djo cinematic universe

But none of that explained why his heart beat a little faster when you were near, why he felt so desperately sad when you didn’t stay the night or why when he saw you talking to Ryan Williams at a party he wanted nothing more than to punch the nearest wall (or Ryan, whichever was more satisfying).

He was being stupid—he knew he was. You were technically not even friends. In fact, when you weren’t fucking each—you two were arguing. Not only that but you and Steve were not together and you were able to talk to any guy you wanted.

But it didn’t mean it didn’t kill him a little inside when you laugh at something Ryan had said while Steve watches from across the room.

Fucking Ryan.

Steve was deep in some sort of twisted daydream of socking Ryan in the face when someone taps his shoulder.

He turned around and was met with a pretty brunette who looked vaguely familiar. Amy something, or maybe it was Amanda, some girl who he had gone to high school with. Some girl who was fluttering her lashes at him and giving him every opportunity to be his distraction for the evening. He briefly considered it, knowing it would have certainly made him feel a little better about you and Ryan.

But he didn’t give in. Because despite the fact you annoyed the fuck out of him, he loved you. He knew it now he had seen you with someone else. He really fucking loved you. And he knew fucking someone else wasn’t going to stop that.

And so, instead of going upstairs with Amy or Amanda or whatever her name was, Steve went home. Trying not to think about you going home with Ryan, trying not to think about Ryan kissing you or fucking you or—

The sound of his phone ringing as he grabs a drink of water pulls him out of his thoughts. He didn’t know how but he knew almost instantly that it was you calling. And so, Steve answers. Because of course he does.

“Hi,” was the first thing he says when he answers the phone, trying to keep his voice casual, normal, like his heart wasn't beating out of his chest already. 

“Where—wherey’d you g-go?”

From the sound of your voice, Steve could instantly tell that you had been crying.

He felt his stomach drop instantly,

“Home,” he says, sitting upright instantly and straining to listen to the sounds of the party around you. But there was none. No music, no drunken yelling, no Ryan—

“Baby, where are you?”

The petname slips out before he could stop it. He only ever used it when he was feeling particularly needy—when you were on top of him, tits bouncing in his face and fucking yourself on his cock. When you would slowly roll your hips just as he was about to cum, making him lose his damn mind. That was the only time he called you baby.

Until now, that was.

“I-I left,” you tell him in a small voice. “I sa-saw you g-go and I—”

“Where?” Steve interjects, already standing up and grabbing his car keys that lay nearby. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you and I—”

“—I th-think I love y-you, Stevie.”

Everything stills. Time itself seems to slow down. Steve feels as though he has forgotten how to breathe. Because you felt the same, you felt the same.

But he couldn’t focus on that right now. Not when you were god knows where, sad and probably alone.

“I—I’m sorry I just—I saw you and Amanda and I—I—it felt like my whole world ended and then you were gone and I thought—”

“Tell me where you are,” Steve demands of you somewhat gently, jaw clenched as the words you had just uttered make him feel things he had been trying to ignore for months. “C’mon baby, I—I just need to see you so tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you tell him you were at some payphone right outside of Melvald's and Steve tells you not to move, tells you to stay exactly where you were.

Steve drives to Melvald's, breaks a few traffic laws on the way that he wasn’t proud of but he makes it to the parking lot outside the store in less than five minutes. 

He spots you almost instantly, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs as if it could protect you from the cold.

Steve practically stumbles out of his car in his haste to get to you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking off his jacket without even a second thought and dropping it over your shoulders. “What were you thinking? Walking home alone like this, why didn’t you—”

“—be-because I thought you l-left,” you say quietly, your eyes shining as you look back up at him. “A-and I th-thought you left wi-with Amanda and—”

“—no,” Steve says with a shake of his head, dropping down onto the sidewalk beside you so he could cup your face with one hand to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen. “No, I didn’t go home with her. I-I wouldn’t do that.”

You breath hitches, you try not to think too much about the implication of those words but it was impossible not to do that when he was so close to you.

“Why?” You ask him quietly, barely daring to look away from him for even a second. “Why wouldn’t you—”

“—because I—because I love you too.”

