole post-sex routine. He wraps you in a blanket, like always.

He sits on the edge of the couch, shirtless and quiet. Still catching his breath.

But he won’t look at you.

You’re staring at the ceiling now. Body still buzzing, your mind a blur. Your chest feels raw, like you’ve swallowed glass and it’s still cutting on the way down.

Finally, you speak.

“You’re an idiot.”

His head turns, brows knit. “What?”

You sit up a little. “You’re an idiot. You can’t just say that mid-fuck and expect me not to spiral.”

He laughs, caught off guard. It’s soft. A little broken.

“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… came out.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

He starts fidgeting with the blanket again.

“I can take it back, if you want.”

You pause.  

A long, slow beat.

Then you shake your head.

“No. Don’t.”

…

He’s sitting on the bed when you come out of the shower.

Hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, a line of steam following you out the bathroom. You’re toweling off the ends of your hair, not really expecting conversation. He’s quiet—bent forward, elbows on his knees, bare foot tapping a slow rhythm into the floorboards.  

Then, without looking up, he says:

“Do you want to stay over?”

You almost drop the towel. Frozen mid-motion, terrycloth bunched in your hands.

It’s not the first time he’s asked that. Not really.

There was one night, early on, when you came over to his place, still a little nervous about the whole thing. He’d made you come three times, then followed you out of bed, shirtless and flushed, and said:

“You could, uh… stay. If you want. It’s late. I don’t—sleep great. And I just…” He’d swallowed it. “Forget it. Never mind.”  

You’d made it exactly two steps before turning around.  

But that was then.

Now, five months in, you’ve never needed the words. Your toothbrush is in his medicine cabinet. Your hoodie is slung over the back of his desk chair. You spend most nights here anyway—falling asleep during half-watched movies and waking up tangled in limbs you no longer bother to count.

So the fact that he asks—now, of all nights—makes you pause.

“Sure,” You say quietly, then walk past him to grab the lotion off his nightstand like it's nothing.  

He doesn’t smile, not really. But his shoulders soften. His eyes go from holding tension to holding you.

He looks tired. Relieved in a way that makes your chest ache.

You slip under the covers, the way you always do. He follows. And for a beat, everything feels normal. Familiar. Easy.

He’s warm. He always is.

Your body knows the choreography—roll away, let him pull you in, slot your legs together until he’s all but spooning you. But tonight, for reasons you can’t name, you end up facing him instead. On your side. Eyes open. Nose to nose.

Close enough to feel the soft rise of his chest. To smell his shampoo. The expensive one you always make fun of, the one you pretend not to use.

Close enough to catch the exhale when he speaks.

“Can I—?” he stops.

You wait.

He licks his lips, gaze darting down to the space between you.

“Can I hold your hand?”

Your stomach drops, fluttering like a trapped bird.

Because what kind of person asks to hold your hand after they’ve had their hands everywhere else?

And why does that make you feel more vulnerable than anything he’s ever done?

You say, “Sure,” because you don’t know what else to say.

And then you do it. You reach out, he meets you halfway—fingers slotting between yours like they were made to be there.

His thumb skates slowly over your knuckles. His hand is warm, a little rough in places. Callused in a way that reminds you he’s probably fought for things—for people—before. Real things. Hard things. Love-shaped things.

Eventually, he shifts closer. Not pulling you into him. Just… aligning. Until your knees touch. Until your breaths sync.

He’s so close you can count the gold flecks in his eyes. 

Then, quietly:

“I meant it. What I said.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because something in your chest lurches and twists and stretches like it’s never been moved before. Like it’s being made into something new. 

“I know,” you say eventually, voice soft as worn cotton.

He swallows. Starts again, then stops. There’s a crack in his voice when he says:

“You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s not fair. That I said it like that. I just—” He looks down. Shrinks in on himself a little. “I couldn’t not.”

You reach out before he can spiral. Fingers to his jaw, steady and slow.

He flinches instinctively, then stills beneath your touch.

And god, he looks so young like this. Eyes glassy. Lips bitten raw. Desperate crease between his brows like he’s bracing for impact.

“Steve,” you whisper, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I’m not mad.”

He searches your face like it might change mid-sentence.

“I just… I need time. That’s all.”

He nods. Once. Then again.

“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like breathing for the first time in days. “Okay.”

He squeezes your hand, like a question.

You squeeze back, like an answer.

…

You don’t plan it.

There’s no perfect moment. No grand confession. No string quartet swelling in the background, or a slow-motion kiss in the rain.

There’s just a Tuesday.

Or maybe a Wednesday.

One of those in-between days that doesn’t really exist. Gray sky. Light drizzle. Everything muted and quiet, just a little smudged around the edges.

When you open your door, Steve’s already there.

Curled into the corner of your couch in fuzzy socks, eating dry cereal out of the box and watching a rerun of something he’s already seen three times. His hair’s damp. Probably showered at your place again because its closer to the gym, or maybe he just likes your shampoo better than his.

You don’t even ask anymore.

He grins when he sees you. Tosses a Cheerio in his mouth and says, “How was hell?”

You toe off your shoes and shrug. “Corporate’s an absolute dream. Only cried twice in the break room today.”

He opens his arms without a word. “C’mere.”

You go.

He pulls you in without pretense, folding you into his chest like he’s been waiting all day just to do it. You melt into it, cheek pressed to his collarbone. He smells like your body wash. It does something to your ribs. Cracks them open. Lets the light in.

You sit like that for a while. Not talking. Not needing to.

Eventually, he gently nudges you off him.

“I’m making tea,” he says. “Don’t move.”

You do, of course. You follow him.

He's humming something tuneless, drumming his fingers on the counter while the kettle boils. And when it whistles, he moves automatically, like he’s done it a hundred times. Two mugs. Two tea bags. Your chipped dinosaur mug and his plain blue one. He insists it’s “just a mug” even though he always reaches for it first.

He doesn’t have to ask. He knows. Honey in both. Lemon in yours. He moves with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. From caring.

He hands it to you without looking. You take it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic bleeding into your palms.

And for some reason, that’s what does it.

Not the cuddling. Not the hand-holding. Not the sex, or the sleepovers, or the toothbrush he bought without asking

Just—this.

This moment. This man. This stupid kitchen and this cup of tea made exactly how you like it.

It hits you like a low tide: gentle, inevitable, impossible to ignore.

You’re still holding the mug when you say it. Still standing in the half-lit kitchen in your sad little apartment with the flickering stove light and the perpetually leaking faucet and the love of your life stirring a teabag like it’s the most serious task in the universe.

Soft. Barely above the whistle of the kettle.

“I love you.”

His spoon stops mid-stir.

He doesn’t move for a second. Doesn’t look up.

You think maybe he didn’t hear you. Maybe you should repeat it. Louder. Clearer.

But then—he smiles. 

Not the charming one. Not the grin he uses when for baristas or strangers or people who don’t know any better.

This one’s smaller. Like it snuck up on him.

He sets the spoon down carefully.

“Yeah?” he asks, still not turning around.

You nod.  

Then, braver: “Yeah.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in his lungs since February.

And without looking at you—like looking might make it collapse—he just says:

“Okay.”

Then, a beat later, with a kind of awe:

“I love you too.”

You step closer. Lean your head against his back, arms circling his waist just to feel him. He goes still under your touch, the way he does when something matters a little too much.

Then he relaxes. Covers your hands with his. Holds you there.

And the thing is, nothing else changes.

You still drink your tea. Still argue over who gets the remote. Still end up half-asleep on the couch with pretzel crumbs all over the upholstery and Steve mumbling nonsense into your shoulder.

But later, when he takes you to bed, he says it again.

Not in the heat of it. Not as a plea. Just a soft, quiet:

“I love you.”

You don’t panic.

You don’t question it.

You just say it back. Steadier, this time.

“I love you.”

He grins against your mouth. “About time.”

You roll your eyes.

He kisses your nose.

…

“I just—I’m sorry, but I really think this one tastes the same as the other one.”

Steve’s in an argument with the beekeeper lady at the farmer’s market. About honey.

She gasps like he’s insulted her bloodline, then launches into a spiel about how wildflower honey tastes completely different from clover honey—something about the blossoms and the weather and the bees' mood.

You, standing ten feet away with an armful of Honeycrisps, don’t even try to save him. You just lean against a crate of pumpkins and watch the disaster unfold.  

This is your Saturday now.

Groceries and small-town drama. Coffee stops and joint laundry loads and dumb little errands that somehow feel like sacred rituals because he’s there.

He jogs back to you a minute later, holding a jar of orange blossom honey.

He's grinning like an idiot. “She loved me.”

“She called you ‘boy.’”

“Exactly. Affectionate.”

You bump his hip. “You’re a menace.”

“And you love that about me.”

You glance at him, lips twitching.

You do.

You really do.

…

It’s been eight months.

Eight months of toothbrushes side-by-side. Of his socks in your drawer and your hair ties in his bathroom.

Of grocery lists that say things like “Steve’s weird granola” and “that cinnamon roll candle" you've been dying to try.

Of falling asleep on the couch and waking up in bed because he carried you. Of him saying “morning, baby" in that morning-after voice then smirking when yours is too hoarse to respond.

Of fights that don’t break things, just bend them. Of learning how to disagree without flinching. How to apologize without pride.

Of knowing it’s safe now. Not perfect, not painless, but safe.

…

One night, he’s reading beside you in bed.

Trying to, at least.

The book’s open in his lap, but he’s clearly dozing off mid-paragraph. Lips parted, breath steady.

You’re on your side, just watching him.

You don’t let yourself stare too often, but he’s so soft like this. Soft in a way he only is at home. With you.

There’s a scar on his collarbone you’ve never asked about.

You probably could. He’d tell you.

You think you will, someday.

But right now, you're happy just tracing it with your fingertip. He stirs, nuzzling your shoulder like he’s chasing warmth in his sleep.

And then, half-conscious, he murmurs:

“You’re it for me.”

You go still. Heart in your throat.

And then—just as simply, just as truthfully—you say:

“You are too.”

He hums at that. Smiles against your skin.

Wraps an arm around your waist and lets the world fade out.

…

In the morning, you’ll make him coffee the way he likes it: three sugars, no cream, no shame.

He’ll kiss your shoulder while you pour it, thank you with a sleepy voice and wandering hands.

You’ll sit on the couch, eat burnt toast, and laugh at some dumb segment on the morning news.

He’ll offer to fix your car. Again.

You’ll roll your eyes and say no. Again.

He’ll grin.

He'll drive you to work.

And just like that, the day will begin.  

Like it did today.

Like it will tomorrow.

Like it will every day after.

a/n: when I tell you I took a super long nap yesterday and then stayed awake the whole night... this is what came crawling out of my brain at 4 am... wrote this in like 3 hrs so i'm sorry if this is all over the place 🥲

i always love hearing your thoughts abt my silly little stories! feel free to reblog/comment/come find me in my inbox :)

update: this fic sort of has a sequel now! from steve's pov this time :)))

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.

Until the knocking starts.

Correction: pounding.

Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.

You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.

But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.

Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s brought a car with her.

A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.

Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.

A boy.

Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t know him. Not really.

Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.

But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.

Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.

Poof. King Steve: dethroned.

Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.

You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.

You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.

He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)

But now, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … Up close, he looks worse.

Biblically bad.

Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.

His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

You glance down at Steve.

His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.

You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.

And something inside you goes still. 

These are... bite marks.

Not scrapes. Not scratches.

Bites.

His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.

Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.

You turn back to Steve.

His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.

You kind of hate him for it.

Because you know this type.

Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.

You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.

Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … It takes two hours.

Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.

It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.

Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.

Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.

You stiffen. Then sigh.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.

You stay on the couch next to Steve.

Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.

You stay up.

Because someone has to. … It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.

Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly. 

Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.

But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” you whisper.

No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.

Your throat tightens.

You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.

His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.

You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.

Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.

You pour three cups anyway.

Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.

Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.

Gives his face a little shake.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.

Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.

It hurts worse looking at him.

Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.

You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.

You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.

And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” you warn.

He ignores that.

Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.

Then: flip.

One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.

You blink at it, betrayed.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

And fuck, it lands.

It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.

You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.

And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.

He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?

You raise your brows like, Try me.

You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.

You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.

In your head, you run through the math.

Ten days. Minimum.

Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.

God help you. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.

Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.

Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.

When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.

You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.   

He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.

The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.

Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—

Jesus.

He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.

You get the hoodie off.

His chest is bare.

And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.

You both freeze.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”

He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.

You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re a sadist.

That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.

But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.

You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.

But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.

Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.

You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.

Something twists low in your stomach.

You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.

Your gaze follows it.

The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.

You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.

Instead, you say:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.

But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.

Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.

One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s a long pause.

Then he does.

His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.

The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead. 

It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.

Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.

And that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.

Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.

No, he goes rigid.

His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.

And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.

A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.

You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.

His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.

Then, he leans.

Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.

Like a plant bending toward light.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.

And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.  

You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.

But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.

You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.

And then a quiet thought hits you.   

A hunch, really.

You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.

You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.

Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.

But you don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.

He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.

And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.

At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.

That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.

It wants to lean in.

Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.

Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.

To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re losing it.

You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.

And beneath that?

Yeah.

Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.

You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.

His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.

His eyes flutter open.

And the look he gives you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.

His eyes are still on you.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.

You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

He nods, a little too slow.

You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.

Then you turn.

And you walk out.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

Not with thunder. Not with rain.

With pressure.

The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.

Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.

The moment before it tips. 

It’s here now. In this room.

In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.

The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.

The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.

His voice breaks the quiet.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.

You can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.

You meet him halfway.

His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.

And then your lips meet.

A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.  

Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.

You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.

His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.

Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.

Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.

You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

But you know.

You just… know.

The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.

So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.

Still, you don’t stop. 

You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.

Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.

Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.

You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.

You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.

His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.

You swallow hard.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.

He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.

You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.

He quiets instantly.

Because your hands are on him now.

You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.

Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.

And Steve unravels beautifully.

You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.

Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.

Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.

So you double down.

You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.  

You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.

What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.

You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

And your body breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.

You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.

And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.

And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … You never ask him to stay.

Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … You learn the little things first.

That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.

And sometimes, you catch him staring again.

Only now, you don’t look away.  

You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."

You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.

Then he moves.

Three steps. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

You do.

First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.

Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.  

You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.

He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.

On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.

He’s watching you. Again.   

You glance up. "What?"

He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“Steve.”

“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”

You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”

He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.

“Yeah,” he says.

But it’s not what he means.

You both know that. … The sex changes, too.

In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.

But at night? He’s something else entirely.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.

And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation. 

He knows you now.

Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.

One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.

“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”

You break on his name.

He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.

And afterward, he stays.

Inside you. Around you.

He never pulls away first. … Not all nights are easy.

Some nights, you wake alone.

You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.    

You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.

He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.

When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.

Lets you guide him back to bed. … Your mornings are different now.  

You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.

It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.

The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.

He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.

Like maybe he was meant to be here all along. … Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count. 

Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.

And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t. … Like tonight.

You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.

It would be so easy to stay here.

To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.

But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.

“Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.

“…Do what?”  

“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.

That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.

Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.

You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”

His hand stills.

“I’m not.”  

“Not what?”

“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”

You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.

“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”

He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”

Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?

You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.  

The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.

Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel. 

That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.

Sinks its teeth in. Festers.   

Until guilt turns into remorse,

Remorse turns into habit,

And habit drags on as penance.

So he made himself useful.

Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.

Diving first. Bleeding first.

Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.

That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.

You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.  

“You’re for you, Steve.” 

He blinks, brows knitting.

“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.

Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.

You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You don’t.

You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.   

You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.

You stay up.  

Because someone has to. … You get used to the quiet.

Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.

To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.

To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.

You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.

So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.

Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.

You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.

“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”

Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.

You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”   

You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.

You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”

Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

But his ears are pink by the time you close the door. …

After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.

Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker. 

“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”

Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.

You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.

“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?

You glance over your shoulder.

Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.

You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”

Dustin beams. “Awesome.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:

“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”

The room goes still.

Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.

Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

“No.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”

You blink at him like, Seriously?

He raises his brows like, Try me. 

You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.

He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.

“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”

You frown. “Our what now?”

“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”

You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”

But Steve isn’t laughing.

“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?” … The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.      

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

You wait.

Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.

Fear.

You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”

He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”

“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”

His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”

“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.

But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.  

“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.

“...I just got you.”

The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.

His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”   

He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.

He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”

You smile into his shirt. “Deal.” … It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.

The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.

“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”

You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”  

He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”

“You needed it.”

Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.

He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.

The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.

You let it breathe.  

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist. 

Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.

Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.

That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.

Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.

The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.   

And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.

You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.

He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.

And he’s learning to let you.

You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You hum. “Just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.

You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:

“I was just… thinking about what you said.”

He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”

“At the gate.”

That’s all you have to say. You both remember.

The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.

I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—

You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:

I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.

You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”

“When?”

He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.

“Not out loud. But you did.”

You think back.

To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.

Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.

Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.

Your fingers find his jaw.

“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

And you do.

Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.

And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it. … The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.

But it’s home.

More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.

The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.

Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.

But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.

And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.

It’s just time, now.

Yours.

Together. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.

She meant hearts. You meant bones.

Maybe she was right.  

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

You've named it something else now, anyway. …

epilogue

You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.

You’ve got prep to do for night.

Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.

“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”

You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”

“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”

He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.

“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”

Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.

But for now, it’s just him.

Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light. And the sun keeps pouring in.   

You look nothing like your brother. No sharp edges. No restless violence. Just quiet confidence and something unreadable in your eyes that makes Steve’s pulse kick hard in his throat. You’re leaning back against the counter, drink loose in your hand, eyes tracking the room like you’re aware of exactly who’s watching you.

Including him.

Steve drains the rest of his cup.

“Well,” he says, already stepping away, “it is Christmas.”

By the time he reaches you, he’s smiling like this is a bad joke he fully intends to finish. The easy one. The dangerous one. The version of himself that never learned when to walk away.

“Hey,” he says, stopping close. Too close. Close enough that the heat between you feels deliberate. “Tell me this party’s overwhelming, and I’ll pretend I planned to rescue you.”

Your eyes flick to his mouth before you look back up at him.

Not shy. Not impressed. But definitely interested.

You tilt your head. “And if I say I’m fine?”

Steve’s smile slows. Turns hungry around the edges.

“Then,” he says quietly, “I’ll have to come up with a better excuse to keep talking to you.”

The air between you feels tight. Charged. Like the room just shrank around the two of you.

And just like that, Steve Harrington knows exactly how this is going to go.

It’s a terrible idea. It’s going to get him into trouble.

And he’s already decided he wants you enough not to care.

You don’t smile right away.

You take a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up again, like you’re weighing something.

“That sounds like a you problem,” you say lightly.

Steve huffs a laugh, quick and surprised. He shifts his weight closer without thinking, then stills like he’s just realized how close he is.

“Yeah,” he says. “I get those sometimes.”

The music surges behind you, someone shouting along to the chorus. A body bumps Steve’s shoulder hard enough to jostle him forward.

This time, he doesn’t step back.

He glances over your shoulder, then back at you, jaw tight with decision.

“Come on,” he says, already turning, like he’s assuming you’ll follow. “Let’s get out of the way before one of us spills something.”

“Oh? You’re so sure I’d come?” you ask, mild and curious.

He pauses.

Not long. Just enough to glance back at you properly this time.

“I’m not,” he says. Then, honest and a little rough around the edges, “Just hoping.”

Something in your chest loosens at that.

You step after him. 

He doesn’t grab your hand. Just moves ahead of you through the crowd, close enough that you have to stay near him or lose him. Every so often he glances back, checking. Making sure.

When the front door swings open, cold air rushes in, sharp and clean, and Steve pauses just outside it, finally turning to face you again.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod.“Yeah.”

Steve holds your gaze for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s checking something he already knows the answer to.

“Okay,” he says. “Then—”

He gestures vaguely toward the street, the night, anywhere but back inside.

You don’t ask where.

You just step past him instead, down the front steps, the cold biting through the thin soles of your shoes. He follows close, jacket brushing your arm as he reaches for his keys.

The street is quieter than the party, the air sharp and clean, Christmas lights glowing in windows up and down the block.

Steve’s car is parked crooked at the curb.

He stops short, keys already in his hand before he hesitates, like the thought catches up to him a second too late.

“I shouldn’t drive,” he says, more to himself than you.

You hold your palm out. “I’m sober.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

Then, after a beat that feels heavier than it should, he drops the keys into your hand.

The car unlocks with a soft click.

Steve slides into the passenger seat and immediately looks like he regrets it, one hand braced against the door, the other settling awkwardly in his lap like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it now that he’s not in control.

You start the engine.

The interior warms slowly, the radio murmuring something festive and completely wrong. Steve doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t look at you either.

Streetlights pass in quiet intervals, pale gold flashing across the dashboard. He watches them like he’s anchoring himself to something outside the car.

You’re aware of him anyway. The angle of his knee toward yours. The tension in his shoulders.

The silence stretches—surprisingly not awkward.

“You’re quiet,” you say, eyes still on the road.

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. Trying to behave.”

That makes you glance at him.

“Is that hard for you?”

A breath that almost sounds like a laugh leaves him. “Right now? Yeah.”

Your knee brushes his as you shift.

Barely anything.

Steve stills completely.

At the stop sign, his gaze drops to your hands on the wheel—steady, confident, completely at ease in his space.

“Christ,” he mutters.

You glance over. “What?”

He shakes his head once. “Nothing. Just—keep going.”

You do.

And somewhere between the quiet streets and the hum of the engine, Steve Harrington realises he’s already lost—not because of what might happen next, but because he’s sitting in the passenger seat of his own car, watching you like you’re the most dangerous thing he’s ever willingly let this close.

The car slows as you turn onto his street. One light glows in the front window.

You ease into the driveway. Shift into park.

Neither of you moves.

“This is usually where I say something smart,” he says quietly.

You wait.

He huffs a breath. “Yeah. I’ve got nothing.”

You meet his gaze.

He nods once. “Okay. Then—”

He steps out into the cold, pauses, then looks back at you like he’s giving you one last chance.

You don’t take it.

You follow him up the steps, the door opening into warmth and quiet and the unmistakable sense that whatever happens next was never going to be casual.

The door closes behind you with a soft, final click.

The quiet is immediate. Heavy. Too loud in its own way.

Steve turns like he means to say something—anything—but whatever it is gets stuck somewhere between his chest and his mouth.

You’re standing too close.

Close enough to feel the warmth of him, the lingering cold on his jacket, the way he hasn’t quite decided where to put his hands.

You glance around, suddenly aware of the space. The hallway. The coats. The fact that you’re here.

“Uh,” he starts, then stops. Huffs a breath. “I can—”

You look up at him.

It’s the same look he clocked across the room. Quiet. Curious. Unreadable. Like you’re waiting to see what he’ll do if you don’t give him an out.

Steve swears under his breath.

“Fuck it.”

He moves before he can overthink it—one hand coming up to your face, warm and sure, thumb brushing your jaw like he’s been wanting to do it all night.

He leans in and kisses you, firm and decisive and just a little reckless, like he’s afraid if he hesitates he’ll lose his nerve.

For a split second, it’s awkward. Your noses bump. He pulls back just enough to adjust, breath uneven, and then he’s kissing you again—slower this time, deeper, like he’s finally figured out where he fits.

His other hand finds your waist, anchoring you there. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just holding on.

The tension finally snaps.

And suddenly the quiet doesn’t feel so loud anymore.

You make a small, breathless noise when he presses you back against the wall, coats swinging on their hooks beside you, something between surprise and surrender, and Steve’s grip tightens instantly.

His fingers dig into your hip, his other hand sliding up to tangle in your hair, angling your head just so.

There’s no hesitation now, no second-guessing; he kisses you like he’s memorising the shape of your mouth, like he’s trying to prove something to himself. And when you arch into him, your hands finally finding their way under his jacket to clutch at his shirt, he groans against your lips, ragged and low.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, eyes dark and pupils blown wide. Your lips are parted, your breaths coming fast, and something about the way you’re watching him, like you’re just as wrecked as he is, sends a jolt of possessive heat straight through him. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, rough and unsteady.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, before dragging you into another kiss, this one messier, hungrier.

You gasp when his teeth graze your lower lip, and the sound goes straight to his dick. He’s not gentle. Can’t be, not when you’re melting against him like this, not when every shaky exhale you make only spurs him on.

His hands roam, mapping the dip of your waist, the curve of your ass, and when you whimper, just a soft, broken thing, he feels it like a punch to the gut.

“You,” he starts, voice rough, but the words die when you rock against him, hips rolling in a way that’s unmistakable.

Steve’s thoughts stutter to a halt. You want him. Not just tolerating this, not just going along with it. You’re as far gone as he is. The realisation hits him sharp and sudden, and the air between you tightens. He doesn’t think. Just moves.

His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, biting just hard enough to make you shudder, and when you let out another one of those quiet, desperate sounds, he knows he’s fucking done for.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, not pushing him away, pulling him closer, and that’s all it takes.

He palms the curve of your ass, squeezing tight enough to drag a sharp gasp from you, and then he’s lifting you effortlessly against the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instantly, ankles locking behind him like they were made to fit there.

The friction is immediate, brutal, and for a second, Steve sees stars. “Jesus Christ,” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours like he’s trying to hold onto his sanity. But you don’t let him. You roll your hips again, deliberate and slow, and he chokes on a groan.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers the keys digging into his thigh, the coats swaying dangerously close to knocking over a lamp, but none of it matters.

Not when you’re arching into him like this, all soft curves and sharp edges, mouth parted and eyes half-lidded. Steve mouths at your jaw, breath hot and uneven.

“Bedroom,” he murmurs, half-question, half-demand, but you’re already nodding, already dragging him forward like you can’t bear the thought of breaking contact even for a second. And fuck if that doesn’t undo him completely.

He kisses you again, deep and filthy, and for the first time in years, Steve doesn’t think about what’s right. Doesn’t think about anything at all.

You guide him backward through the hallway, clumsy and laughing when you trip over a misplaced shoe, but his hands never leave your skin. Palming your waist, tracing the dip of your spine, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you.

It’s only when you push him onto the bed that he realises he’s let you take control without a fight. The thought should piss him off. Instead, it makes his pulse jump, watching you climb into his lap with that same shy, hungry look that’s been driving him crazy all night.

His belt buckle clinks as you undo it, fingers surprisingly steady despite the way your breath hitches when he drags his thumbs over your nipples through your shirt.

Steve’s brain short-circuits when you lean down to whisper against his mouth, “Tell me what you want,” because holy shit, you sound wrecked already, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge.

He swallows hard, hands tightening on your hips. “You,” he rasps, and it’s the easiest truth he’s ever told.

The moment you admit you’ve never done this before, murmured against his shoulder when he nips at your pulse point, Steve freezes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the implications to ricochet through him: Billy’s twin, untouched, trusting him.

The protective urge flares hot and sudden, warring with the primal part of him that wants to pin you down and take you apart. But then you roll your hips against his, deliberate and slow, and fuck, desire wins.

He exhales sharply through his nose, hands sliding up to cradle your face. “Look at me,” he orders, voice rough.

When you do, eyes dark, lips swollen, he kisses you like he’s trying to imprint himself on you. Slower now, but deeper, more focused, mapping the way you gasp when he sucks on your tongue, memorising the way your fingers dig into his shoulders when he palms between your legs.

Steve groans when you rock against his hand, soaking through your panties. “Christ,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. He should stop. Should be gentle.

But then you arch into him with a whimper that’s pure sin, and all coherent thought evaporates.

His teeth find your collarbone as he hooks a finger under the lace at your hips. “Gonna make you feel so good,” he vows, not a promise, a threat.

The moment your nails rake down his back, he realises he’s the one being wrecked. You don’t beg. Don’t demand. Just guide his touch with subtle shifts of your hips, your breath hitching when he gets it right, and fuck, Steve’s never been this desperate to please someone in his life.

Your silence is maddening.

He needs to hear you break. Needs it like oxygen. But the more you withhold, the more unraveled he becomes, chasing your quiet gasps like a man starved.

His control slips another notch when you suddenly push him back onto his back. Dark amusement flickers in your eyes as you straddle his thigh, shy but untamed, watching him squirm under your gaze.

Steve’s throat goes dry. He should flip you over, take charge. But the way you grind against him, slow and deliberate, has his hips jerking involuntarily. Control’s never been this fucking sweet.

When you finally speak, just his name, whispered like a prayer, it destroys him. His hands tighten on your waist as his hips buck up involuntarily, ragged and unrestrained.

It settles heavy and unavoidable in his chest — he’d let you ruin him for this. For the way you undo him without even trying. Steve doesn’t care who’s in charge anymore, just as long as it’s you.

His control shatters further when you press his wrists into the mattress, fingers tangled in the sheets. The restraint should piss him off. Instead, it drags a broken moan from his throat, his hips stuttering beneath you.

He’s never been this wrecked, this desperate, not for anyone. But when you lean down to murmur, “Stop thinking,” against his mouth, he can’t fucking breathe.

You rock against him, slow and torturous, until his muscles lock and his fingers claw at the mattress. The tension coils tight, too tight, and then snaps. Steve’s vision whites out as he comes with a choked curse, hips jerking helplessly beneath you.

The aftermath is worse. You’re still riding his thigh, watching him unravel in slow motion, completely undone. And fuck, he can’t even find the words to tell you how bad he’s got it. Not when you look at him like that, like you know exactly what you’ve done.

His breath comes in ragged bursts, his skin tight with embarrassment, but before he can stutter out an apology, your fingers tangle in his hair and drag his mouth back up to yours.

The kiss is filthy, all teeth and tongue, and Steve’s too wrecked to fight it. The damp fabric of his jeans sticks to his skin, uncomfortable and undeniable, but you don’t give him a second to dwell on it.

Your hips grind down against his thigh again, slow and deliberate, and fuck, he can already feel himself stirring again.

Steve groans into your mouth, half-mortified, half-feral. “Jesus Christ,” he rasps, hands sliding up your thighs.

“You’re gonna kill me.” But you just smirk, shy and wicked, and rock against him harder until he’s arching off the bed with a choked gasp.

The realisation lands slow and devastating: you’re not done with him yet. And fuck if that doesn’t send another jolt of heat straight through him.

His fingers dig into your hips as you lean back, stripping off your shirt with a slow, teasing twist that leaves him breathless. The lamplight catches the curve of your waist, the flush creeping down your chest, and Steve’s mouth goes dry.

He should say something smooth, something clever, but all that comes out is a ragged, “Fuck, look at you,” before he’s dragging you down for another kiss, desperate and messy.

You let him flip you this time, but the second his weight settles over you, your nails scrape down his back, sharp enough to make him hiss. Steve freezes, pulse hammering, and when you bite your lip like that, all innocence and sin, he knows he’s screwed.

“You,” he starts, voice wrecked, but you cut him off with a roll of your hips that steals his breath. The sheets are tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and want, and somewhere in the haze, Steve realises he’s never been this gone for anyone.

Your fingers trace the scar on his shoulder, Billy’s doing, though neither of you say it. For a heartbeat, the past flickers between you. But then you drag him down, mouth hot against his ear, and whisper, “Stop thinking,” you reiterate, this time like a command, like a prayer.

Steve shudders, exhales ragged, and suddenly it’s just this. Your thighs bracketing his hips, his hands fumbling with the clasp of your bra, the way you gasp when his thumb brushes your nipple.

The air is thick with the sound of rustling fabric and uneven breaths, and when you finally arch beneath him, skin to skin, he lets out a groan so raw it surprises even him.

The lamp casts shadows across your body, dips and curves he’s only imagined until now, and Steve hesitates, suddenly unsure. But you grab his wrist, press his palm to your chest, and the way your heartbeat thunders under his touch obliterates every thought. 

He kisses you like he’s drowning, hands roaming, mapping every shudder, every hitch in your breath. When you jerk against him, gasping, he doesn’t tease, just watches, mesmerised, as your back bows off the bed, your fingers clutching at his hair.

“Steve,” you choke out, and the way his name fractures on your lips sends a jolt of possessive pride through him. He’s never seen anything more beautiful.

It hits him all at once: he is ruined. Not just tonight. Not just for now. Completely. Irrevocably. And when you drag his mouth back to yours, slow and filthy, he doesn’t fight it.

Lets you taste the truth on his tongue.

Lets you ruin him right back.

Served when you know this isn’t the last time.

You did your best to adjust your expression and be empathetic. “Okay, well that didn’t happen with Sheryl, did it?” He shook his head. “Maybe you’re still stuck on Sheryl.”

He shrugged, letting himself relax a little. “Eh, not really. She was fun, but clingy.”

You sighed, leaning forward like a scientist observing him under a microscope. “Other than like… the finale, was the sex good?”

“Yes! And the date was perfectly fine too.” He sat up straighter, crossing his arms across his chest. He was telling the truth… mostly. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t amazing. It was just… fine. He gave you a half-smile. “Thanks for letting me talk to you about this. Robin would be all weird about it.”

You smiled teasingly. “Oh, Robin would’ve bailed the moment you said the word cum.” You altered your voice into a shockingly accurate impression of your friend. “‘Ew, Steve! I don’t want to hear about the details of hetero sex. I faked mono during sex-ed for a reason.”

“She would’ve agreed about Katie’s tits, though,” Steve insisted. “She’d pretend to be mortified that I’m objecting women or whatever, but she’d agree.”

You laughed and shook your head at his words, and he felt a tiny tug in his chest— some sort of like, stirring, big feeling.

He didn’t get it. The two of you had been friends since Freshman year, when you moved next door to Carol and she dragged you to every hangout, big and small. He always sort of figured that Carol was trying to set you up with him, but neither of you ever made a move.

He wasn’t sure why he felt that uncomfortable ache in his chest when you smiled lately. There had never been any feelings there in all the time he’d known you, right? Sure, he thought you were hot— that’s why he had to give you dating advice all the time—but that was different.

"Maybe you just need to find the right girl, or something,” you said earnestly. “Like… maybe your dream girl is right in front of you, and even if your brain doesn’t know it, your body does.”

You tucked your permed hair behind your ear and it made his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. And he was confused about how such a tiny sensation could feel so overwhelming when he heard the bells above the door ring.

The girl approached the counter with big brown eyes and hair that looked a little fried by bleach and perm solution. He did love curls, though.

“I called this morning,” she said, her voice low and sultry. He liked sultry. “Some guy named Keith set aside Footloose for me? Should be under Rebecca Martin, or Becky, maybe.”

Steve smiled and turned on the charm.

Becky wasn’t the hottest thing to moan during sex, but Steve Harrington wasn’t a quitter. He’d just… avoid names in general.

Steve was a gentleman. They’d gone to dinner a few nights prior, and he’d been polite and kissed her at the front door. It had gone well enough to tell Robin about, which was saying something. He liked her sense of humor, she was sweet, and her perfume was so nice that it was practically addicting.

The second date wasn’t as formal. Movie at his place, stealing his parents’ fancy wine out of the cabinet like a high schooler. It started innocently enough that he wasn’t even sure if he should go any further, keep things cool, really see this one through this time.

But, Jesus Christ, did she have other plans. Pretty, pink manicured nails traced along his thigh, dimpling the fabric of his jeans, which were already tight enough. She played coy— eyes on the movie, a satisfied smirk on her lips as her hand paused just below where he wanted it. He squirmed, just slightly, feeling his dick stir with interest. She batted big doe-eyes at him and furrowed her brows in a very practiced manner.

“Something wrong?” She asked, and he could see the amusement in her gaze as her hand wandered up, cupping the bulge that was swelling in the front of his jeans. She sprung into action after he captured her lips in a hungry kiss, making quick work of the button and zipper so she could wiggle her hand beneath his boxers.

Her hand was deliciously soft, and he liked the soft gasp of surprise that escaped her when she took him into her hand and gave a testing stroke. It was dry, and a little uncomfortable until she spat into her hand and started over. It felt good. She felt good.

“Do you wanna go to your room?” Her words were damp against the column of his throat, no doubt leaving pink stains from her lipstick.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah. I want to.”

——

His cheeks were burning as he watched Becky redress, hurriedly tugging her panties up her legs. Her annoyance and disappointment was blatant in her features, and it made his chest ache with mortification.

“That doesn’t—“ He shook his head. That doesn’t usually happen sounded like a stupid excuse, especially considering that his last hookup had ended similarly. This time had been worse. “I don’t know why that happened.”

She shrugged, shimmying into her denim skirt. “It’s whatever, Steve.”

“No, no I mean it,” he said, trying to fight the frown on his lips, trying to seem at least a little… casual about it all. He’d gone down on her until she came apart right on his tongue, then he took his time to get her stretched out and ready for him until she couldn’t take anymore and begged for him.

He wanted to fuck her, he wanted to feel her around him, warm and tight and pliant, blinking prettily up at him while she moaned and gasped. So why wouldn’t his body let him do it?

What the fuck?

“It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.” As soon as he heard the pity in her voice, he nearly wanted to die. “I’m only in town to visit my aunt anyway.”

“This really never happens to me,” he insisted. The look on her face— the subtle mix of disbelief and scorn— made him feel like he was a bug under her shoe.

He didn’t bother redressing more than just tugging on his boxers as she left, and he was grateful she at least let him walk her to the door after the world’s most disastrous hookup attempt.

He groaned in annoyance as he closed the door behind him, running his hands through his mussed-up hair. He was at the phone before he even realized where he was walking, dialing the number through sheer muscle memory.

“Hello?” Your voice crackled along the line, sounding sleepy. What time was it?

“Hey,” Steve said, leaning against the wall where the phone was mounted. He didn’t need to worry about calling directly from his personal line when his parents weren’t home. Besides, he was sweating, smelled like sex, and there was something comfortable about the cool, empty room downstairs. “Am I bothering you?”

“Nuh-uh,” you hummed, and he heard something shuffle on your side of the phone. “Just painting my nails. What’s up? I thought you were busy with Becky tonight?”

His heart thumped uncomfortably and he wished he hadn’t called. “Yeah, uh, she left.”

“Oh,” you replied, and he could picture the look of soft concern you would be wearing. “You sound disappointed. Did it not go well?”

Steve scratched at his chest, the hair there still a bit tacky with sweat. “Permission to overshare?”

You paused. “Hm…” Another beat. “Uh, I guess so. Why not?”

You were quiet as Steve recounted the experience with you, right down to the horrific realization that he couldn’t stay hard and their night had to be cut short. He waited as soon as he explained Becky's departure, waiting for you to laugh or tease him.

“That’s tough, but it happens, Steve,” you said softly. “Maybe your heart wasn’t in it.”

He groaned again, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I don’t care if my heart was in it. I wanted my dick to be in it.” He paused. “That wasn’t on purpose, but you know what I mean. My heart has never been a problem before.”

“Well, stress can impact performance,” you explained. “Especially if you’re psyching yourself out about whether or not you’re going to get off. Permission for me to overshare?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Permission granted.”

“Last year when they hired me at The Gap at the mall and made me a manager for no reason, I was so fucking stressed out that I couldn’t get myself off for weeks. Like, I tried everything. You know what finally helped?”

Steve swallowed. Hard. “W-what?”

“I turned off my brain for a few hours. I just let my hands wander a bit, figured out what felt good, and explored that for a while before moving on to the next spot. Eventually, I made myself cum without even realizing what I was doing.” You paused, and he heard a nervous laugh slip past your lips. “Um, that's just, like, a suggestion.”

The mental image was enough to make his cock twitch beneath the thin material of his boxers. He swallowed, trying to block out the images of you; naked, hand between your thighs, writhing in pleasure. His length throbbed again, because despite his best efforts, the image didn’t go away.

“I’m just trying to explain that it’s super common to have issues getting off, and it’s not weird!” You said, the silence clearly making you antsy. “Did that help at all?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed. “Robin would say this is a sign from the universe that I should just be single for a while.”

“Maybe.” You paused. “Give yourself some time, alright? You’ve been through a lot, Steve. Stuff like that is bound to catch up sooner or later.”

You were waiting for him by your next shift, sneaking past Robin to pull him aside. “Did you try it?” You asked, blinking up at him.

“What?” He furrowed his brows until you mimed jerking off and his cheeks fucking burned. “Oh, no. I wasn’t up for it.” He groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that either.”

“I know, I know,” you assured, a pretty smile on your lips. “So, do you think that Becky’s not…”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again, which blows.”

You shrugged. “Screw that. You can find someone way better, alright?” He wanted to roll his eyes as you grabbed his shoulders in your hands, making him look right at you. When he tried to look away, you repeated yourself. “Alright?”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, alright.” He wriggled out of your grip. “Can you just hand me the returns cart so I can shelve them?” You shrugged and passed him the cart, eager to offload your tasks if he was willing to take them.

He needed a distraction. Because you were wearing a black miniskirt with your dumb family video vest, and a fucking Star Wars shirt he would’ve found dorky if you weren’t perfectly endearing.