Your eyes widen, lips part and Steve looks momentarily terrified that he’s said something insanely stupid, that perhaps maybe he had misheard you over the phone when you had told him you loved him.

But then you’re leaning in, closing the gap between you and pressing your lips firmly against his.

The kiss was anything but romantic—it was desperate, your fingers running through his hair as his hands roam over your body, grabbing at your thighs, your ass, anywhere he could touch, as though he was trying to map it out. It was the sort of kiss that left your core aching, made you want to pull him into his beamer and let him fuck you until sunrise. 

You weren’t sure how long you made out with Steve Harrington on the sidewalk but you knew it was Steve who was the first to pull away. You let out a noise of protest, something between a whine and a whimper as your eyes flicker down to his lips that were swollen from your kiss and covered in a mix of your spit. 

“Why did you—”

Steve presses his finger against your lips, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Because my girl deserves the best,” he tells you simply, the words making something in your gut squirm, the look in his eyes making your cunt clench around nothing.

You feel one of his hands brush along the bare skin of your leg. The subtle touch starts a fire in your gut, your eyelids flutter as he slowly drags his fingers up to your thigh in a tantalising dance that makes your blood hum with need.

“So let me take you home and then—”, he murmurs, fingers disappearing beneath your skirt and pressing his fingertips firmly against the damp patch that had formed in your panties. The moan that leaves your lips as a result should be embarrassing but you found that you didn’t care all that much when Steve’s fingers were circling your clothed clit, when you could see the thick outline of his cock through his jeans, “—then I’ll take care of you. Give my girl what she needs, yeah?”

You couldn’t do anything but nod your head frantically. Because he had called you his girl, his girl, his girl.

Steve wastes no time before he leans to kiss you again—this kiss much softer, gentler, everything you and Steve had never got the chance to be. He can’t help but smile into the kiss because when it came to you? It was hard not to fall but you had been right there to catch him.

dividers and banner by me 🌸

please credit me if you wish to reuse

.✦ ݁˖ rec account: @moonstone-recommends .✦ ݁˖

Currently, you're most unsure of why you're still at the hockey house. They won their game tonight. Another easy accomplishment for the university's team, unsurprisingly led by Steve, their superstar player and shoo-in for captain next year. You've heard that he's already getting scouted by NHL teams, but his golden boy repute means that he'll finish his degree before heading off to a fruitful career as a professional hockey player.

You scoff at the thought. You try not to let the jealousy build in your body, but you can't help it — Steve's gotten everything he's wanted since the beginning of time. You don't need to know him to prove your point; he just radiates that very fact.

So, again. Why are you laying on a lounge chair in the backyard of the hockey house, fully knowing the party is dead and there's nothing left for you to do but go home?

You know you could go inside, make eye contact, and flirt with any one of the remaining players who are sober enough to make a conscious decision, and find enough warmth for the night to get by.

But you don't want to do that.

For some stupid, pathetic reason, you're holding out for him, and you have no idea why.

You sigh and pull the cigarette from behind your ear, then grab the lighter from your bra. You feel like you've made an idiot of yourself over the past few weeks. Ever since Steve initially propositioned you, you've slept with three of his teammates, for no reason other than wanting him to know what it feels like to want something. But each time you fucked them, it was boring, wearisome, and you thought about Steve the entire time.

You hate it.

You think you hate Steve, too, but you know that's not true, either.

You're taking a drag and staring at your shoes when the man who's been haunting your thoughts finally makes an appearance in the dark backyard. There's still a string of lights up, a pitiful attempt at college students making their outdoor space look presentable, not to mention the litter of empty, crushed beer cans and solo cups.

Steve furrows his eyebrows when he recognizes you, immediately worrying that you're passed out with a lit cigarette in your hand, or too drunk to get home. When he approaches you, you smirk lazily at him. He swallows.

"Harrington," you greet, your throat dry from its lack of use. You don't know how long ago you came out here, but you do know that at some point, you decided you'd had enough of the loud speakers and beer pong, and the guy on the basketball team who kept pawing at your short skirt was getting seriously old.