You were giggling and smiling, fighting with Robin over a copy of some movie you both were dying to see before the other. He sighed as he shelved a copy of A Christmas Story, wondering why someone would’ve rented that in August.

He got the cart shelved, helped a nice old lady find a Hitchcock movie she’d liked when her late husband showed her, and even reorganized the snack counter before he finally came upon a hitch in his day.

“Steve!” Your voice was barely a whisper, coming from Keith’s office. He looked around at the store, where Robin was sitting unfazed at the main counter, and slipped past the door.

Oh fuck. You were bent over Keith’s desk, legs sprawled awkwardly, tugging hopelessly at where your shirt was caught on a screw pinning it and you to the wall. He couldn’t even fathom how you’d gotten into that position— maybe reaching for something that had fallen behind the bulky desk?

Worst of all, that stupid mini skirt. Bent over the desk, he saw the baby blue cotton of your panties. His mouth went dry. He’d forgotten why he’d walked into the room in the first place.

“Steve! My shirt is stuck on one of the screws,” you explained, squirming slightly with impatience. “I got this when Empire came out, it’s irreplaceable. Just pull the desk out so I can move.”

It took a few seconds for his brain to comprehend what was asked of him. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Easy-peasy.” He grimaced. Why the fuck did he say that?

“Steve, hurry.” He tried not to look back at your ass as he approached the desk, giving it a slight tug so you were no longer pinned. You stumbled a bit before standing and tugging your skirt down, giving him a sheepish smile. “Jesus, that was so stupid. I dropped my time card clocking in from my break. Thanks Steve.”

With the desk pulled out, you grabbed it easily and waved it in front of his face. He gave a weak heh as you patted his shoulder and sauntered back out.

He leaned against the wall, relishing in how cold it was against his weirdly hot body. He wasn’t dumb. He knew you were attractive. He thought you were fucking stunning. But you were his friend, not someone he was trying to fuck around with.

Imagine his surprise when he found himself already half-hard just from barely even a glimpse of your panties when he couldn’t even get it up for the girls he was actually trying to sleep with.

“God fucking damn it,” he muttered, adjusting himself as best as he could before stepping out of the office. As soon as he hit the floor, Robin grabbed his arm and tugged him towards a box of new releases.

“Hey, Stevie, do you mind putting out the pornos? I would but… you know. I don’t really want to.”

Better and better. “Yeah, what would Gloria Steinem think if she knew you saw a VHS sleeve that showed tits?” He raised a brow and took the new box, boasting salacious titles like— Slutty Slumber Party and Cock Fight III.

She pinched his cheek with a grin and patted his back. “You’re the best, Steve.” He rolled his eyes. He knew that already.

You caught up to him before he could pass the privacy curtain that partitioned the triple X section from the rest of the store, peering down into the box.

“Let me help you put these out,” you offered, already scooping up as many titles as you could carry from the box. It was his worst nightmare come to life— an inconvenient boner, his cute friend, and a million sets of tits and dicks everywhere the eye could see.

It was blissfully quiet as he focused intensely on alphabetizing the titles. You helped him do stuff all the time, no need for him to make it weird just because you were shelving movies like Hot Groupie Fuckfest 2.

“Maybe you should sneak one of these home,” you finally said, turning the title in your hand towards him. “It could help.”

“I don’t need tapes to get off,” he insisted, maybe a little too defensively. “I like magazines better anyway. Classier.” He swore internally, realizing he had revealed something extremely private that he hadn’t shared with anyone.

You shrugged and continued shelving. “Magazines are cool,” you replied, rather awkwardly, like you were walking on eggshells. “Very classy.”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” he finally said. His mortification had gotten the best of him and the words just came out. “I’m fine.”

“Okay…” you replied, a furrow between your brows. “I never said you weren’t, Steve. I’m just—“

“Trying to help— I know but…” he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “Let’s drop it, alright?” You nodded in agreement and he sighed, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The two of you stood there for a moment before you nodded back to the crate. “Okay, we’ve got, like, three dozen more to stock, so let’s just get it done.”

He hated that he’d upset you, or offended you, or made you feel any way towards him other than perfectly happy. But what was he supposed to do? The entire ordeal was utterly humiliating.

And you seemed totally unbothered as you read the back cover of some girl on girl flick, interest in your eyes. Were you into that stuff? Was that what you liked thinking about? Why was he even concerned about what you think about?

You shelved the movie and moved on— grabbing your next pile, one that took you across the room to the shelf of more taboo, kinky stuff. He stared as you got onto your knees, bending over to stock the bottom shelf. And there he was— greeted by another tiny flash of your panties under the fluorescent lights just before you tugged your skirt down.

His cock stirred with interest, toeing the line between half-hard and impossible to ignore. Jesus. Were you doing it on purpose?

“Hm? Doing what?“ you asked, glancing over your shoulder. “Because if you mean stocking the weird shit on the bottom shelf, that’s a yes. No one wants to walk in and be eye-level with Fist Fest II.”

There was something about your smile then— sweet, like you had no idea the torment you were putting him through. He wanted to cry. “I’ll be right back.”

Robin ignored him as he practically darted past her and into the back rooms. He didn’t even bother clocking out for his break before he ducked into the employee’s only bathroom and locked the door behind himself.

He wasn’t an animal. Typically, he had self control. But a week of being unable to get off combined with your obliviousness as to what you were doing to him had him ready to jump out of his skin.

He fumbled with his belt, the metal clinking echoed off of the tile walls as he practically ripped it off. He made quick work of the button and zipper of his fly, practically moaning with relief at the lack of restriction. He spat into his hand before he shoved it into his briefs, crying out in relief before he thought better of it and bit onto his fist to keep quiet.

This, he realized as he grew frustrated with the lack of mobility and pulled his dick out at work, was a new low for him. Teeth cut into the meat of his palm as he fucked his hand in earnest, muffled moans coming out strangled and desperate. There wasn’t time for teasing, for drawing it out like he usually did when he was alone. It felt like his body was a rubber band, stretched and poised to snap.

And, god help him, he was thinking about you. Of you bent over Keith’s desk, legs gangly and awkward, ass in the air, wriggling to try to free yourself before caving and asking him for help. Steve was a gentleman. He only spared one look of shock before averting his eyes. But fantasies didn’t hurt anyone.

Fantasies about you doing it on purpose— arching your back and wiggling your hips invitingly because you wanted him to see you like that. In another world, where you wanted him and he wanted you, he would’ve relished in that scenario. Of you teasing and entrapping him in some game of cat and mouse. Of fucking you over the stupid squeaky desk and covering your mouth so Robin didn’t hear. Biting into your shoulder to keep himself quiet.

He came thinking about you, a guttural, desperate moan cutting into the air despite his best efforts to stay quiet. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a release until he was coming down, his hand sticky and warm, cum painting the tile in front of him.

“Jesus fucking— goddamn it.” His voice wavered, most of his energy sapped. He felt pathetic as he stuffed his softening length back in his briefs and tugged his pants up, wincing at the sensitivity. And he felt even more pathetic as he grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and cleaned up his spend from the bathroom wall at his fucking workplace.

A sudden loud knock sounded on the door, nearly making him yelp. “Are you okay in there, dingus?” Robin asked, her genuine concern masked by the sarcasm that dripped from her tone. “You ran past like you needed to shit, or something, so I wanted to check.”

He sunk onto the gross bathroom floor and banged his head against the wall. Dying, he decided, would have been less painful than whatever this was.

It had been days, and he had yet to cum unless you were at the top of mind. It had to be a coincidence, like he’d Pavlov-ed himself into only getting hard if he thought about you.

No. That wasn’t exactly true. He could get hard, he just couldn’t cum unless he thought about you. There was a big difference, and it meant he wasn’t totally broken after all. It meant he could fix it.

The most inconvenient thing about it was the fact that he had to jerk off before any shifts with you or he’d have to repeat that first bathroom session, which was something he really, really wanted to leave in the past.

There was a possibility that there was something to the situation at hand— that the reason for his body’s reaction to you was beyond just physical. But that was dumb, and every time that tiny voice in his brain told him to consider it, Steve just shook it off.

His phone rang at his bedside and he sighed, tossing the book he’d been trying to read for the past hour with no avail.

“Yeah?” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He really needed some glasses, huh?

“Hey, Steve, it’s me.” Your voice was like music over the phone, and he sat up quickly, like you were there to witness his lazy, slouchy morning. “I was just calling to ask if you could cover my shift this afternoon. I know it’s a big ask since it’s so last minute, but I can totally pay you back double sometime.”

He scratched the back of his neck. Fucking Keith was on the schedule tonight, and they hated each other. Then again, it wasn’t like he had any plans. He couldn't risk another failed hookup, or word might get around that he was a limp dick loser. “Mhmm. Shouldn’t be too bad,” he lied.

You sighed with relief on the other end. “You’re a lifesaver, Steve. I thought I was gonna have to cancel my date.”

His heart stuttered for a few moments before he recovered and tried to act casual about it. “Date? I didn’t even know you were…” He trailed off, unsure of how to even finish that sentence. His voice was higher than usual, so he cleared his throat to brush it off.

You laughed. “Yeah, I know it’s been a while. I figured I should stop waiting around for something to fall into my lap and just put myself out there, or something. You know, just… casually, nothing too serious.”

Oh. He didn’t have the right to feel disappointed, and yet… He wanted to tell you not to go, to stay home like normal, and keep things like they were already. He didn’t want to imagine you with some random Hawkins asshole right now, especially when he couldn’t think of a single person in city limits who might be worthy of your time.

It was crazy. He’d set you up on plenty of dates and coached you through even more. He didn’t have any reason to feel weird about it now.

“Steve? Did I lose you?” You asked softly. “I know you’re still dealing with… you know, everything. I don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want me to. God, hearing you talk about getting laid while I was having a dry spell used to make me want to rip my hair out.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “Go have a good date, and don’t let him have all the fun, alright?”

You laughed, and he could picture you wrinkling your nose the way you always did when he said something dumb. “I would never. Thanks again, Steve.”

You were giddy at work the next morning, a pretty glow about you, an unusual chipper attitude that you shared with every single guest. You weren’t even being particularly snarky with him or Robin.

“Good night?” He asked, despite not really wanting to know. God, it was like there were two halves of himself constantly working against the other.

You smiled brightly, and he almost winced. “It was so good. I think you know him— Andy from Varsity baseball in ‘84. He graduated a year earlier than us and goes to Purdue. He’s living at home while he’s doing an internship for some financial firm.”

“What happened to just being casual?” Steve asked, brows furrowing as he looked at you.

You laughed in lieu of a response and grabbed the box of merchandise for the latest new releases. He stood there dumbly until Keith knocked into his shoulder.

“Back to work, Harrington,” he said in that stupid, asshole voice of his. “These returns aren’t going to shelve themselves.”

——

“You’re glowering.” Robin whispered into his ear a few days later, so close it made him jump out of his frustrated stupor and back into reality.

“I’m not, I'm just focused,” he insisted, even though his eyes were burning holes into the back of Andy’s head. He hit stop on the tape he had successfully rewound and put it back into the case, then back into the cart for shelving.

It was the sort of monotonous task that gave him time to ruminate. And to glower.

Why was Andy even there? Just to distract you from work and charm his way into your pants? Again? You’d been shelving the same tape of The Outsiders for twenty minutes, at least.

God, he sounded like Keith. Wasn’t that terrifying?

“Do you remember him from high school?” Steve finally asked, sparing a glance back at Robin. She shrugged, and he whipped his gaze back to the two of you. His hand was on your hip, dangerously close to grabbing your ass. Classless, asshole college guy. “Yeah, I figured. He graduated in ‘84. Third baseman.”

Robin snorted. “I bet.”

“Cute. Very charming, Robin,” Steve sighed, shaking his head. He stopped the tape and slipped the cover back on. “Whatever. He just doesn’t seem her type, that’s all.”

Robin rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand before he could reach for the next tape. “Steve. Andy is exactly her type. Sweet guy, athletic, charming…” She raised her brows, like she was trying to make a point. But to Steve, the only point she seemed to be making was that Andy was the total package and he was a loser.

“I’m not glowering,” he repeated, if only to prove it to himself. “I’m just trying to finish up the rewinds since we’re down an employee.” He gave a lazy gesture towards the front of the store, where you and Andy were making eyes at each other.

Not jealous. Not jealous at all. Just… sexually frustrated. That was an easy fix.

His Rolodex was filled with girls who he’d fooled around with. When he got home, he flipped through the remaining names, each eliciting vague memories.

Deanna was hot… she had a weird laugh though. Not like you. Your laugh was a nice, warm sound. He liked your laugh more than anything. As a friend. Of course.

Maybe Kelly? She was sweet, pretty. Not as pretty as you were, obviously, but who was?

He tried calling a few, but most of them wanted nothing to do with a guy who’d forgotten to call for a few months. After his third rejection, he gave up entirely. He didn’t really have it in him to lead another girl on, anyway.

Maybe there was something there he should acknowledge. That itching, stirring feeling of want that had started to fester months ago. Gnawing at the edges of each interaction he had with you. Maybe it had always been there and his dumb body was making him do something about it, just like you’d said.

He was in a mood for the next week. He hadn’t felt this pent up since after graduation, when he had to wear a sailor uniform and perform a public humiliation ritual for minimum wage.

You sidled up to him at the register at closing, where he was getting a sick sort of satisfaction in checking on all of the late charges about to hit the overdue rentals.

You were dressed like you were going to go on a date later— with one of your favorite tops and that goddamn mini skirt. Even worse, you were smiling a pretty smile like you wanted something, which made the itch of irritation claw at his tongue. “I’m not taking another one of your shifts so that you can go out with Andy,” he said sternly, with a narrowed glance at you.

Your brows raised and you gave him a look that told him he was being an asshole, which he already knew. “Okay, one, I wasn’t going to ask you to take one of my shifts, and two, who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

He just huffed. “Sorry, long day.” Long month. “I’m being a dick.”

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah, you are… but I forgive you.” You brushed your hair back and leaned imperceptibly closer. It probably wasn’t on purpose, but your arm pushed against his and you were so warm, and you smelled like the Avon perfume your mom always bought you. ”Let’s hang out tonight. I feel like I only ever see you at work lately. I’ll rent us a movie, grab some dinner on the way… it’ll be just like old times.”

The realistic part of his brain told him it was a bad idea. He’d been plagued with graphic, explicit images of you playing in his head at the worst of times. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to be normal about hanging out at your place.

Which was absolutely ridiculous. It would be the thousandth time he’d been over, but the odds of him getting an inconvenient, persistent boner around you were frustratingly high.

But his alternative was going home to sulk alone and sink deeper into his funk, so he nodded. “Yeah, sounds fun.” It would be fine. He could persevere.

——

Your basement had always been his favorite place to hang out. Unlike his own parents who wanted input into every facet of his young life, your parents let you do whatever the hell you wanted to the space, as long as they could store their treadmill and your mom’s Tupperware stock.

It was lit with old Christmas lights and covered in tchotchkes that you had found in garage sales. Old quilts, your grandma’s macrame, needlepoint throw pillows. It was like an estate sale had crawled inside to die, and he loved it.

The couch had an uncomfortable spring that always dug into his thighs, you picked a really dumb movie, and you had slightly burned the popcorn on the stove, but he couldn’t complain. Maybe he did need this.

”So… are you still seeing Andy?” He asked when the movie hit a lull. It wasn’t that he wasn’t paying attention, it was just hard to focus.

You laughed, shaking your head. You were sprawled across the ugly floral couch, legs in his lap, curled up facing the TV. “Ew, no,” you said with an eye roll. “He was fun at first, but I was just kind of using him, you know?”

Did he know? Probably not, but he nodded like he understood anyway. He took another handful of the mildly-burnt popcorn and watched you out of his periphery (which was, admittedly, not what it used to be).

He tried to focus on the movie some more, but it was you that broke the silence next. You shifted your legs a bit to get comfortable before he felt your gaze on him. “So, how’s your problem?” You asked.

His cheeks felt hot, like his entire head had been shoved under the heat lamp in Dustin’s turtle’s tank. “Oh,“ he cleared his throat. “Fine, I guess. I don’t know, actually. I haven’t been on any dates since Becky, so…”

“Really? Why not?” You asked, brows knit.

His expression was incredulous. Why not? Oh, nothing too bad— just that I can’t get hard lately unless I’m fantasizing about you. “Why do you think? This is totally reputation killing stuff here. I’ll be lucky if the entire female population of Hawkins doesn’t think my dick doesn’t work.”

You shifted closer, but your legs were still heavy in his lap, which he was growing increasingly conscious of. “What about when you’re alone?”

His heart started to hammer as thoughts flooded his brain of the session he’d had in the shower that morning, which had been, in part, fueled by a quick perusal of his photo album from last summer and the handful of pictures of you in a remarkably high cut swimsuit.

“Uh…” His voice was higher than usual, and he tried to bring it back down to Earth before continuing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, glancing only briefly at your lips before forcing himself to look back up at your eyes. “Normal. It’s normal.”

“So, if that's normal, what do you think about when you’re alone?”

His throat feels tight as he tries to think of something to say other than you, you, you, you. You in your stupid granny pajamas, you in the backseat of his car, you bending over to shelve DVDs… you had burrowed into his mind and totally corrupted it. He squints, like he’s considering anything else. “Um… normal things. Just… normal stuff, you know?”

You sighed out a soft huh, and there was something in your gaze that made his stomach flip. It was an expression he’d never seen you wear so plainly, especially not towards him. Pure, hungry desire, so obvious that he had to have been imagining it. “Steve,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes, swallowing. “Mhmm? Yeah?”

“You’re hard right now.”

He glanced down as you shifted your legs again and had to swallow a pathetic moan at the tiniest amount of friction. And, well, he was obviously, undeniably hard in his jeans.

“Oh, that’s just… y’know, from me remembering all of the totally normal stuff that I—“

The rest of his lame excuse was swallowed by the warm press of your lips against his. Lapped away as your tongue slipped into his mouth and took every rational thought away with it. It was slow and sweet, like you were trying your best to savor every second of it. Jesus, had you always been that good of a kisser?

When you pulled back, with spit-glossed lips and met his gaze, he felt so turned on that his head started to swim. He couldn’t find words for how he was feeling, for how he’d been feeling, so he offered a meager, “You’re really good at that.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, and his heart did that thing again, which felt more embarrassing than the obvious bulge straining in his Levi's. For once, his body’s ability (or lack thereof) to function was the least of his worries.

“I don’t know how much more obvious I can possibly make it,” you said softly. “I’m really into you.”

His brows furrowed. For a second, he thought he might have slipped in the shower, died, and woken up in a very forgiving afterlife. “What? Since when?”

You swallowed and chewed your lip sheepishly for a moment. “Um, on and off since I’ve known you, but, like, very much on since graduation.”

It was like a fog had lifted over his memories. The lingering touches and flirty eyes across the rooms. The late nights on the phone, where it felt like talking to Steve was the only place you wanted to be. And, frankly, it had been all he wanted to do too.

Maybe he had been a total idiot this whole time. A dense, oblivious dumb ass who had been ignoring his dream girl because she was one of his best friends first.

Then his brows knit deeper, forming two parallel furrows between your brows. “But you were just dating Andy.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes. “I was trying to make you jealous, which obviously worked since Robin told me that she caught you pouting.”

Robin. “I didn’t pout,” he insisted, but he knew that lying was futile. He had just… glared in Andy’s general direction. “Okay, fine. If that was on purpose, I’m guessing your panty flashing was too.”

That seemed to make you pause. Your head tilted, brows furrowing. “I’m sorry, my what?”

He blanched, embarrassed. “You know, the time you wore this same skirt, and you got stuck on Keith’s desk. You were messing with me, obviously.”

He could see the gears turning in your mind as you thought back to when you’d gotten stuck on the desk. As soon as the grin split across your features, he wanted to melt right into the shitty couch cushions and die next to the fucked-up spring. “You think I’d risk my Empire shirt just to turn you on?” You questioned, frankly offended at the insinuation. When his face went pink with embarrassment, you looked positively giddy. “Oh my god, Harrington you perv—“

He had you pinned on your back before you could fully form the insult, planting kisses to your neck. “You’re so evil,” he mumbled into your throat, lips grazing, soft and wet against your fluttering pulse. Each kiss made you squirm beneath him, which wasn’t doing much to help him cool down. “You’ve been driving me crazy, like you’ve got some sort of witchy spell on me.”

You giggled, and the sound went straight into the warm, gooey center of himself. “Did it turn you on?” You gasped softly. He groaned as you hooked one of your legs around his thigh and pulled him closer against you, so he was grinding directly against your core.

Did it turn him on? It had led to one of the most humiliating moments of his life, of which there had been many. It was embarrassing, but the sound of your laughter was like a drug to him, so he’d throw himself into the fire for your amusement. “It turned me on so much that I had to jerk off in the employee bathrooms,” he mumbled against your throat.

That was a dumb thing to admit. A dumb, gross, creepy thing to tell one of your best friends. Your oldest friend! Stupid, stupid Steve—

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said finally. One of your hands came up and he shivered as he felt your nails combing through his hair. “But you could have just told me, dummy. We could’ve run out to my car so I could take care of it for you.”

Just the thought made his hips buck against yours, seeking sweet, sweet friction between your thighs. “Don’t say things like that,” he groaned. “If you talk like that it’ll fucking kill me, I swear.”

He pulled back, just to see the sharp, wet glint of your teeth as you smiled up at him. You drove him crazy. Before, it was just in the normal ways, like when you made him give you a ride into the city and didn’t give him gas money, or when you drank too much at a party and puked on his new sneakers.

This was new. He felt stricken by some new form of hysteria, where something as tiny as the smallest twitch in your brows made him feel overcome with intense need. Jesus, he’d never been so pent up in his life. He felt the soft pressure of your leg tugging him close again, then the slow roll of your hips against his.

"Fuck," he panted. It was embarrassing, frankly, how gone he already was. He leaned down, capturing your lips with his again, and relished in the slow drag of your tongue against his.

He'd never loved a kiss so much in his life. With you beneath him, grinding up against him and moaning against his lips. The way your tongue felt tangling with his. He got too lost in it— in the kiss, in your bodies pressing together. After a while, the kissing got lost and it was just the two of you, panting into each others mouths as you slowly ground against each other.

You pulled back first— lips kiss-swollen and slick. It took everything in him not to kiss you again.

“So…” You murmured, peering up at him. When you bit your lip sheepishly, he wanted to bury his face in your throat and groan. He watched, hypnotized, as your tongue slipped out and wet your lips. “Everything definitely feels like it's working like normal.”

He nearly whined as your other hand moved down and palmed him through his jeans. Your fingers pressed against his button, working it undone. He groaned as your hand wriggled past his waistband to grope him through his briefs.

It all felt so good, too good. Your thumb brushed over the damp fabric clinging to his weeping tip and he swore he saw stars. "Ah, just… just wait—" He choked out.

You froze, brow quirked. He could feel his cock twitching in your palm, and tried to think about horrible, disgusting things to keep from coming too soon. Demodogs, Russian torture, Tommy Hagan's gym locker, mopping random kids' puke off of the Scoops Ahoy tile. "What? Is it happening again?"

"No, no, the opposite," he panted. His eyes squeezed shut and he tried to control himself as best as he could, given the circumstances. You showed him a little bit of mercy and slipped you hand free, which he was immensely grateful for.

"So I beat the curse, huh?" You asked with a coy smile. "Becky Martin and Katie Frey can totally suck it."

Steve laughed, despite everything. "Jesus, you are the curse," he said, meeting your gaze. "For the past month, I could only get off if I was thinking about you." He swallowed, feeling vulnerable with you looking up at him. "Like I said… witchy spell."

He sat back as you pushed at his shoulders, encouraging him to sit back against the cushions. His eyes widened as you shifted into his lap, the weight of you warm and comfortable there. When he glanced down at where you sat on his lap, where your skirt rode up your thighs, he got a head rush. "You know…" You trailed off, looping your arms around his neck. "Usually, I'd never sleep with a guy who said I'm a curse."

He groaned as you tugged at the hair at the base of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head back and expose his throat. He laughed weakly, eyes half lidded as he looked at you. "Usually," he echoed.

You nodded and leaned closer, so he could feel the warm buzz of your proximity. Like every cell in his body was vibrating with the desire to just press against you. "Well, someone needs to fix that attitude of yours. You've been really bitchy for the past few weeks." He scoffed at your words, but couldn't fight the smile on his lips.

You sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his torso. He hummed contentedly as your fingers combed through his chest hair, just exploring the newly exposed skin.

Your hands trailed down, following the trail of dark hair on his tummy that disappeared into his briefs. He swallowed hard as you wrapped your hand around his cock, warm and tight. He wanted to see though. He wanted to look at the way your manicured hand fit around him, so he tugged his pants down and moaned at the sight.

"You must really want this," you murmured, lips twitching up in what he could only recognize as pure triumph. "You're dripping." The pad of your thumb swept over his tip, gathering slick precum to make the glide of your hand smooth.

It didn't take much. Actually, it took a mortifyingly small amount of attention. Your hand just felt so good wrapped around him, and it was the very thing he'd been fantasizing about for the past month. You, in his lap, with your hand around his pulsing cock and your lips on his throat. It couldn't have been more than three pumps of your hand, not even enough time to get a good rhythm, and he was crying out with pretty moans and shooting thick ropes of cum all over his abdomen.

His chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon as you worked him through it. "Fuck," he panted. "Nngh— You've gotta— Ah, fuck— 's too much." You relented, like a benevolent god, and released him from your grip, so his dick twitched and softened against his stomach.

"Is that how you sounded when you faked it for Katie?" You teased.

"Oh, fuck off," he panted, a smile splitting his features.

When his mind cleared enough to have a little bit of shame, he realized how embarrassing it was that he'd finished so fast. Maybe you were into him for other things, but he didn't want to risk losing you now. So as he hastily tugged his pants back up, he stumbled through an explanation. "I'm not usually, like… I mean… I do have stamina, typically."

"I actually think it's really sweet, Steve. It's like a compliment." He was going to argue more, then you licked the cum from your fingers to clean it up and he nearly blacked out at the sight. He couldn't wait a second more, he had to have his hands on you.

"Alright, your turn," he said, and before you could say anything, he had you pinned beneath him on the couch again. He worked the buttons of your shirt quickly, until it fell open at your sides. He sat up, just to take in the sight.

"You're so goddamn pretty," he practically groaned. With your shirt undone, he relished in the sight of your tits cupped by white lace. "I don't even wanna take it off."

"Steve," you gasped as his mouth moved down your throat and sternum, until he was planting wet, hot kisses onto the plush of your breasts. He moaned against your chest, propping himself with one arm so he could grope at your tit with his free hand. You keened, arching into the attention, and he relished in your neediness. "I think you should take it off."

Your wish was his command. Not that it was such a difficult ask. He made quick work of the clasp and let you shrug it off and onto the floor. He sat back and really had to fight the urge to whistle at the sight. "Goddamn," he murmured, letting his hands roam up your body and cup your breasts.

You rolled your eyes, but he could see the tiniest bit of bashfulness in your eyes. In the back of his mind, it was kind of weird. Not bad weird, just… different. You were the person he went with to the hair salon and watched the Bulls with. It felt odd to have you pinned beneath him, moaning softly as he squeezed the plush of your tits and teased your nipples.

To your credit, you let him take his time. You let his hands wander and explore at his own pace. Your breath hitched as his hands dipped lower, until he was hiking up the fabric of your mini skirt to reveal your panties. Baby blue.

"Oh, fuck you," he groaned, meeting your gaze. "It was on purpose, you liar."

You grinned, and the smug expression you wore made him feel like his chest was going to implode. "I don't know what you're talking about, Steve. Do you really think I'd play mind games to torment you when you're pent up and needy?"

Yes, actually. He huffed and shifted down your body. He felt right at home with your thighs bracketing his head. He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

The pastel of your panties betrayed just how affected you were, much to his amusement. He ran a thumb over the damp patch at your center and felt your thighs tense on either side of him. "You must really want this," he said with a grin, echoing your previous teasing.

"Jesus, of course I do," you said, breath shuddering as he thumbed at your clit through the sodden fabric. "You're, like, my dream guy, and you're about to go down on me."

Your dream guy. Steve's pulse thrummed as he took it in. You were incredible, way too good for a Hawkins loser who spent his shifts renting video tapes. To be fair, you were also spending your days shelving video tapes, but he always felt like that was a brief stop in your life that you'd move on from.

But if you thought he was good enough to be your dream guy, maybe there was something worthwhile left in him after all.

He kissed your clit through your panties almost reverently. His tongue laved over the fabric and he groaned at the taste of you saturating the cotton. God, you were like heaven. He could have stayed like that for hours— just tasting you through your panties. Each lap over your center just soaking the fabric more, until it clung to the shape of your lips like a second skin.

It wasn't enough though, and he was too lost in his desire to be particularly patient. He wanted his tongue on you, in you, licking up every drop of your juices until he made you spill more onto his tongue. He sat up and tugged your panties down, then quickly repositioned himself between your legs with your thighs over his shoulders.

Steve's tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he took in the sight of your pussy. Slick with arousal, twitching with anticipation. He ran his thumb up the seam of you, spreading you open. He relished in the cute twitch of your clit as blew a puff of cool air over your heated, sensitive skin.

"You're really pretty," he murmured. "So wet for me. And so goddamn responsive." He grinned up at you from between your thighs, relishing in the way your tits heaved with each shuddery breath.

His tongue lapped at your center, tasting just how badly you've wanted him. You writhed beneath him, thighs tensing to clamp around his head before he finally just held them apart. He started to taste you in earnest then, lapping up your juices, stroking the bud of your clit with the flat of his tongue.

You tasted so good, practically gushing onto his tongue as he feasted on you. His tongue pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in so he could feel the way you clenched around the intrusion.

"Fuck, Steve," you panted. Your hips bucked, practically grinding against his mouth. He moaned against you, nuzzling his nose against your clit. "That's— ah, fuck— that's really good."

He smiled against your pussy, giving a few more slow, wet kisses before he sat up. In the dim light of the basement, you could see where his face was slick and shiny with your spit and juices. "Gonna stretch you out a little for me, okay?"

You nodded, propping yourself on your elbows to see him better. He pressed another sweet kiss to your clit before he eased his middle finger into you. If he hadn't already fully recovered from his first orgasm, just the feeling of your walls clenching around his finger would have done it for him.

It took a minute for him to learn your body. Where to touch, what spots inside made your legs shake. You took two fingers easily, squirming as he pressed his fingers against a sensitive, spongy spot. Your eyes rolled back and his head thumped against the arm of the sofa, which made him grin.

"Right there, huh?" He teased. He applied a little more pressure and felt you gush around his fingers. Yeah, right there. He wrapped his lips around your your sensitive clit and sucked until your thighs trembled on either side of him.

"Steve!" You gasped, back arching. Your voice was high and breathy, he'd never heard you so desperate before. He knew you were close— he could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. "Oh, fuck. Jesus christ, like that— Just like that—"

When you finally came around his fingers and on his tongue, he had never heard such a perfect sound before. Soft, keening moans and pretty cries of his name. Your clit twitched against his tongue, and when your sweet moans finally turned into overstimulated whimpers, he relented.

You panted, chest heaving breathlessly as you came down from your high. You propped yourself up on your elbows and giggled as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Holy shit," you gasped.

He grinned, crawling up your body to plant a slow, sweet kiss on your lips. He could feel you smiling into the kiss, until his teeth knocked with yours and he had to pull back with a sheepish laugh. "Think you can give me another one?"

You raised a brow. "I can, but do you think you can?"

He laughed. Jesus, he'd been hard since he'd gotten his hands on your tits. "I definitely can."

Your gaze was on him as he stripped the rest of his clothes off— kicking his socks, jeans and briefs into a messy pile on the floor. For the first time in a long string of hookups, Steve Harrington felt self-conscious under your scrutiny.

"You're staring," he said weakly, feeling heat flood his cheeks. Usually, the second he was undressed he had a partner ready to jump his bones, but you just took in the sight of him.

"Only because you're really hot. You're forgetting that this is the culmination of every teenage fantasy I've ever had," you finally said, shifting to sit up. He hummed contentedly as you ran your hands up his chest then traced over his broad shoulders

"How did this next part go in those fantasies, huh?" He asked.

With a tiny grin, you pushed him back onto the couch, which creaked under his weight. "Well, usually," you began, straddling his hips. "They start like this."

Oh. Steve swallowed, peering up at you with wide eyes. Your hands splayed over his chest, fingers dimpling the muscle of his pecs. He groaned as you gave a slow rock of your hips, gliding your cunt along his length.

You were so wet and warm on top of him, and the precum dribbling from his tip only added to the sticky mess. All he could do was watch, totally slack-jawed as you ground your hips against his.

Well, he could also reach up and play with your tits. So he did. His heart thrummed at the soft and pretty sound that fell past your lips as he tugged and pinched your nipples.

You didn't wait any longer, not that he would have made you. There was something so sexy about the way you took control— taking his cock in your hand so you could line him up with your entrance and begin to slowly sink onto him. His hands quickly moved down to your hips, squeezing tight as you took inch after inch.

Jesus, you were taking it like a champ. With your head tossed back and your pussy clenching around his cock, he knew you really fucking loved it. He wanted you to love every bit of it.

"That's it," Steve goaded, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Just a little more, honey. You've got it."

You moaned, lips parted as you sunk down. Warm, wet, tight until you were fully seated. A furrow formed between your brows as you stilled, accommodating to the size of him. "Fuck," you breathed, fingers tensing on his chest.

He wanted to squirm, to buck his hips deeper, to force you to finally move. But he could behave, he could let you have this. You gave a slow roll of your hips and he groaned, squeezing your hips tighter. "You doing okay?"

A cocky smile broke across your lips, and when you laughed he felt your walls squeeze around him. "I'm doing great," you said, punctuation your words with another slow grind. "I'm just trying to make sure you can last long enough to enjoy it."

His cheeks went hot with embarrassment and arousal, the smirk faded into mild offense. "Don't be cute. I'm fine."

"Yeah?" You began to move faster, your thighs colliding with his with each bounce onto him. You took him as deep as you could, then rose up until he was just about to slip out of you, only to slam back down. In, out, in, out, in, out. "Is this what you've been thinking about every time you jerked off?"

Had he thought of this? And then some. Steve had learned that he could be very creative when he needed to be. "Something like it," He managed, eyes squeezing shut as you gave a particularly sinful swivel of your hips.

He groaned, head falling back, neck bared as you rode him within an inch of his life. At least, that's what it felt like. Pretty moans and soft ah, ah, ahs slipped past your lips like his cock was punching them out of you. He moved his hands, grabbing your ass like he had any semblance of control over what you were doing to him.

Who the fuck taught you to ride dick like this? And should he thank them or murder them?

"Fuck, Steve," you panted. "Should've known you'd feel this good. No wonder you have a fucking harem around you."

He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about another girl ever again. In one steady motion, he had you pinned to the couch. From beneath him, he relished in the way your eyes went wide with surprise. He didn't just feel good, he was good. He wanted you to know how good he was for you, how good he could make you feel.

"You feel goddamn perfect," he groaned. As soon as the compliment passed his lips, he felt you squeeze around him, pussy fluttering as he drove into you again and again. "So wet and tight, so pretty. Can't believe I've wasted my time when you've been right here."

Steve moved his mouth to your throat, licking and sucking and biting at all of the soft skin there. He wanted to leave a mark. He wanted Andy to show up to Family Video the next day so he could beg for a second chance, only to see you'd already moved on.

But he couldn't focus too much on vindictive pettiness when you were so beautiful beneath him, with your eyes wide and full of so much want. Had he ever felt so wanted before? So needed? Your legs wrapped around him, heels digging in to drive him deeper.

His thrusts slowed, until he was buried deep inside of you and grinding nice and slow, rubbing against the soft, sensitive spots inside of you that made you drip around his cock.

It was then that he pulled back, meeting your gaze as he ground into you. Your eyes fluttered, rolling until he saw the whites of them. "Jesus Christ," you gasped. "Fuck, Steve, just like that. Feels s'good."

He grinned, preening at your praise. He propped himself up on one arm, then snaked the other between your bodies, so he could rub at your clit. The second his thumb rubbed over the slick bundle of nerves, your walls squeezed around him so tight he could hardly move.

You cried out prettily, nails cutting into the meat of his back. "Just a little more, yeah?" He cooed. He moved his thumb a little faster, feeling the way your clit twitched against the pressure.

"Fuck—" You gasped. "Steve, god, don't stop, please—"

He could feel that the band was going to snap. Your gasping breaths and whiny moans were as much of an indicator as the fluttery way your walls clamped down on him.

Steve wasn't much better off. He could sense his impending orgasm like the buzz of lightning about to strike. A tightly wound spring, a dam about to burst. But, god, he wanted to feel you cum first. "C'mon, I've got you, sweetheart. Just give it to me."

It was a goddamn miracle that you came when you did— crying out nice and pretty as you clenched around him like a vise. The sound of his name falling from your lips, with your body enveloping him like you were made to… it was everything he'd been craving for the past month. Probably longer, if he was honest with himself.

He barely managed to work you through your orgasm before it all became too much. He pulled out and spilled onto your tummy with a guttural moan.

"Fuck," he panted, collapsing onto you. He should have been disgusted about the warm slickness of his cum sandwiched between your bodies, but he was so sated that he couldn't bring himself to care. "Was it okay for you?"

Steve propped himself up on his elbow so he could look at you. God, you were pretty. You'd always been pretty, but right now you looked so perfect.

You bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, it was great," you replied. "Really great, actually. I guess it was okay for you too, considering I'm glazed with your cum right now."

He laughed sheepishly and rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

The two of you dressed in comfortable silence, mopping yourselves clean of fluids and sweat with a few towels sitting on top of the washing machine… that promptly went right back in for another clean.

You hopped on top of the machine when it was running, peering over at where Steve stood. "Penny for your thoughts?" You asked. He glanced over and his heart thrummed. Even in shitty lounge wear with your hair pulled back in a banana clip, you looked like a supermodel.

"Just thinking about work tomorrow," he confessed. Your brows knit in confusion as you looked at him. Work? Now? "I don't know how we're going to share a shift without me going absolutely crazy and wanting to get my hands on you. Especially now that I know that I can."

You grinned, and Jesus, he wanted to just jump your bones again. "Well, it's just you and me on the schedule tomorrow," you reminded him. "Maybe we close at lunch so you can help me with restocks? Just to make sure your problem is completely solved. I don't want you relapsing."

He knew there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd ever have a problem getting hard again. Not with you around, looking like the finest goddamn thing to ever set foot in Hawkins, Indiana. "Might as well," he said. "Just to be sure."

It’s been a week since the last patrol.

A week of watching Bellamy disappear into the trees without so much as glancing my way. A week of waking up before dawn to stand by Pike’s tent, waiting for my name to be called. And a week of pretending it doesn’t sting every time it isn’t.

I know why. Pike didn’t come up with the restriction himself. He doesn’t care enough to keep track of old injuries or whether my limp flares on uneven ground. This was Bellamy. I’d bet my entire ration stash on it. He thinks he’s protecting me.

But all it feels like is erasure.

Like I survived Mount Weather just to be benched. Like I’m some fragile thing that needs shelving while the world keeps burning. And maybe I could stomach it if Bellamy had the guts to say it to my face. But he doesn’t. He just avoids me, eyes forward, mouth shut, and leaves me standing behind every time. And it fucking hurts. I know it shouldn't; we're not an item or anything of the sort, he shouldn't care about me or my feelings, but it hurts that he doesn't.

So today, when I see him coming back from the east ridge, sweat on his brow and rifle slung lazily across his back, I don’t wait. I don’t let the moment pass. I grab it by the throat.

I follow him behind the storage unit, the same place we fought over late rotations and had heated arguments, and I shove my hands against his back, pushing him forward, hard.

He stumbles a step, catches himself with a grunt, then turns, slow and calculated, like he already knows it’s me. Like he was waiting.

“What the hell is your problem?” I snap, stepping into his space before he can put distance between us. “You think I wouldn’t figure it out? That Pike just happened to forget about me? Cut the crap, Bellamy.”

His eyes darken. “You shouldn’t be out there.”

“Don’t pretend this is about safety.”

“It is.” His voice sharpens. “You’re still limping.”

“So what? Half of us are limping.” I jab a finger at his chest. “You don’t get to decide who gets to fight and who gets to rot in camp.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he growls.

“And I didn’t ask you to.”

His jaw locks, arms crossed tight like he’s trying to hold himself together with sheer force of will.

“I didn’t ask you to save me in Mount Weather. I didn’t ask you to touch me behind the mess hall. And I sure as hell didn’t ask you to forget about me the second your boots hit dirt outside that gate."

“I didn’t forget.” His voice is low now. Rough. Dangerous.