"Are you alright?" Steve asks, gesturing to your sluggish profile. You shrug your shoulders before taking another drag from your cigarette, then wordlessly offer it to Steve. He shakes his head.

"Fine," you murmur, sitting up so your back is against the length of the chair, "You?"

"Just doing a sweep before heading to bed. Making sure there's no one lingering from the party."

"Am I a lingerer?" you ask, tossing your cigarette in the grass and crushing it with your shoe.

Steve lifts a hand to run it through his messy hair. He's exhausted. You can see it in the bags beneath his eyes.

"You don't live here, so by definition, you're lingering, yeah."

You hum. You can take a hint. You know when you're not wanted somewhere.

"I'll get out of here, then." you say, preparing to stand. Steve reaches out and clasps a hand around your wrist — gently, like you could still pull yourself away if you wanted to.

"Why are you still here?"

Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips. Steve watches, unabashedly, and feels his pants tighten at the sight of it. You want to smirk, because he's one of the easier and more enjoyable men you've played with.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" you purr, leaning towards him, batting your eyelashes. "You were begging to fuck me just a few weeks ago."

Steve laughs, all breathy and without the humor. It's an immediate shot to your ego.

"Are you drunk?" he asks, and you shake your head too quickly. You're not; the shots you had when you got here had worn off hours ago. "Then why are you... I think I'm just a little... confused."

You snort. Try not to roll your eyes. Maybe the golden boy nickname isn't so far anyway.

"You're gonna turn down fucking me when you were all but ready to pay me for it, like, a month ago?"

"I'm not that desperate," Steve mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face, "You were so uninterested then, I don't understand what changed."

You shrug. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Steve says stubbornly, "It does. It matters a lot, actually."

You sigh loudly, then shake your head.

"This is stupid," you mutter, standing up. He doesn't stop you this time. "Don't come to me for that shit ever again."

When you start to walk away, Steve's right behind you, and you wish you're strong enough to push him.

"C'mon, don't do this," you hear him say as you're approaching the sliding glass door. "It's late. Just stay here for the night."

You stop, then turn to look at him with a quirked brow.

He shakes his head. "We're not doing anything though. Not tonight, anyway."

"I don't understand what your problem is, Harrington."

He laughs, tilting his head back to expose his neck. You want to lean forward and mouth at his skin, pressing messy kisses to the length of it all the way down to his chest.

"I don't have a problem."

"Most guys would never shut me down," you say, crossing your arms. "I could go in there and ask any one of your teammates to pound me into their mattress and—"

Suddenly, Steve's hand is on your mouth, a warning look in his eyes. You grin. Even if he can't see it, you know he can feel it from behind his palm.

"Lower your voice," he mumbles. "Will you please just stay? You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the floor, I'll send you off with some breakfast in the morning and everyone will think that we fucked, and it'll be fine and dandy. Yeah? That good enough for you?"

You dart your tongue out to lick his hand. He flinches and instantly retreats, making you laugh.

"God, you're such a baby. Afraid you're gonna get cooties?"

"No."

"Take me upstairs," you say, and Steve's eyes brighten. He must really have some kind of white knight complex and it makes you sigh. "But you're not sleeping on the floor, because we're not 12 years old, and just for the record, I'm not doing this for some kind of reputation maintenance thing."

Steve hums as his hand politely finds the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs and to his bedroom.

"We can sleep in the same bed as long as you promise not to make a move." he murmurs. You stop in front of a wooden door in the middle of the long hallway, waiting as Steve pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it.

"I would never do that," you whisper. "Seriously, do you think I'm a monster?"

Steve doesn't say anything to that, and instead just leads you into his room. He locks the door behind you and you glance at him. He's already moved on to emptying his pockets onto his desk, getting rid of his wallet and keys. There's not much to Steve's bedroom, just a bed, a dresser, and a desk, but it's clean enough for a college athlete. Your eyes glaze over the small collection of pictures tacked up on the wall over his desk, then some of the hockey paraphernalia throughout the room.

"You want something to wear to bed?"

You look to Steve and nod, and he tosses you a large, worn tee-shirt. You bite your lip as you start to strip your clothes off and you hear Steve curse to himself, making you smirk.