I laugh, sharp, humourless and pretty damn bitter. “Could’ve fooled me.”

His eyes snap to mine. “You think this is easy for me?”

“Oh, poor you.” I shove him again, this time harder. He doesn’t move, like a solid damn rock. “Must be so hard, pretending like that night didn’t happen. Pretending like I’m just another grunt while you run off to play hero with Clarke.”

That does it.

His hand shoots out, grabs my wrists, and yanks me forward until I’m flush against his chest. I turn my head away from his face, squeezing my eyes shut.

“You have no idea what’s been happening out there,” he snarls.

“Every day’s a goddamn gamble. Supplies, weather, Grounder patrols. One wrong move and someone doesn’t come back. You think I want that to be you?”

“I think you don’t trust me,” I whisper.

“I don’t—” he starts, then stops.

His grip softens, and he lets go and pushes me back gently. I glare right at him, I can see the grime on his jaw, the tiny flecks of blood dried along his collar.

“You think I’m weak,” I murmur. “That’s what this is really about.”

“No,” he says. "That's not what I said!"

"No, but it's what you meant, right?" I ask.

His eyes narrow, dark and burning. And for a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me like I’ve said the one thing he’s not allowed to admit.

Then he scowls.

“You want the truth?” he says, voice low, bitter. “Fine.”

He takes a step forward. I don’t back up.

“You’re not weak,” he bites out. “But out there? Limping, barely able to keep up, no backup, no cover — yeah. You’re a liability.”

I flinch. He sees it. And for a second, he almost looks sorry.

But he barrels on anyway.

“You think this is about trust? About what I think you can handle? I know what you can handle.” His eyes drag down my body, hot and slow, cruel. “I’ve felt it.”

My stomach turns.

“Out there, you’re a risk,” he says. “But here?” He steps even closer. “Here, you’re useful.”

Something sharp and ugly twists in my chest. “Useful.”

“You wanted honesty.”

His voice is poison now, dipped in something darker. His mouth is right by my ear as he murmurs, “You’re better on your knees than with a gun in your hands. At least that way, nobody dies.”

The words hit harder than any slap.

My hand twitches at my side, and I want to hit him. Scream at him. Collapse.

Instead, I just stare.

Because underneath that venom, underneath the smirk he’s forcing onto his face, I see it. The war in his eyes. The panic in the edge of his voice. He’s trying to make me hate him. To drive me away.

And it almost works.

“Wow,” I whisper. “There it is.”

“You think that makes you strong?” I ask, my voice low. Shaking. “Tearing me down like that? Telling yourself I was just another body to get you through the night?”

His mouth is a hard line. “I didn’t say you were just—”

“You said enough.” My voice cracks. “You said what you meant.”

“Was it just sex?” I whisper.

He doesn't answer.

“Say it,” I demand, louder now. “Say it meant nothing.”

Still, nothing. His jaw ticks, throat working like it’s caught on the words.

“Because if you say that, if you say it meant nothing, I’ll walk away. I’ll leave you to your guilt and your missions and your perfect little soldier mask, and I won’t come back. So go ahead, Bellamy. Prove it.”

He looks at me.

And for the first time in days, I see him. The cracks beneath the anger. The desperation gnawing at the edges of his resolve. He opens his mouth.

But he closes it again, his eyebrows furrowing.

And then his hands are on me.

He grabs me by the hips, spinning me so fast I gasp, and my back hits the storage unit wall with a dull thud. His mouth crashes into mine, not gentle, not careful, claiming. His fingers dig into my waist, pinning me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

I kiss him back like I’m starving.

Like I’ve been waiting for this fight to end just so we could get here, this breaking point, this unravelling. Our mouths clash, bruising, gasping, teeth knocking. There’s no finesse, no sweetness. Just need.

His hand fists in my hair, tugging my head back to bare my throat, and he mouths along my jaw like he’s trying to mark me. I dig my nails into his shoulders, dragging his jacket down, needing to feel him, skin, heat, anything.

“Say it,” I pant between kisses. “Say it meant something.”

He pulls back just long enough to whisper, hoarse and needy, “It fucking destroyed me.”

He presses his forehead to my chest and pants for a moment, his hands still far tighter than necessary as they slide to my hips again, but so careful to avoid the drilling site, like he knows where it is even with clothes covering it... Like he cares.

Bellamy’s breath is ragged, heavy against my skin, and his hands slide higher, tracing the curve of my waist with a possessive hunger. There’s no hesitation now, only that desperate need that’s been simmering under the surface for weeks, threatening to explode.

He drags my jacket open and pulls my shirt off over my head, letting them both fall away to bare my skin to the chilly air, but his hands stay warm and commanding as they reach my pants and unbutton them, pulling them off over my boots, somehow.

His mouth crashes down again, this time on my collarbone, biting hard enough to leave a mark but careful not to break skin. I arch into him, my hands fly to his own shirt, and pulling it up over his head with ruffles his curls slightly, which is cute, but obviously I don't say that, especially not while I'm distracted by running my smaller hands over his hard chest and torso down to his belt that I fumble with once more just like before, and it makes me laugh softly, breathily.

Bellamy’s eyes flick down to my fingers fumbling with his belt buckle, the slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, half amused, half exasperated. The tension between us softens just a fraction, and I catch a rare glimpse of the guy behind the hardened guard.

“You struggling?” he asks, voice low but teasing.

I meet his gaze, cheeks flushing despite myself. “Maybe a little.”

He leans in closer, breath warm against my skin, and his hand covers mine, steadying the movement. His fingers are rough but gentle as they work the buckle free, the heat from his touch seeping through the fabric.

There’s a moment suspended between us, no words, just the quiet rustle of clothes and the steady rhythm of our breathing, as I unbutton his pants and push them down to his knees, but I don't touch his boxers, just as he hasn't touched my panties.

His breath hitches, low and rough, as the cool air hits his skin beneath the fabric of his pants. His eyes darken with a mix of hunger and something raw, like he’s barely holding himself together. I reach out, fingers grazing the taut muscles of his thigh before teasingly dragging a nail along the pale line where his boxers end and his skin begins.

He growls softly, teeth grazing the shell of my ear. “You’re taunting me,” he rasps.

I smirk against his skin, voice teasing but breathless. “Am I?”

His teeth catch the sensitive spot just below my ear on my neck, a quick, sharp nip that makes me shiver and laugh softly. “You’re bity,” I murmur.

Bellamy’s lips twitch into a grin. “Only for you.”

I pull back slightly, and I meet his eyes with my own. His pretty brown eyes that aren't all walled up like before.

"You mean that?" I ask faintly.

His gaze softens, fierce and unwavering. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice rough but honest. “Only you.”

The heat between us pulses stronger, a silent promise in that look, needy, unfiltered, and desperate.

I let my hands rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath my palms. For a moment, everything else fades, the weight of the past weeks, the fights, the distance. Just him. Just us.

Bellamy’s fingers curl around my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between our bodies. His breath fans over my lips, slow and deliberate, and I tilt my head up, my lips brushing against his as my breath quickens and I nod frantically.

"Okay, fuck me... Fuck me, now." I pant.

Bellamy's hands slide down to the waistband of my panties as he tries to hide his grin at my words, his touch gentle but charged with urgent heat. His fingers hook beneath the fabric, teasing the edge, then slowly pulling them down, inch by inch, until they slip over my hips and fall to the ground. The cool air grazes my bare skin, making me shiver.

He pauses for a moment, eyes locked on mine, searching, asking without words. I give a barely perceptible nod, but he shakes his head slowly.

"Come on, don't be like that. Use your words, pretty girl." He mutters, and I roll my eyes.

"I already told you to! You're just trying to get me to beg." I reply.

Bellamy’s grin deepens, amused and a little wicked. “Maybe I am,” he admits, his voice low and rough. “But I like hearing it anyway.”

I huff, “Fine.” I swallow hard, heart hammering. “Please, Bellamy. I want you... Hard. Right now.”

That gets a dark spark in his eyes. But of course, he wastes more time.

He lays me down on the ground and reaches between my legs, pressing two thick fingers into me, and curling them upwards expertly. My eyebrows furrow, and my jaw drops as I let my head fall back in a soft moan.

“Say my name,” he asks playfully.

I gasp, voice trembling. “Bellamy.”

“That’s it,” he pants, “Just like that.”

His fingers move with a slow, relentless precision that makes my skin flush and my breath catch. The pressure builds deep inside, igniting a fire that’s been smouldering for weeks, and I arch into him, desperate for more.

Bellamy’s eyes never leave mine, even as mine flutter closed, his are dark, intense, and raw with need as he slides his fingers deeper, curling and pressing just right, drawing soft, ragged sounds from my throat.

His hand cups my hip, thumb brushing along the curve with a possessive touch that sends a shiver through me. The carefulness is still there, always avoiding the spot that aches, balancing roughness and tenderness like he’s learning my body all over again.

When he pulls his fingers free, slick and warm, the ache left behind is exquisite.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly lines himself up, the weight of him pressing against me, grounding me, making the world outside disappear.

Then he pushes inside, hard and deep, and I cry out, breathless and overwhelmed. My arms fly up, one covering my eyes, and my other hand covering my mouth to muffle the sounds.

"Move your fucking hands." He growls.

I hesitate for just a moment, then pull my arms away, eyes wide and raw, blinking back tears from the sharp rush of sensation. His eyes bore into mine, demanding, fierce, unyielding. The world narrows down to the sound of our ragged breaths and the pounding of my heart.

Bellamy doesn’t wait, he starts moving, slow at first, deliberate, like he’s testing the waters, then building, each thrust deeper, harder, claiming more of me. The roughness of his words contrasts with the carefulness in his touch, the way he shifts his weight just so, avoiding the tender spot on my hip but never letting go of me.

I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out, but my body betrays me, arching, trembling with the waves of pleasure and pain mixing in sharp, delicious chaos.

His mouth finds mine again, desperate and demanding, capturing my groan with his teeth. His hands grip my hips tightly, fingers digging into flesh, holding me as if I might disappear.

“God, you’re perfect,” he rasps against my mouth.

His grip tightens on my hips, fingers digging in like he’s claiming every inch of me, hard and possessive. The heat radiating from his body feels like it could burn through steel, and I realize just how much bigger he is; his broad shoulders, thick arms, the way his chest presses down on mine, swallowing me whole.

He drags a rough hand up the side of my neck, tugging my hair hard enough to make me gasp, but not enough to hurt, just that sharp edge of control that makes my pulse race.

My nails rake down his back, desperate and wild, leaving marks I hope will stay, as if I'm protesting against the weight of his dominance. He growls low in his throat, biting fiercely along my collarbone, teeth sinking just enough to sting, making me shiver and moan out loud, no longer able to hold back.

The pounding of his hips and the roughness in his voice echo through me, stoking that fire. I’m loud—too loud—my cries bouncing off the walls, raw and unfiltered, a challenge and a surrender all at once.

My body shudders beneath him, every thrust pounding deep, relentless. I’m screaming his name so loud it feels like the whole world could hear. “Bellamy—fuck—harder!” My voice cracks with desperation, a wild mix of need and frustration, like I’m begging and asking all at once.

“You’re all mine,” he moans lowly, eyes dark with fire as he snaps his hips harder, gripping my waist like he’s holding on to keep from losing himself. His teeth scrape my skin as he nips my shoulder sharply, marking me like I’m his territory, and I arch into him, biting down on my own lip again to keep from crying out even louder.

I can’t help the thoughts flashing through my mind, the ones that make me feel guilty and a little ashamed. How ridiculous it is that I’m here, losing myself in the rawness of him, while part of me still resents the way he owns this moment. “Damn it,” I think bitterly, “why does it have to feel so good when it’s so damn unfair? I’m supposed to be tough, independent… but here, with him, I’m just a mess.”

My nails dig deeper into his back, scraping down his spine, and he shudders beneath my touch, a low growl vibrating in his throat. “You’re loud,” he says between thrusts, voice rough but amused.

“Can’t help it,” I gasp, arching up, breath ragged. “You’re—fucking—too much.”

He grins against my skin, biting again, this time softer, almost like a tease. “You want me to stop?”

“No fucking way,” I snap, voice cracking, “Don’t you dare.”

He laughs low and dark, fucking harder, and I’m drowning in the chaos of it, loud, wild, and utterly lost in him.

My body tightens around him, the coil snapping, and a shudder rips through me like wildfire. I’m crying out, louder than before, voice breaking, breath shattering into ragged gasps as waves of heat and release crash over me. His hand flies to my mouth, muffling the cry.

Then, Bellamy’s hips stutter, his hands gripping me tighter, grounding me as I tremble beneath him. Then his breath hitches, a soft, broken sound—part moan, part whimper—that tugs at something deep inside me. His grip on my hip tightens, trembling just slightly as he pulls me impossibly closer, letting his other hand slide off my mouth and brace his body next to my head.

Bellamy’s body stiffens against mine, muscles trembling as the tension finally breaks loose. His breath comes out ragged, punctuated by soft, desperate moans that barely escape his lips. I feel every shudder, every pulse through his hips as he slows, his grip faltering just enough to let me know how much he’s holding on.

He buries his face in the crook of my neck. The warmth of his breath fans over my skin, shaky and uneven. I reach up, fingers tangling in his hair, holding him close, grounding him just as much as he grounds me.

He stays pressed to me for a long, breathless moment after, his heartbeat pounding against my ribs, slow and steady now, like he’s finally come home.

“Fuck,” he rasps against my skin, voice rough and tender all at once. “You’re… everything.”

I lay there beneath him for a moment longer. "Oh my God, we have to stop doing this publicly. Everyone totally heard." I whisper in embarrassment.

Bellamy lifts his head, hair mussed and damp against my neck, and pulls back just enough to look down at me with that crooked grin I know so well.

“You think anyone heard me?” he teases, voice low and amused. His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face, thumb lingering against my cheek. “Please. You were practically a one-woman alarm system.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I roll my eyes. “Shut up,” I mumble, but I can’t keep the smile off my lips.

He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, tone soft. “If they heard anything, let them know it was worth it.”

I tuck my fingers into his hair again, pulling him closer again despite myself. “I didn't mean to be that loud... You’re such an ass.”

His laugh rumbles against my skin. “Only for you, pretty girl.” He holds me there a moment longer, the world outside forgotten, before reluctantly shifting to stand. I wrap my legs around his waist, grabbing at him to keep him from going anywhere.

He groans playfully under his breath. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you up before somebody really does come looking.”

I nudge him with my hip. “Bathroom first.”

He nods, sliding out of my leg lock and turning as he pulls up his boxers and pants, rebuckling his belt, before bending down for his shirt as I sit up and grab my panties.

I gasp as I take in the mostly faint scratch marks I left on his back, only a few beads with blood, not much at all, but I'm shocked.

Bellamy notices me staring and smirks, shifting his weight so I get a better look at the marks over his own broad shoulder. “You’re proud of those, huh?” he teases, voice low and amused.

I bite my lip, trying to hide the flush creeping up my neck. “Maybe a little. You were so… rough.”

He chuckles, running a hand over the red lines like they’re trophies. “That’s the point.”

I reach out, fingertips tracing one of the scratches gently, watching him watch me. “I didn’t mean to draw blood,” I admit softly.

His grin softens, and he shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologise for being loud, or for marking my back. Hell, I like it.” He steps closer, handing me my shirt. “It means you’re real. That we’re real. Besides, I can cover these, you can't cover these." He says, while brushing my hair aside and running a hand over my neck.

My eyes widen, and I turn to look in a reflective surface while putting my shirt on. My jaw, neck, shoulder and collarbone are covered in red hickies. I spin and face him.

"Bellamy!" I shout in a hushed manner at him.

Bellamy’s grin deepens, amusement sparkling in his eyes as he crosses his arms, clearly proud of his handiwork. “What? They’re badges of honor,” he says with a shrug, voice low and teasing.

I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah, well, you better hope Raven doesn’t see these. She still thinks I'm the most innocent person she's ever met.”

He steps closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You? Really? Let her think what she wants. Those are just for you.”

I meet his gaze, heart still pounding from everything we just shared. “You’re impossible,” I mutter, shaking my head.

He leans in, brushing his lips over my temple. “And you’re worth every impossible moment.”

I wrap my arms around him, holding him tight. I know it caught him off guard by the way he tenses and freezes up. But I can't keep running around and dodging each other like this.

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. Then, slow and deliberate, his hands come up to rest on my waist.

It’s been twenty-four days since we said anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

And even then, it was a grunt. A hand signal. The nod you give someone in passing when you’re not sure if the silence between you is mutual or just… permanent.

I don’t know what I expected after that night behind the mess hall.

Not tenderness. Not anything romantic. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what it was: a breaking point. A brief detour into something physical and raw and necessary, for both of us. A moment carved out of grief and adrenaline, and not wanting to feel like ghosts anymore.

But I thought maybe the banter would survive.

That sharp, snide rhythm we’d fallen into, that thing we’d been doing since day one. He rolled his eyes. Me challenging him back. Both of us pretended we hated it when really, it was the only thing that kept us sane.

But that’s gone now, too.

Replaced by nothing.

Worse than nothing: indifference.

He doesn’t look at me when we pass each other in the hallway between rotations. He doesn’t say my name when he calls out assignments during patrol. He doesn’t linger near the gate when I’m finishing up first shift. Not anymore.

And maybe I’d be able to ignore it if he wasn’t everywhere lately.

Always beside Pike. Always tense. Always angry.

I don’t recognise him like this.

But I know grief. I know guilt. I know the weight of needing something to blame when the nightmares start to feel too much like memories.

So I don’t judge him.

I just watched him disappear... One layer at a time.

And some sick part of me still wants to say thank you.

To give something back.

Even though I know — I know — it was never really about me.

But it still saved me.

And I’m not sure what that makes me now... Grateful, guilty, or just desperate for the version of him that once held my shaking legs over his shoulders like it was the only way to stay alive.

I volunteer for patrol.

Not because I’m the best for it. Not anymore. My body still twinges in weird ways since Mount Weather, the dull ache in my left hip that never fully went away. It flares when I’ve walked too far, stood too long.

But I do it anyway.

Because being useful means being seen.

And being seen, maybe, means being remembered.

Bellamy’s already out there when I’m assigned. Radio clipped to his shoulder, gun slung over his back. He’s standing with two other guards, nodding along to Pike’s morning debrief like he’s memorising gospel.

He doesn’t notice me right away.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t react anymore.

The two guards split off together, leaving Bellamy and me on the other side.

I fall into step behind him when we head out toward the tree line, sweeping east. There’s nothing particularly dangerous out this way, just perimeter checks and clearing brush for supply routes. The kind of work that numbs your brain.

Which is probably why he volunteers for it so often.

I walk behind him for maybe half a mile before my hip starts to burn.

That slow, sharp throb I recognise now, like someone’s carving me out from the inside. I grit my teeth and keep walking, adjusting my stride slightly, pretending it’s nothing.

Bellamy doesn’t look back.

He used to.

Used to notice when I’d lag behind, or shift my weight mid-step. Used to scan my face and snap, “You good?” like it annoyed him to care, but he did anyway.

Not anymore.

Now, he walks like he’s alone.

Like all of us are just scenery.

By the time we reach the clearing, I’m sweating — not from heat, but pain. My hip’s tight, like it’s locked up. I lean slightly against a tree, pretending to check my gear, blinking hard as I try to breathe through it.

That’s when he speaks. First time in days.

“You volunteering for this now?”

Not warm. Not mean. Just flat.

I glance up at him. He’s not looking at me, just scanning the tree line like it might jump out and shoot first.

“Yeah,” I say. “Wanted to be useful.”

“Mm.” That’s all I get.

I should stop. Should rest. Should say something to make him look at me like he did before, when my body wasn’t broken and my mouth wasn’t quiet and he needed someone to touch just to stay human.

Instead, I ask:

“Do you even remember it?”

That gets him. He stills, shoulder muscles tensing beneath his jacket.

“What?”

“That night.”

I don’t clarify. I don’t have to. He knows.

His jaw clenches. He still doesn’t turn.

“It was nothing.”

I swallow. My pulse is loud in my ears.

“It wasn’t nothing to me.”

That makes him turn.

And it hurts. Because I see it in his eyes; the regret, the anger, the want, all slammed behind that thick wall he’s built up brick by fucking brick becuase of stupid Pike. His gaze flicks over me once, quick. My face, my shirt, my legs where they’re braced just slightly from the ache.

“Then that’s your problem,” he says, voice low, hard.

I should walk away. Should limp back to camp and pretend like I didn’t just bare my soul to a guy who can’t even slow down long enough to ask if I’m limping.

But I don’t.

Instead, I take a step toward him.

And another.

And then I drop to my knees in the dirt.

His eyes flare.

“What the hell are you—”

“Shut up.” I snap at him, not even recognising myself.

My voice is sharp, sharper than it’s ever been with him, even when we were fighting. My hands go to his belt, fumbling, adrenaline buzzing through the pain in my hip, overriding everything but this; this need to give something back.

Because he gave me peace that night.

Even if he didn’t mean to.

Even if he wants to forget it now.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Not like this—not when it feels like a transaction, like I’m trading a piece of myself for a second of his attention. My hands pause, hovering at his belt, and for one dizzy moment, I wonder if I’m trying to earn something that was never mine to begin with. This isn’t how I want him to remember me. But maybe being remembered at all is better than being invisible.

His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t stop me.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t say a word.

Just watches, breathing shallow, jaw locked tight like he’s trying to contain a war behind his teeth.

My fingers fumble with the buckle at first, my hands aren’t steady, not from nerves, not really. From rage, from pain, from the ache in my hip and the ache in my chest and the fact that I don’t know how to talk to him anymore without breaking something between us. So I do this instead.

My fingers tremble slightly as they trace the edge of his waistband, the rough fabric against my skin. The warmth radiating from his hips is immediate, grounding me even as everything inside feels like it’s unravelling. I inch my hand lower, pressing against the curve of his body just beneath the waistband, careful not to rush, as if moving too fast would shatter whatever fragile thread still holds us here.

He doesn’t move, not flinching, not pulling away. His breath is shallow, caught somewhere between restraint and something raw, simmering beneath the surface. The tension in his jaw tightens further, as if he’s biting back a storm he refuses to let loose. His gaze is locked on mine, sharp and unblinking, but there’s no anger there now, only something heavier, something guarded.

I slide my fingers slowly, hesitating just a moment as if asking silent permission without words. The faint pulse beneath my touch beats steady, a reminder that despite everything, he’s still real. Still here.

The ache in my hip throbs, a dull fire that pulls at my focus, but I push it aside. This—this act—is something I have to do. Not out of desire. Not out of passion. But out of something deeper: gratitude. Respect. The desperate need to give back what he unknowingly gave me when the world fell apart.

My fingers slip beneath his waistband, and I feel the coarse hair at the base of his stomach, the skin beneath warm and firm. I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I ease his zipper down, the metallic teeth parting with a soft hiss in the quiet woods.

His breath hitches when I slip my hand inside his boxers, fingers brushing against the thick heat of him. He's already mostly hard, his cock straining against the fabric, a damp patch darkening the cotton. I look up at him, needing to see his face, wanting to gauge his reaction.

Bellamy's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and consuming the brown, his gaze intense and unwavering. His jaw is still clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, but his lips are parted slightly, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He looks like he's in pain, but also like he's trying desperately to hold himself back from something, his body coiled tight with restraint.

The morning sun flits off his face in a perfect way that makes him look ethereal. His olive skin glows, and his pretty freckles stand out against the grime on his cheek.

I look back down and I pull his boxers down to where his jeans are at his knees. I grab his dick in my smaller palm and I move hesitantly. Despite my boldness, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

I drag my thumb over his tip, smearing the pre-cum that had just begun to leak down the underside. And as I do so, Bellamy can't help but let out a low, guttural groan. It's the first sound he's made since I dropped to my knees in front of him, and it sends a shiver down my spine. His hips twitch forward slightly, as if involuntarily seeking more of my touch.

I wrap my fingers around his hard length, feeling it throb in my grip. The skin is so soft and smooth, yet firm beneath. I start to stroke him slowly, working my hand up and down his shaft.

As I stroke Bellamy's hard cock, I watch his face closely for reactions. His eyes flutter shut briefly as he bites down hard on another groan, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. A vein pulses along the underside of his shaft as it grows even harder in my grasp, the tip turning a deeper shade of red.

I lean in closer, my breath hot against his skin as I keep stroking. Slowly, tentatively, I flick my tongue out to taste him, tracing the ridge beneath the swollen head of his cock. I then just take him into my mouth as far as I possibly can, and his big hands fly to the back of my head, fisting in my longer hair, making it messy.

I feel Bellamy's fingers tighten in my hair as I take him deeper, his grip bordering on painful. A shudder runs through his body and I can feel the heat of him, the strength, the barely restrained power. It makes my core clench, a rush of wetness flooding my panties at the raw, primal reaction he can't fully suppress.

I relax my throat, taking him even deeper until my nose is pressed against the coarse hair at the base of his stomach. I hold myself there, looking up at him through my lashes, his hard cock throbbing against my tongue. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His thick brows are furrowed together, and a very soft and faint suppressed whine escapes his slightly parted lips that he then licks.

Bellamy's grip on my hair loosens slightly as I hold him deep in my throat, his fingertips brushing against my scalp almost gently now. A shuddering breath escapes him, and I can feel his heart pounding beneath my fingertips where they press against his stomach.

"Fuck..." he grits out, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. His hips twitch slightly, not quite thrusting but not quite still, as if fighting the urge to fuck my face. The muscles in his stomach and thighs are coiled tight, his whole body drawn taut like a bowstring about to snap. I gently scrape my blunt nails along his V-line, trying to see if the muscles would relax.

A shudder runs through him at the contact, goosebumps erupting across his skin. His grip in my hair tightens for a moment before loosening again, as if he's struggling to control himself.

"Quit that..." he breathes out. His chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, and I can see the pulse jumping in his neck, his heart racing from arousal and restraint.

I pull back and I take a deep breath, my face flushing.

I pull back just enough to catch my breath before diving back in, taking Bellamy's thick cock deep into my throat once more. This time, I start to bob my head, finding a rhythm as I suck him off with increasing enthusiasm. I swirl my tongue around his sensitive tip, lapping up the pre-cum that leaks steadily now, the salty taste making my mouth water.

My hands grip his waist, feeling the muscles flex and tense as his hips start to rock slightly, fucking my face with shallow thrusts. I can tell he's trying to hold back, not wanting to be too rough, but I doubt I'd mind if he did. I want it to be good for him, not me.

His hips stutter as I suck, the erratic, shallow thrusts betraying the storm of need he’s holding at bay. I match his rhythm, smoothening it, taking him deeper, letting my tongue swirl beneath the head with calculated pressure. With each bob, I glide my hand up to the base of his shaft, wrapping my fingers around him to ease the tension in his muscles.

He groans, low and ragged, tilting his head back so his gaze finds the sky above the tree canopy. His lashes flutter against his cheekbones as he battles with himself, each breath faster. I press my tongue in small, slow circles to the underside of his cock, right at the sensitive spot where shaft meets head, and his fingers tighten in my hair until pain bleeds in where pleasure floods out.

“Fuck,” he rasps, one hand falling from my hair to grip the back of my neck, guiding me deeper before roughly pulling me up so only the head remains in my mouth.

The moment shatters him. His free hand clenches into my shirt, bunching the fabric at my collar, and he drags me all the way back down onto him, taking my entire length as if desperate for every inch. I gasp around him, warm saliva coating his shaft as I fight the squeeze at my throat; tears spring to my eyes from the pressure and the intensity of his need.

Bellamy's grip on the back of my neck tightens, almost painfully so, as he starts to lose control. His hips piston forward erratically, fucking my face with abandon now, chasing his rapidly approaching release. I can feel the pressure building in my throat, the need for air burning in my lungs, but I don't pull away. I want this, want him to take what he needs.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." he pants harshly, his voice ragged and desperate. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum..."

The pitch and neediness of his voice make me clench my thighs together and my mind reel. He sounds so perfect like this. So open. I just want it to stay this way...

With a guttural, almost feral groan, Bellamy slams my head down one last time and holds me there as his cock pulses and jerks. Hot, thick ropes of cum erupt from the tip, flooding my throat as he finds his release. I swallow desperately, trying to keep up as spurt after spurt of his seed coats my mouth and throat, the taste of him exploding over my tongue.

His grip on my neck is bruising, fingers digging into my skin as his hips spasm and twitch, riding out the intense waves of his climax. His hands shake and loosen, and that's when I continue doing my work.

I bob my head again, tip to hilt, and while I'm at the tip, I use my hands on the rest of the shaft as I move my tongue against his slit.

Bellamy's eyes widen in shock and disbelief as I continue my ministrations, despite his sensitivity after climaxing. A strangled gasp escapes him, his back arching as I take him deep once more.

"That-- fuck! It's too much!" he cries out, voice strained and wrecked. His hands fly to my shoulders, pushing at me in a futile attempt to create distance, but I ignore his halfhearted protest. I can feel him weakening, his grip losing strength as the overstimulation takes hold.

I swirl my tongue around his too-sensitive tip, lapping. I feel his cock already starting to harden and throb again as I continue my relentless assault. I bob my head faster, taking him to the hilt over and over, my tongue never stopping its torturous movements. Bellamy's body shakes, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his skin as he writhes beneath my mouth and my smaller hands that are digging into his hips.

"Hey, I can't... It's too much..." he chokes out, voice breaking. I can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in all of his muscles, his balls drawing up, ready to erupt again. He's teetering along the edge, and I can feel Bellamy's shaft pulsing wildly against my tongue as his second climax hits him with breathtaking intensity. His eyes squeeze shut, and he throws his head back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat.

"Fuck!" he moans, his voice loud but not overly so. His hips jerk erratically as he starts to cum again, completely untouched since his first release mere moments ago. Jets of hot, more watery seed spurt from his cock, the taste of him flooding my mouth as I continue my relentless suckling.

Bellamy's hands scrabble at my shoulders, pushing me back and off as he finishes twitching, his hands shaking as he stands there, looking down at me. I move towards him again, and his eyebrows raise, and he shakes his head.

I cock my head softly, and I just grab his boxers, pulling them up for him as he continues to pant slightly.

“Easy,” I whisper. “We’re finished,” I mumble... And it wasn't just in reguards to the blowjob... I know him, and I know he won't keep this going. It won't work.

Bellamy's chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his skin glistening with sweat. He looks down at me with a mix of awe and disbelief, still coming down from the intense high of his back-to-back orgasms. I can see the confusion in his eyes as I gently pull his boxers up, covering his spent and sensitive cock. He pants, running a hand through his hair.

He takes a step back, needing space to collect himself as he pulls up his jeans and buttons them, before fixing his belt. I stand up and brush my knees off, leaning against a tree to take the pressure off my leg.

Bellamy watches the way I shift my weight, the subtle wince I try to hide as my hip throbs again, dull and constant from the old marrow wound. I glance away, pretending to focus on brushing pine needles off my pants, but I feel his eyes on me like heat.

He says nothing for a moment, just stands there, shirt wrinkled, belt still hanging undone, mouth parted slightly like he’s still trying to figure out how to breathe.

Then, finally, quietly:

“You didn’t have to do that.”

I scoff under my breath, tilting my head just enough to meet his gaze.

“I know.”

Silence stretches between us again, but it’s different now, thick, not with tension, but with something heavier. Not guilt exactly. Not regret. Something else neither of us knows how to name.

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tightening, gaze flicking from my face to my leg and back again. “You’re limping.”

I nod once, no sarcasm this time. “That happens when someone drills a hole in your hip.”

His expression flickers; this time it's guilt, probably. He was the one who pulled me off that table in Mount Weather. The one who got me out. The one who wouldn’t look me in the eye afterwards.

“You should be resting.”

I let out a short breath. “Yeah, well… I’m not.”

He hesitates, like he wants to argue, then lets it go. Maybe he knows better than to try. Maybe he’s too exhausted to fight me the way we used to. Or maybe, for once, we’ve run out of reasons to be enemies.

I push off the tree with a grunt, straightening up as best I can. “We should head back. They’ll be wondering where we are.”

He nods slowly, buckling his belt, making methodical movements. When he’s done, he doesn’t look at me, just turns toward camp, takes a few steps.

Then he pauses.

“Hey.”

I stop mid-step, glancing back.

He still doesn’t face me, “You didn’t do it for me, right?”

My throat tightens. I should tell the truth. Or I should make a joke and deflect and pretend like I’m still the girl who gave as good as she got.

But I don’t.

I just say, quietly, “No. I did it for me.” I lie... I did do it for him because as much as I wanted it to be about respect and gratitude and giving back and all of that... I also wanted him to see me again.

His shoulders shift, tension easing. Like that answer makes everything easier. Or harder. I can’t tell.

Then he starts walking again, and I follow behind, keeping just enough distance to pretend none of it meant anything.

It’s been six days since we killed nearly everyone in Mount Weather.

Six days since the screaming stopped, not in my head, but in the halls. Since we opened the vents and watched radiation do what we couldn’t bear to finish with guns. Since the last innocent face, a child, maybe eight, clawed at the glass of a locked door before slumping forward.

I still see her sometimes. Right before I fall asleep. Right before I wake up.

Camp Jaha’s quieter now. Not calm. Not peaceful. Just... quieter. Grief has a sound. It’s the clatter of half-empty meal trays and conversations that trail off mid-sentence. It’s the way no one plays cards anymore. No one dares laugh. It’s all hush-hush tension, like if we speak too loudly, the ghosts will come running.

The pain in my hip hasn’t gone away. It’s dull and constant, like a pressure inside the bone, an ache that flares every time I sit too long or turn too fast. I don’t limp, not anymore. It’s there. A reminder. That they drilled into me, stole from me. And still, I made it out.

Some didn’t.

Fox, one of my closest friends, didn't make it... Most did, though, thanks to, or because of Clarke, who just abandoned us without a word, and him.

Across the field, I spot him, Bellamy.

He’s leaning against the fence, speaking low to the last night guard before shift change. The light’s catching the angles of his face, casting hard shadows under his eyes. He looks older. Tired. Like someone carved out pieces of him at Mount Weather and left the rest unfinished.

People treat him like he’s two things at once now: a hero and a weapon. They nod when he walks by but never too long. Like looking too close might get you cut. Or draw his attention.

Because Bellamy was the one who did it. He pulled the lever. Just like Clarke, but she left, escaping all the looks he's now burdened with.

Bellamy got our people out.

But he also killed everyone else.

And somehow, I still can’t decide if I admire him… or hate him.

It’s easier to stick with the second one.

We’ve never gotten along. Not since the Ark. I was too loud, too opinionated, too by-the-book for someone like him, a boy used to slipping through cracks and making his own rules. He called me “Princess” once, like Clarke, but with more venom in it. I called him a thug. He called me dead weight. I told him he should try using his brain for once instead of his fists.

That’s how it’s always been: jabs, sarcasm, the occasional shouting match in front of a dozen exhausted faces too tired to care.

But lately, we don’t argue. Not really. We just… stare.

Across fires. Across fields. Across the gap between “we made it out” and “we’ll never be the same.”

He turns now, maybe sensing I’m watching, and for a second our eyes meet.

Just a second.

He talks for around an hour more, while everyone goes to the dorms for curfew. I don't go... I know I should, but I don't want to get up yet. I'm sitting behind the little food area building, my back to the gate. There are no guards on this side because it faces the lake.

I'm hugging my knees and staring at the fire now, most of the camp is obscured from where I'm sitting, besides the sliver I can see of the front gate where Bellamy just was.

My eyes widen slightly when I see him walking over to me.

I didn't even hear him come.

One second, I’m sitting by the dying fire, arms wrapped around my knees, pretending I’m warm. The next, I feel it; that weight he carries, the storm cloud of him pressing into the room like it always does. He doesn't say anything. He never does lately. Just looks at me like he’s daring me to speak.

So I don’t.

I just glance up, meet his eyes, and hold the silence.

His knuckles are red. Bruised, maybe. Mud crusted along his boots. I want to ask where he’s been, what he did, what he had to do, as he always puts it. But he won’t answer. He never does.

Instead, he just watches me like I’m the only thing left in the world that isn’t already ruined. Or just the only person left who doesn't look at him like a martyr.

And then?

He walks straight up to me. Drops to his knees. Doesn’t say a word.

I blink, caught between fight and flight, but my body doesn’t move. I don’t stop him when his hands find my hips. I don’t stop him when his forehead presses to my belly like he’s praying, or punishing himself.

His voice comes out like gravel, low and tight:

“Don’t say anything.”

That’s when I realize.

He’s not here for me. He’s not doing this to win. He doesn’t want control, or victory, or to break me like he usually does with his words and smirks and eyes that know exactly where to look. This isn’t about hate. Not tonight.

It’s about silence.

About forgetting.

About shutting it all off; the guilt, the dead faces, the screaming that never stops unless someone touches you like you’re still alive.

He needs this.

He needs me.

So I open my legs.

Not with seduction. Not with softness.

Just… offering.

I feel like a woman possessed. Bellamy had always made me feel like... Less than the feminist I knew myself to be, though it pains me to think it, it's true.

He slots between my wide thighs, his head still on my belly and massive hands still on my hips, he squeezes slightly, taking a deep breath, his ribs expanding, causing my thighs to open wider.

My hands hover uncertainly above his head. I don't want to ruin this moment for him by touching him, but I also don't want to be awkward like this.

Eventually, instinct wins over hesitation. I let my fingers settle gently in his hair, not pulling, not guiding, just there. Present.

His breath hitches like I surprised him.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he exhales slowly, deliberately, the air of someone trying to let go of something too heavy to carry anymore.

Then he lifts his head and finally looks at me.

Not my face, not yet. He looks at my thighs, my hips, the softness of me, the parts I’ve never felt powerful for having. He looks at me like I’m not a weakness. Like I’m something holy.

And when his eyes meet mine, there’s nothing smug in them.

No challenge. No war.

Just need.

Raw and stripped and unspoken.

“I can stop,” he says. Voice rough. Controlled. Trying.

It undoes me; that offer. That sliver of gentleness from someone like him.

I shake my head.

“No. Don’t.”

My voice is quiet. Not pleading. Not commanding. Just real.

And he listens.

He slides his hands to my front, pulling my belt undone, and unbuttoning my cargos, pulling them down, and I lift my hips to help him in getting them off, my hands falling to my sides again.

He pulls them off quickly, getting stuck on my shoes, which he then pulls off without unlacing and tosses aside like he does with my pants.

It should be awkward, the stumble, the grunt of frustration, the way one boot thuds louder than the other on the floor, but it isn’t.

Not right now.

Right now, it’s just real. No performance. No pretense.

He comes back up, palms skimming the outsides of my thighs as he settles between them again. His hands are big, warm, and a little rough. They pause at the waistband of my underwear, his thumbs hooking just beneath the elastic, waiting.

Not asking permission, he already did that.

Just waiting.

Like he needs a second.

His eyebrows furrow in thought, but I don't say anything, he'd asked me not to, before I just answered a question, and he hadn't asked me anything, so I just stay silent.

I didn’t misunderstand what this is.

It’s not sacred. It’s not tender. It’s not some life-changing, soul-bonding moment.

It’s just necessary.

He needs something to do with his hands. With the wreckage inside his head.

And apparently, this is what he chose.

Me.

So I stay still, my breathing shallow but steady, as he drags my underwear down my legs. He doesn’t do it slowly to savour anything; there’s no indulgence here. Just a kind of practised efficiency, like he’s focusing on the mechanics, on getting through it. And when they’re off, he shifts back up between my thighs like a man returning to work.

I should feel exposed.

Instead, I feel used. Not in a bad way. Not like a thing.

Like a means.

A function.

A distraction.

And in some twisted way… it helps. Knowing this isn’t about me. That I don’t have to be soft or sexy or perform some fantasy. I just have to exist. Be warm, be willing, be here.

His hands return to my hips, squeezing once, grounding himself, and he specifically avoids my drilling site, too. He'd been there when they were taking my marrow; he saved me. He didn't accept my thank you, just got me uncuffed and up, then he handed me off to Miller... but his caution with it now just makes me melt a little.

He slides his hand to my front, my stomach, and gently pushes me to lean back a bit. I plant my hands behind me as I lean back on the log I'm seated on.

Then he lowers his mouth to me like it’s not even a decision; just instinct.

The first swipe of his tongue is rougher than I expected, not cruel, not careless, just focused; it makes my hips twitch back. His nose presses against my skin as he leans forward, chasing me, his breath hot and uneven. He then hikes my legs up over his shoulders, causing the log to slide up to my lower back.

His shoulders are tense under my legs, solid, shaking just barely with something heavy. His hands grip the outside of my thighs like he needs something to hold onto, and it's tight, bruisingly so, but I don't mind.

His mouth opens on me again, tongue dragging from bottom to top, deliberate, broad pressure, and I can’t stop the noise I make; a short, ragged moan that feels like it’s pulled straight out of my lungs.

He makes a sound too; a low groan, muffled and half-growled, like he felt it too. Like he likes the way I sound. The way I taste. His tongue flicks now, firm and fast, then slows to circle, testing how I move, how I react, until I swear my legs are shaking and my hands are gripping the log behind me like I might fall off the earth if I don’t anchor myself.

God, he’s good at this.

Not perfect; not pornographic. He’s real. Messy. So much tongue. No talking. No smirking. Just this maddening, rhythmic pressure that builds and builds until my thighs are clenching around his neck.

He doesn’t mind.

He growls again — actually growls — like he wants me to do it, like the tension in my body gives him something to fight against. He shifts closer, hips pressing into the dirt, arms curling tighter around my legs so I can’t go anywhere.

He’s making me take it.

And I do.

I let my head fall back and my mouth drop open, breathing hard, little gasps breaking free every time his tongue flicks just right: fast-fast-slow, then again, until I’m panting, full-body trembling, heat blooming in my belly like it’s about to detonate.

“Fuck, Bellamy—” I gasp it out without thinking, voice shaking, breath catching. One of my hands flies to his hair, and threads through his curls, pulling at the roots slightly out of pleasure.

His fingers dig in tighter, tongue working faster now — like he wants it, like he needs me to come as badly as I need to do it.

And I do.

Hard.

It rushes up before I can brace for it; sudden, all-consuming, a white-hot crack through the centre of me that makes me arch, makes me cry out, makes me clamp around his neck like I don’t want to let him go.

He doesn’t stop.

Not even when I’m gasping, twitching, pushing back from overstimulation. He licks through it, groaning low against me, like he’s the one coming, like this, my body, my pleasure, is giving him something he hasn’t had since Mount Weather: peace.

He doesn’t stop.

Even when I twitch. Even when my thighs try to close around his face like my body’s begging for a break.

He keeps going, tongue slower now, then fast again, licking through the aftershocks like they’re fuel. His fingers bite harder into my thighs, holding me in place like I might float away if he lets go. I try to shift, to breathe, to say something, anything, but my lungs don’t cooperate. Neither does my mouth.

Only my body speaks, and it’s saying yes, over and over again. Shaking. Shivering. So fucking open it hurts.

“Bellamy—”

It’s barely a whisper. A gasp of warning or plea, I don’t even know which.

But it only makes him groan again, louder this time, almost desperate. The sound vibrates against me, and my hips buck without permission. My whole body jumps, overstimulated and strung out, nerves lit like frayed wire.

And he still doesn’t stop.

He’s grinding his mouth against me now, messier, wetter, rawer; like he’s losing rhythm and doesn’t care. Like this is no longer about control, it's about need.

His tongue moves in sloppy, relentless circles, then drags hard and flat over the spot that makes me jerk. I whimper. I try to pull back, it’s too much, and he chases me again, palms sliding to my hips, hauling me closer, back down onto his mouth like he can’t stand the idea of being without it. Without me.

“Oh my god—fuck—”

I cry out, voice cracked and high and shameless now, because it’s happening again. Too soon. Too fast. And he wants it.

His tongue doesn’t let up, not even when I start to shake. Not even when I can barely breathe. I try to close my legs around his head again, not to stop him, just to hold onto something, and he groans so loudly it shoots straight through my spine.

The pressure inside me coils and tightens and snaps again, a second orgasm crashing down so violently my vision whites out for a second. My back arches hard, I fall back onto my elbows which presses my cunt further into his face, my hands fumble against his hair, grabbing and pulling as my body writhes, overstimulated and fucked senseless by nothing but his mouth.

“Shit—please—” I don’t even know what I’m begging for. Mercy?

But he doesn’t give me that.

Because Bellamy Blake doesn’t do halfway.

He licks me through the second wave like he needs to finish something. Like if I don’t fall apart again, something inside him might stay broken.

My hips twitch with each stroke now, muscles locking up, but he shifts, one of his hands leaving my thigh just long enough to slide down, between my legs, and when two of his fingers press inside me, I shatter.

I scream; it’s not cute, it’s not clean, it’s raw and ragged and completely fucking helpless. My body convulses around his fingers, my clit pulsing against his mouth, and I feel wetness dripping down my thighs, onto his face, his wrist, the earth.

He groans again, filthy and needy, tongue still moving, fingers thrusting slow and deep, curling just right, like he knows my body better than I do. Like he's memorized it in another life.

The third orgasm tears through me, all white-hot static and blinding sensation. No control. Just release. Far too fast after my second, I didn't think it was possible; back-to-back orgasms.

My hands fall away from his hair.

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

I’m limp. Boneless. Wrung out.

And still — still — he doesn’t stop.

His fingers pull out gently, but his tongue? His mouth? It stays. His lips wrap around me again, and he starts to suck softly, too softly, and the sensation is shattering.

I jolt like I’ve been shocked, hips bucking weakly, a choked sob catching in my throat.

“Bellamy—” I gasp it like a warning. Like a prayer. Like a plea.

But he just groans, deep, desperate, and drags his tongue over me again, slow and purposeful. My whole body spasms.

I’m too raw. Too sensitive. Too fucking gone.

“N-No—fuck—Bellamy, please—”

I try to squirm, but I can’t. He’s got me locked in place, hands tightening around my hips as he presses his mouth to me harder, tongue flattening, flicking, devouring. And he’s moaning now, constantly, like he lives off the way I’m shaking and breaking under him.

“Oh my god — I can’t — I c-can’t—”

I’m crying. I don’t know when it started — maybe when he kept going after the third. Maybe when my body started flinching with every pass of his tongue. But I’m crying now, jaw slack, legs trembling violently over his shoulders as he licks and sucks and feasts like nothing matters but this.

“It’s too much—fuck—it’s too much, Bellamy—”

I hear myself. Hear the pitch of my voice spiral into something half-hysterical, broken open and messy, tears streaking down my temples now, sliding into my hairline. My thighs are shaking uncontrollably, twitching like I’m short-circuiting.

And still, he groans. Still, he eats. Still, he presses harder, tongue focused on that exact spot that makes me cry out, not because I want it, but because my body doesn’t know how not to respond.

“Please — p-please, I can’t — I can’t again—”

I don’t even sound like me anymore.

Just raw noise.

Just wet, whimpering ruin.

And then it hits again, the edge, already there, already rising like a wave about to drown me.

“Bellamy—!”

I sob it this time, full-on, hands reaching blindly for him, for anything, gripping at his curls like they’re a lifeline, like if I pull hard enough, he’ll stop, or maybe he’ll never stop. I don’t know what I want anymore.

My hips convulse against him and I scream, loud and sharp, as the fourth orgasm tears through me like a lightning strike. My legs kick, whole body spasming violently, helplessly, my cunt pulsing hard against his mouth like I’m about to fucking pass out.

I’m crying so hard I can barely breathe now. My body won’t stop shaking. My chest heaves, and broken, garbled words fall out between sobs:

“I can’t — please, Bellamy — oh my god, I can’t — too much — too f-fucking much — please—”

And then — finally — finally, he eases off.

His mouth slows. His tongue softens.

One last kiss to my clit, and he rests his head against my thigh, panting like he’s the one who just fell apart. His chest rises and falls against the dirt, shoulders trembling.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do I.

I can’t.

I’m sobbing quietly now, not from pain. Not even from pleasure.

Just release.

Just the overwhelmingness of it all.

He’s still between my legs, forehead pressed to my skin, and my hands are still in his hair, fingers twitching, clenching without meaning to, like I don’t want him to go.

Because despite everything, I don’t.

He turns his head, as if he’s going to start again.

Panic flutters in my chest, soft and breathless, and I shake my head immediately, fingers tightening in his hair, pushing him back gently.

“Don’t—” I whisper, voice cracked, almost hoarse.

He freezes. Looks up at me. Just looks.

Not annoyed. Not confused. Just… present.

I expect him to pull away completely, to leave, maybe. But instead, he shifts slightly and lowers his mouth again, not to where I’m raw and trembling, not to what’s already ruined, but to the inside of my thigh.

His lips brush once, barely there.

Then again, slower.

Then teeth.

I flinch.

Not because it hurts.

But because it doesn’t, not enough to stop him. Not enough to stop the flood of heat it sends, pooling low in my gut again, exhausted and helpless as I am.

He bites again, a little higher this time, the sharp press of his teeth followed by the wet heat of his tongue soothing it. Then he sucks. Harder. Longer. Enough to bruise.

I feel the mark bloom under his mouth, the shape of him seared into my skin. A pulse of ache that belongs to him now, and god, it shouldn’t feel this good, this necessary, but it does.

He groans softly against my leg, not performative, not for show.

Just… because.

He drags his mouth higher and bites again. And again.

A trail of them, up the inside of my thigh. Dark, wet heat. His face a little rough, his breath ragged, his tongue chasing each mark like he wants to taste his own work.

“Bellamy—” I whisper, too broken to mean it as anything but his name. Not a protest.

His hand slides up to my waist, firm, anchoring, and he bites again, just under the crease of my hip, where the skin is softer. His teeth sink in, and I gasp, not from pain, just the sensation.

And then he speaks.

Low. Quiet. Barely more than a breath, like it slips out without permission.

“Good fucking girl.”

It hits me like a slap.

Not praise meant to coax or convince, but a truth pulled from his chest like a growl. It costs him to say it. Like he means it more than he should.

I close my eyes.

Breathe in the scent of earth and sweat and sex and him.

He presses one last kiss to the curve of my thigh; the softest one yet.

Then rests his forehead there again, as if he can’t bring himself to leave. As if I’m the only quiet place left in the world.

We stay that way for what must be an hour.

I don’t know for sure. Time doesn’t feel real anymore. Just the ache in my body and the heat of him, still between my legs, forehead resting on the inside of my thigh like he’s guarding something.

Like if he moves, the world starts again.

But eventually, my head dips. Jerks back up. Then dips again. Falling asleep and snapping awake again.

And that’s all it takes.

He lifts his head slowly, looks up at me, not with a smirk, not with pity, just with that unreadable, shadowed stare he’s so good at hiding behind now. Then he shifts forward, gently guiding my panties back into place with a care that almost breaks me again.

I flinch slightly at the contact, not from pain, just from how tender it is. Like he’s dressing something sacred. Not because it is. But because it’s already been through enough.

Then come the pants.

He lifts my hips like I weigh nothing, and right now, I might. I feel hollowed out. Light-headed and boneless and undone. He doesn’t ask me to move. He just pulls my cargos up with slow, steady movements, pausing briefly at my drilling site, eyes flicking down.

Not touching it.

Just… noticing.

Then he lets the waistband settle low on my hips, leaving it open. No buttons. No belt. Just the shape of me, back in place, barely.

He exhales through his nose, then shifts to my feet.

My shoes are still tossed somewhere behind him, half-laced and muddy. He picks one up, turns it over in his hand like he’s grounding himself with the weight of it, then crouches and starts untying the laces.

Slow. Thoughtful.

One knee in the dirt, like some fucked-up echo of devotion.

He slides the boot over my foot and tightens the laces gently, then does the same to the other. Not rushing. Not fumbling. Just… doing it right. Like he can’t give me sleep, or comfort, or anything that really matters... but he can give me this.

He sits back on his heels afterwards, arms resting loosely on his knees, head ducked like he’s trying to catch his breath without showing it.

I stare down at him, blinking through the leftover haze. My mouth opens once, twice, but no words come out. I don't know what the right thing is. Maybe there isn’t one.

Eventually, his eyes lift to meet mine.

And for the first time in an hour, he speaks.

Not gruff. Not demanding. Just quiet.

“You good?”

It’s a stupid question.

But somehow, it’s perfect.

“Yeah,”

I sit up slowly, palms digging into the log behind me as I push to my feet.

When I sway slightly on my feet, he tenses. Doesn’t reach, just tightens his jaw, just shifts like he might, if I asked.

I don’t.

Instead, I stand there for a second, the air cold between my thighs even with the fabric back in place, the waistband of my pants still open, loose and crooked like I’m halfway between undone and pretending I never was.

He stands a beat later.

Not rushed. Not reluctant. Just… upright. Big and solid and quiet in that Bellamy Blake kind of way; like the earth moves around him, not the other way around.

He dusts off his knees absently, not looking at me right away. When he finally does, it’s sideways, calculating.

“You need water?” he asks. Like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Like he didn’t just bury his face between my legs until I broke open and sobbed into his hair.

I almost laugh.

"Uh, no..." I answer finally, my eyebrows furrowing at the situation. "Just gonna go to bed... It's past curfew."

He nods once. Sharp. Like a soldier. Like a man slipping the mask back on after letting it fall for just a minute too long.

“Right,” he says. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, watching me with that unreadable expression, not cold, but closed. Like something slammed shut behind his eyes, the second I mentioned sleep. The second I reminded us both of what this place is. What are we?

He drags a hand through his hair, his curls messier now, wild from my fingers. Doesn’t fix them. Doesn’t apologize. Just turns slightly, like he’s about to walk back toward the guards’ post.

But then he pauses.

Looks over his shoulder.

And says, low, barely above a whisper:

“Textiles wing’s warmer. Third floor, far end. Fewer people.”

It takes me a second to understand what he’s saying.

He’s not giving me an order. Not asking to come with me. Not inviting himself in.

He’s just… making sure I sleep.

That I sleep warm.

And maybe, in his language' in the language of fighters and fuckups and boys who carry too much guilt to ever say what they feel, maybe that’s a kind of care. Maybe it’s the closest I’ll ever get.

I nod.

Small. Barely a movement.

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t respond. Just turns again, walking off toward the outer perimeter, head ducked, hands fisted in his jacket pockets.

The stars are just barely visible through the cloudy sky when you find him, your best friend Bellamy, he was slouched on the edge of the dropship, forearms resting on his knees, hair wild from the wind. He always looked like this at night. Tired, guarded, lost in thought.

You dont say anything at first, you simply climb up beside him, knees pulled to your chest and arms wrapped tight around them like you're trying to hold yourself together.

You don't need to speak, he just glances over, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching into a small welcome.

"Rough day?" He asks softly.

"Rough week," you exhale.

Bellamy nods like he already knew. Maybe he did. He always seemed to know.

You let the silence hang in the air for a while, the sound of the camp filling it for you. Theres a tightening in your chest tonight, you felt it behind your ribs that no amount of deep breathing or forced smiles had seemed to fix.

"It's not even the camp," you mumble, eyes fixated on the dirt below, "Not the grounders, not the rations, it's-"

"Your boyfriend," Bellamy finishes for you, it wasn't a question, it was just the truth.

You nodded slowly, almost embarrassed he knew.

"I feel like I'm always trying," you admit, voice low, "Like I'm giving and giving, and there's just nothing coming back. No effort, no... closeness. Not really. Not where it counts."

His jaw tightens and you notice it, you always notice everything about him, even when you don't want to.

"He hasnt touched me in weeks," you confess quietly, it sounded almost muffled, "And when he does, its like he's not even there, like I'm some chore."

The second it leaves your mouth, you feel heat crawling up your neck and to your cheeks. You weren't sure why you said that much, you weren't supposed to dump it all like this, especially not the parts about... that. The part that felt too raw, too private, too *intimate*.

You cringe inwardly, heart pounding as you stare down at the ground below you.

Bellamy isn't judging you. You know he's not, he hasn't looked away or given that awkward little laugh people do when they're uncomfortable. He's just sitting there, listening and being him.

Still, your stomach was in knots, its not like you talk about this stuff with anyone, not even your friends, not even your boyfriend. And now you've spiled it like a girl desperate for attention. Youre not even sure what you want from Bellamy. Comfort? Advice?

Bellamy shifted a little, his arm brushing against yours, "Youre not an obligation," he says, voice deeper now, "Not to the right person."

His words hit you harder than you expected.

"I feel stupid for even saying it out loud," you admit.

"Youre not stupid," he says sharply, eyes on you now, not just a small glance, but really looking, "Hes the idiot, you shouldn't feel like this. You shouldn't feel unloved."

Your chest tightens, and you dont realize your hands are trembling until he reaches for one, his calloused fingers brushing over your knuckles. You should pull away, you should excuse yourself, but you dont.

You feel it then, the ache that's been building all week, maybe longer. The desperate need to feel wanted, seen, held.

His eyes glance down to your lips, and that's it, that's all it takes. His lips crash into yours like its been killing him not to. Its not soft. Its not careful. Its needy, all heat and desperation. Like he's been starving and you're the first thing he's allowed himself to taste.

You gasp and his hand slips behind your neck, pulling you closer and deeper as your fingers twist into his jacket, clutching him like you're afraid he'll stop.

There's nothing shy about what youre doing, his lips are warm and hungry.

You make a small sound as his other hand finds your waist, gripping you tight, pulling you flush against him. There's no space left between your bodies, no room for second thoughts.

When you finally break apart, just barely, breathing hard and lips tingling, his forehead rests against yours.

"I've wanted to do that," he pants, "for so long"

Your head tips back instinctively as his mouth trails down your jaw, then your throat, lips parted and breath hot, he's kissing like he's worshipping you. You feel his teeth just barely graze the sensitive spit below your ear, and your stomach flips, heat rushing low in your belly so fast it makes your legs feel weak.

"Tell me to stop," he mumbled against your skin, his voice is deep, unsteady, "If you don't want this, if this isn't what you-"

"I do," you breathe, too fast, too desperate, "I want this, I want you."

His groan is soft but deep, full of his restraint snapping, and you feel it in the way he lays your back flush against the dropship floor.

Your fingers slip under his shirt, following the firm lines of his stomach, the warmth of his skin under your palms. You've never touched him like this before. His breath catches when your hands drag over his ribs, and you feel him tremble, just slightly, like you're undoing him.

"I've thought about this," he says against your collarbone, voice barely above a whisper, "So many times."

You shiver against him, "Yeah?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips red and his expression filled with raw need.

"I didnt think id ever get to touch you like this," he murmurs. "Didnt think you'd ever look at me like that."

You reach up and cup his face, "I always looked at you like that," you whisper.

And when he kisses you again, he does it in a wake like he means to ruin you for anyone else.

You can feel him, hard against your thigh, every bit of his restraint unraveling with each grind of his hips. His hand slips under your shirt, knuckles going slowly over your stomach until he pushes it up and over your head.

"Fuck," he whispers, eyes roaming over you, "Youre so fucking beautiful,"

Heat blooms in your chest, youre not used to being looked at like this, not worshipped, not wanted in a raw way.

He dips his head and licks over your chest, tongue swirling over your nipple until it stiffens, then the other, sucking softly, teasing you while his hand trails down your body, lower and slowly. Your back arches into him instinctively, chasing more, needing more.

"Bellamy-" You gasp, nails scraping his shoulder.

"I've got you," he breathes, fingers finally slipping to unbutton your pants, tugging them down along with your panties in one smooth motion before his mouth trails kisses down your stomach to the one place he wants to be.

Youre already so wet for him, thighs trembling just from anticipation.

"Please," you whisper, and that's all it takes.

He leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh first, kisses that trail closer and closer until finally, finally, his mouth is on you.

His tongue parts you gently at first, tasting, exploring, and then he groans, deep and almost feral, gripping your thighs and pulling you closer to his mouth like he can't get enough.

Your head rolls back against the cool metal floor, "Shit- Bellamy-"

He eats you like he's starving, like youre the only thing that's ever tasted good.

His tongue circles your clit, licking rhythmically while his fingers slide inside you, one, then two, curling just right.

The wet sound is erotic, and you're already close, your body coiled so tight you feel like you might snap.

When you come, it hits like a wave, washing through you with a cry that echoes off the wall. Your legs tremble and Bellamy doesn't stop until you're gasping and twitching, body limp and shaking under his hands.

He leans up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, pupils blown wide, breath ragged.

"You good?" he asks, but it's barely controlled.

You nod, dazed, reaching for him like your body knows exactly what it wants next.

You undo his pants with shaking fingers, and he watches you like he's in a trance, like this moment isn't real.

When you finally push them down, freeing him, you feel a thrill flow through you. He is big, thick, and already leaking, and when you wrap your hand around him, he hisses through his teeth.

"Condom," he manages, though it sounds like its killing him to say.

You watch him grab his pants and dig in the pockets. He opens it and rolls it on with shaking hands, and then your back against the floor, legs around his waist, one his his hands placed under your thigh.

"I dont want to hurt you," he mumbles, forehead pressed to yours.

"You won't," you whisper, "I need you,"

He slides into you slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch, and god, he stretches you so perfectly it knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your nails dig into his back, and his lips find yours again as he starts to move, slow at first, hips rolling deep and steady, building a rhythm that sends heat curling through your spine all over again.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, hips snapping a little harder now, "So tight around me- shit-"

Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, again and again, and you realize you're clinging to him like he's the only real thing in the world.

It's not just sex, it's months of tension, of unspoken words, of all the ways you've needed to be held and seen and loved. His pace fastens, slamming into you now, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls, your moans tangled with his low groans.

Your second orgasm crashes through you even harder, you cling to him, crying out, legs locking around his hips as you pulse around him. Bellamy's thrusts grow erratic and messier, and he buries his face in your neck, breathing you in.

"Im gonna- fuck- I'm coming-"

And then he groans deep into your skin, burying himself inside you to the hilt as he comes hard, shuddering against you.

Silence settles, broken only by your ragged breathing, your sweat-lined bodies still locked together.

Bellamy lifts his head, looking at you like you just changed everything.

"You okay?" he whispers.

You nod, "I've never felt more okay in my life."

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You had a tendency to make a lot of dumb jokes and laugh when you were nervous, blurting out whatever came to mind before you could decide against it, which was ironic since overthinking was a second nature to you. You were shy and got nervous a lot, especially around Rafe. He was your first boyfriend and the hottest guy you'd ever laid your eyes on, neither of which helping your nerves.

Rafe's hands slipped under your shirt to touch your bare skin, holding you firmly on his lap. "Wouldn't you like to know," his smirk was teasing as he pulled back from the kiss to peer up at you.

"Uh, yeah, that's kind of the whole point of asking," you also pulled back, sitting up as you smiled down at him. You liked it when Rafe went along with your stupid jokes, bantering with you to put you at ease. He never made you feel weird or awkward for using humor to cope with your anxiety.

"Well, if you must know, I'm packing heat," Rafe quipped with a mischievous grin, his grip on your hips tightening.

You gasped exageratedly, feigning shock. "You have a gun?" You knew very well what he meant, but when did that ever stop you from saying something stupid?

He snorted, his blue eyes shining with amusement. "Yeah, I have a gun in my pants because that makes so much sense," he replied sarcastically, finding your nervous humor endearing.

"Okay, Mr. Sassypants," you rolled your eyes playfully, your palms resting on his chest as a smile pulled at your lips.

"Mr. Sassypants?" Rafe repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You know, that's not a very nice thing to call your loving, patient, and amazingly sexy boyfriend."

"Well, I can't help that my loving, patient, and amazingly sexy boyfriend is such a diva," you grinned, feeling his chest rise and fall, his heart beating steadily under your fingertips.

"Diva?" He gasped in mock offense, his hands sliding up your sides. "I'll show you a diva." In one swift motion, he flipped your positions, pinning you beneath him.

You laughed, looking up at him with a smile despite the anxiety gnawing at you. He had a way of putting your mind at ease with just one look, and the soothing circles he was rubbing on your skin were definitely helping. He stared back at you, his gaze softening. He loved your smile and the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed. Truthfully, he loved everything about you, even your innate ability to make everything a tad bit awkward.

His eyes searched yours intently, searching for any signs that you wanted him to stop. Noticing his serious turn of demeanor and his intense gaze, you felt your cheeks heat up. "Oh, cmon, don't get all serious on me now," you rolled your eyes, trying to lighten the mood.

"Well, I take my role as your boyfriend very seriously," he grinned, leaning down to kiss your neck. "And, it wouldn't be very boyfriendly of me to let you go on without knowing the wonders of sex."

"Oh, right, of course, it would be for my benefit," you giggled, your heart racing at the idea of being intimate with him. You weren't exactly against the idea, but you were still a virgin, and the idea of being with someone like that was undoubtedly nerve-racking.

You could feel Rafe smile against your skin, his hands sliding farther up your sides. "Uh huh, always thinking of what's best for my girl."

"Wow, who knew you were so selfless?" You giggled, biting your lip as he nipped as your skin. Your fingers slotted into his hair as he continued to kiss and suck at your neck, his hot breath fanning against your heated skin.

"I'm a saint, what can I say?" He mumbled, his tone teasing. He was being careful, trying to reassure you without actually saying anything because he knew you'd prefer to keep things as lighthearted as possible to make you forget about how serious the moment actually was. He could tell you were nervous, and he was determined to make you as comfortable as possible.

"Uh huh, a saint," you smiled as he slowly, tentatively pushed your shirt up your body. He was giving you time to tell him to stop, maybe even slap him if you wanted to, but you didn't. As much as you felt like you were going to die on the spot at the idea of him seeing you naked, you trusted him, and you wanted this.

"I am but a humble servant of my sexy girlfriend," he pulled back from your neck to search your eyes again, pausing for a moment before your shirt revealed your bra. You gave him a small nod, and he smiled, tugging the shirt over your head as you leaned up a little and lifted your arms to help him. He threw the shirt aside, eyes roaming your skin, as if memorizing every detail. "God, you're beautiful," he breathed out.

"Shut up," you said bashfully, your heart beating faster under his intense gaze. There was a voice in the back of your head telling you that you weren't pretty enough for him, that he would hate how you looked, and that was why you preferred to fill the silence with easy jokes and stupid quips. It made it easier to silence that nagging part of you that thought you weren't good enough for him.

"No, I mean it," he insisted, his fingers slowly tracing the lace edging of your bra. "You're like, way too pretty to be real. I mean, look at you." There was a sincerity to his words that he couldn't fake, an edge of awe and pure unbridled devotion that made your head spin.

The way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, the way he touched you like he worshipped every inch of you—it was all overwhelming in the best possible way. It had you scrambling in your mind to say something, anything, even if that something was a dumb dick joke.

"I bet you're thinking about saying something stupid, aren't you?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his face as he leaned down to pepper kisses over your collarbones and down the swell of your cleavage.

"I never say anything stupid," you breathed out, as he kissed the skin that wasn't hidden behind your bra. It made your heart flutter that he knew you so well, but it also made you realize how awfully predictable you were.

"Uh huh and I'm the Queen of England," he retorted sarcastically, reaching up to slide one of your bra straps down your shoulder, kissing the bare sliver of skin that was revealed.

"Oh my God, you are?" You gasped, his remark loading you with the perfect ammunition to say something stupid. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your highness."

"Mmm, flattery will get you everywhere," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as he continued to kiss and touch you, slipping your other strap off. He slowly unhooked your bra, his eyes meeting yours as he paused, asking for silent permission. You bit the inside of your cheek nervously before nodding.

He pulled your bra off almost instantly, his gaze sweeping over your bare chest. You felt so vulnerable beneath his gaze, resisting the urge to cover yourself. "Okay, your turn, pretty boy," you swiftly said, trying to ease your nerves and figuring you might be a little more comfortable if you weren't the only half-naked one.

"Yes, ma'am," He smirked, leaning back to pull his own shirt off, revealing his muscular chest. You couldn't help but stare, eyes roaming over his abs and the way his muscles flexed as he tossed his shirt aside. He settled back over you, his hands sliding up your sides. "Better?"

"You are annoyingly hot," you huffed, finding it completely unfair that someone as perfect as him could even exist, let alone be on top of you right now.

"Aw, you're just saying that because you want in my pants," he teased, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "But I can't blame you, I am pretty irresistible." He leaned down, swallowing the small gasp you let out at his touch as he captured your mouth in a deep, heated kiss.

"That's slander," you mumbled into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck and curling your fingers into his hair as you pulled him closer.

"Mmm, then sue me," he murmured against your lips before trailing kisses along your jaw and down your neck, slowly making his way to your chest.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of his soft lips on your skin. He was ridiculously skilled with his mouth, knowing exactly how and where to kiss you to drive you crazy. "Yknow what, maybe I will," you retorted breathlessly, your chest rising and falling a little faster.

"I think we can come to some sort of settlement out of court," He paused, his hot breath washing over your skin before he slowly, deliberately wrapped his lips around one of your peaks, swirling his tongue around it. "What do you think?"

Your lips parted at the feeling, intaking a sharp breath of air. "Uh, yeah, yknow that could work maybe," you grinned, your fingers gently tugging at his hair as he ravished your tits with attention.

"Mmm, I thought it might," he hummed with a cocky grin, switching to give equal attention to your other breast, your back arching ever so slightly, urging him closer. He smirked against your skin, making his way lower and leaving a trail of wet kisses in his wake. His hands slid down your sides to your hips, fingers curling around the waistband of your pants.

"Hey, wait, I don't want to be naked first," you protested, only half joking. You would rather die than be fully naked in front of him while he sits there with his clothes on.

"Oh, trust me, I have no intention of leaving my pants on any longer than necessary," He assured you with a mischievous grin, slowly unbuttoning your jeans, his knuckles brushing against your skin.

"Yeah, 'cause you're a freak," you grinned, moving on to the making fun of your boyfriend portion of the program in an attempt to soothe the pit of nausea in your stomach. You were kind of scared, not that you wanted to be lame and admit that.

"Hey, I resent that," He protested, but his tone conveyed the opposite message as he tugged your jeans and underwear down your legs in one smooth, expert motion, his gaze never leaving yours. "I'm just enthusiastic, that's all."

"Enthusiastically a whore," you snorted, letting your head fall back, staring at the ceiling. You'd really rather not see yourself naked right now, not with the amount of anxiety already coursing through your veins. You did not need a reminder of what Rafe was seeing.

"Whore?" He teased, his fingers dancing along your inner thighs. "I think you mean an amazing boyfriend who loves you and wants to make you feel good."

You hummed thoughtfully. "Uh, no, I'm pretty sure I mean whore," you grinned, reluctantly looking down at him despite yourself.

"Well, this whore is about to rock your world," He smirked, slowly trailing kisses up your inner thigh, gripping your hips. "Just relax and let me do all the work." His voice was low and seductive, his intentions clear.

"You're such an idiot," you laughed at his cheesy choice of words, a little nervous that the witty banter would have to be put on hold. He can't exactly respond to your sarcastic remarks with his mouth occupied.

He hummed, his breath hot against your core. Your breathing picked up, and you were unsure whether it was anticipation or if you were on the verge of a panic attack.

He slowly dragged his tongue along your slit, groaning at your taste on his tongue and the subsequent gasp that fell from your lips, making his painfully hard cock twitch in his jeans. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them further apart and opening you up to him. He had dreamed of this moment, imagined this exact scenario about a half a dozen times as he got himself off, and now that it was actually happening, he was going to relish every moment.

He began to eat you out like a man starved, his tongue delving deep inside your tight heat, familiarizing himself with every inch of you. His nose nudged at your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you that pulled a low whine from your throat. Your fingers threaded into his hair, moaning at the unfamiliar pleasure.

His fingers replaced his tongue, his mouth moving up to the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucking it into his mouth, determined to send you over the edge. He pushed his fingers deep inside and curled them, finding that spot that made your back arch and your hips buck against his mouth.

"Rafe," his name left your lips a breathy whimper as your head fell back against his pillows. Rafe was no stranger to having women under him, writhing and moaning his name, but something about it being you made him crazy. It took all his self-control not to blow his load in his pants right there and then.

He redoubled his efforts, eager to make you cum, rubbing that sweet spot inside you with ruthless precision and sucking on your clit, his tongue swirling around your sensitive nub. Another moan fell from your lips, your grip on his hair bordering on painful as you felt your orgasm wash over you, your legs practically shaking at the intense pleasure.

He groaned as he felt you spasm around his fingers, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to catch your breath. He slowly pulled away, grinning as he took in your dazed expression. He carefully slipped his fingers from your quivering hole, bringing them to his mouth. He couldn't help the moan that rumbled low in his throat as he tasted you on his tongue. God, you were perfect.

His eyes flicked up to yours as his tongue darted out to lick his lips clean. "Good, huh?" He asked, his tone smug. He knew it had been good, but he wanted to hear you say it.

"I'm gonna slap that stupid look off your face," you playfully rolled your eyes, your skin practically burning up with embarrassment.

"I think that would take our case from a civil lawsuit to a criminal assault charge," he grinned, calling back to your previous joke about taking him to court. He positioned himself over you again to press his lips against yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"It's my first offense and a misdemeanor," you mumbled into the kiss, cupping his face. "Worst I'll get is a fine, so... totally worth it."

"Okay, smartass," he pulled away, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, gazing down at you lovingly.

"Just saying," you smiled softly up at him, his hair falling into his face and his blue eyes sparkling. He really loved you, and it was evident just from the way he looked at you. He'd never felt anything like it before. He loved you so much it terrified him.

But, of course, you had to ruin the moment of peace because shutting up was not something you were wired to do, especially not in the face of such charged silence. "Your little friend is poking me again," you blurted out the words before you could stop yourself. Little friend? You really couldn't have come up with anything else?

Rafe couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips as he rocked his hips against you, making you gasp softly. "He's just happy to see you." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned down at you, his fingers absently tracing along your side.

"Okay, well, can you tell him I don't really know him like that, so maybe he should calm down a little bit," you couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but you loved it, and you loved him. He understood you in a way you never thought you'd be understood by anyone.

"He says he's not planning on staying a stranger for much longer," he smirked, his hips rolling against yours.

"This is actually so stupid," you giggled, your hand covering your mouth as you laughed beneath him.

"Oh, now it's stupid?" He rolled his eyes, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "You're the one who started it."

"Shut up," you smiled, leaning up to kiss him. "Okay, okay, you can... start now, I guess," you said awkwardly. There was only so long that you could stall with stupid dick jokes. Besides, you felt a little bad that he had been so patient and undoubtedly, extremely hard.

"About time," he murmured with faux annoyance, his voice low as he fiddled with his belt buckle and pulled it through the loops, tossing it aside before popping the button on his jeans and slowly unzipping them.

You sucked in a breath, trying to calm your nerves as the sound of him pulling his jeans off seemed to echo through the room. You wanted this. You knew you did, but you couldn't help the pit of fear in your stomach.

He paused, feeling your body tense beneath him as you took a deep breath, a sign he knew all too well. "Hey, look at me," he coaxed softly, cupping your face and stroking your cheek with his thumb. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. We can wait if you're not ready. Just tell me to stop, and I will, no questions asked, no hard feelings. We can just forget all about it," he reassured you.

Your heart fluttered as you heard your boyfriend's words, meeting his gaze and seeing the sincerity behind his eyes. "No, I- I want to. I'm just... scared, yknow," you bit your lip nervously, mentally kicking yourself. You always seemed to be scared. There probably wasn't a single thing in the world that you weren't scared of.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," he soothed, pressing gentle kisses to your face, your neck, your collarbone—anywhere he could reach. "There's nothing wrong with being scared. It's your first time. If you weren't scared, that would be a little concerning."

You laughed softly at his words. "You just make sure you wrap it up. I don't know where you've been," you joked. "Safe sex is great sex as the Lil Wayne once wisely said."

He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Lil Wayne, huh? I didn't know he moonlighted as a sex ed teacher." He reached into his bedside table, pulling out a foil packet and waving it in front of your face. "But don't worry, I'm always prepared."

"Jesus, that's a lot of condoms," you said, peering into his drawer and seeing way more condoms than you realistically thought one person would need. "You are a whore of massive proportions. Like, literally a menace to the female population."

"Oh, hush," he grinned, tearing open the packet and rolling the latex down over his length. "I bought them in bulk. You know, for... emergencies," He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, leaning back down to press kisses to your skin once more.

"Eugh," you giggled, your face scrunching up in disgust. "I genuinely do not want to know what a sex emergency is."

"Hey, a guy's gotta be prepared, okay?" He murmured against your neck, his breath warm. "Now, are you going to keep talking, or are you going to let me kiss you and calm you the hell down?"

"Yo, I am literally so calm," you rolled your eyes, lying through your teeth in the name of comedy and also not sounding like the total little loser virgin you were. "So calm and so chill. Literally have never been calmer or chiller in my life."

"Uh-huh," he hummed, clearly unconvinced as he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, his fingers slowly trailing down your side, his touch gentle. "Because nothing says 'calm and chill' like sex jokes and rambling like you're on speed."

"Well, I can't help that I'm the funniest person alive," you argued, the realization dawning on you that you were naked, and he was naked, which meant there was only so many more sex jokes you could make before the sex actually commenced.

"You're not even in the top five funniest people I know," he teased, his fingers reaching your hip as he slowly pulled you closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours.

"Oh, you got jokes, huh?" You grinned, nervously giggling when you felt his tip nudge at your entrance. "You better take that back if you wanna get laid tonight."

"I think I'll stick with my original statement," he said, his voice low and husky as he pressed forward, the head of his dick pushing into you slowly as he rubbed soothing circles on your hip. "You're just not funny enough to make the cut, sweetheart."

You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, wincing at the painful sensation. You grabbed his bicep for support, digging your nails into his arm. "Liar," you joked weakly, your chest heaving as you breathed through the intrusion.

"Shh, just breathe," he whispered against your neck, his voice low and soothing as he paused, letting you adjust to the foreign feeling. "You're doing so good, baby. You're taking it like a champ."

"Okay, don't call me champ while you're inside me," you grimaced, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted as you slowly adjusted to having him inside you.

"You okay, baby?" He asked softly, pushing the slightest bit further into you as he examined your reaction closely.

"Oh, yeah, just peachy," you said sarcastically. The pain was gradually starting to fade, making the whole thing more enjoyable by the second. Though, the pressure between your thighs was intense.

"Mhm, you're a real ray of sunshine," he chuckled softly, pushing the rest of the way into you, his body shuddering as he bottomed out. He was as deep as he could go, his hips flush against yours.

You gasped as he pressed all the way into you, your grip on his bicep tightening. "You're gonna look like you got mauled by a lion after this," you panted out, apologetic for the involuntary response.

"I'd wear that badge of honor proudly," he said, his voice thick with amusement as he slowly began to move, his hips rolling against yours in a gentle, soothing rhythm. "Now, shut up and let me make love to you."

"Don't say 'make love' either. That's so gross," you giggled softly, a breathy moan falling from your lips as he set a slow, pleasurable pace.

"Then what would you prefer I call it?" He murmured, his lips brushing against your ear as he continued his steady movements, the friction building between your bodies. "'Coitus'? 'Intercourse'? 'Fucking'?" He punctuated each word with a sharp thrust of his hips.

You moaned, your head falling back against the pillows and brows pinching in pleasure. Okay, you were definitely starting to see what all the fuss was about. "Let's just not refer to what's happening right now as anything at all."

"Mhm, I can work with that," he hummed, his pace picking up slightly as he felt you start to relax more, your body welcoming his thrusts. "Just focus on how good it feels, baby. Let me take care of you."

He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours and kissing you deeply as he continued to fuck you with a pace that demonstrated his love and devotion to you. He never thought he would be one for slow, romantic sex, but he didn't think he was into a lot of things before he met you. You had a way of making him discover things about himself he was completely clueless to.

As he kissed you, he slowly shifted his hips, changing the angle of his thrusts to hit that particularly sensitive spot inside you. He felt you tense up, a sharp gasp escaping your lips into the kiss, and he smiled against your mouth. "You like that, huh?"

"You're such an ass," you grinned, your fingers curling into his hair, back arching into him as his tip continued to hit that spongy spot inside you, the pressure low in your abdomen building.

"Maybe so, but you love it," he smirked against your mouth, his hands gripping your hips as he increased his pace, his hips snapping forward in a steady rhythm. "And you're gonna come for me again, baby. Aren't you?"

Your mouth fell open in pleasure, your breath hot against his lips. "uh huh," you nodded, your eyes fluttering shut. He was a cocky motherfucker, but he was hot and he put up with your shit, so it was only fair you put up with his in return.

"That's my girl," he purred, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit as he continued his relentless pace. "Come on, baby. Let me feel you. I want to watch you fall apart for me."

You gasped sharply at the added stimulation, his name leaving your lips in a whine as you tensed around him, sent over the edge for the second time.

He groaned as he felt your walls clench around him, the sensation of you practically choking his dick sending him into his own release. "Fuck, you feel so good," he panted, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself into the condom with a low moan of your name.

Your walls pulsed around him as you slowly came down from your high, relaxing into the mattress. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, your whole body on fire and coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

He collapsed on top of you with a satisfied hum, peppering gentle kisses along your neck and collarbone as he softened inside you. "I love you, you know that?"

"Good 'cause otherwise this would be pretty awkward," you laughed breathlessly, gently raking your nails over his scalp soothingly. "But, seriously, I love you too," you added quietly after a beat of silence.

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