"You could've gone to the bathroom for that, you know," he borderline whines. You grin at him in your bra. He groans and turns around.

When you've shed the rest of your clothing and slipped his shirt on, you tell him he's in the clear. He rolls his eyes and quickly puts his own sweats on, then joins you in the bed.

It's not quite awkward, but you're not exactly going straight for cuddling, not that you had anticipated Steve to be the type. He clicks the light off and lays down next to you, both of you silent as the late hour finally catches up to you.

A few minutes later, Steve breaks the silence.

"Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me tonight?" he whispers.

You blink your eyes open and think for a moment.

You don't have the courage to be honest with yourself, which means you most definitely don't have the courage to be honest with Steve.

You roll onto your side to face him. He does the same, and you lick your lips.

"No," you murmur, hands resting between your cheek and the pillow. "Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me the night of that party?"

Steve closes his eyes and scooches closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You're a little surprised by the contact, but you tell yourself you let it happen because you're tired and it feels nice.

You’d let him in without hesitation. Steve had become your person over the past couple of years. The one who always had your back, who made you laugh when the world felt too heavy, and who never treated you like you were just another girl from the past. Platonic, mostly. Sure, there were moments: the way his hand would linger on your lower back when guiding you through crowds, the late-night phone calls where his voice got soft, or how he’d stare a beat too long when you wore something that showed skin. But you both played it safe. Friends. Best friends.

The evening unfolded like so many others. You sprawled across the couch, legs tangled casually as the first horror movie played. Steve kept up his running commentary, mocking the bad special effects and dramatically pulling you closer during the jump scares “for protection.” Pizza grease on your fingers, stolen sips from each other’s drinks, laughter echoing through the house. By the second movie, the vibe had shifted into something warmer, lazier.

The final credits rolled across the TV screen as the second movie wrapped up with a ridiculous jump scare that made you both groan and laugh. Steve stretched his long arms overhead, his polo riding up just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach, before shooting you that lazy, warm grin. “Alright, I’m officially wiped. Your couch is great but my back is not built for another horror marathon tonight.” You nodded in agreement, feeling the post-movie haze settle in, and stood up, tugging your shirt down. “Come on, let’s head upstairs to my room. Way more comfortable and I’ve got actual blankets that don’t smell like popcorn.” Steve didn’t hesitate, grabbing the last couple of sodas and following you up the stairs with easy familiarity, the two of you still trading jokes about the movie’s terrible plot as you pushed open the door to your bedroom. The cozy space felt even more inviting in the low lamplight, and Steve flopped onto the edge of your bed like he belonged there.

You slipped into the bathroom attached to your room to change into something more comfortable. The cute little top you’d bought on a whim was calling your name: soft fabric, a hint of stretch, and yeah, it dipped low in the front. You wiggled into it, adjusting the straps, but the way it sat on your chest was… a lot. The cleavage stared back at you in the mirror, full and impossible to ignore.

“Ugh, these things are just too much,” you blurted out loud, half to yourself, half because Steve was right there in the next room and you had zero filter with him anymore. “Taking up so much damn space, it’s annoying as hell while trying to wear something cute.”

The bathroom door was open a crack, your mistake. Or maybe not.

Steve had been lounging on the edge of your bed, flipping through an old magazine, but at your words his head snapped up. You caught his reflection in the mirror as he stood, drawn like a magnet. He pushed the door open a little wider, leaning against the frame with that effortless cool he always wore, even when his brain was short-circuiting.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, eyes widening. He didn’t even try to hide it. His gaze dropped straight to your chest, slow and deliberate, tracing the swell of your breasts pushed up by the top. A long, appreciative look that made heat rush to your face. “You really just said that out loud?”

You turned around, arms half-crossed under your boobs which only made them look even more prominent. “Steve! I thought you wouldn’t hear me. Perv.”

He laughed, that rich, warm sound that always loosened the tension in your shoulders, but there was a husky edge to it tonight. “Hey, I’m just a guy. And you can’t drop a line like that and expect me not to investigate.” His eyes flicked up to meet yours, brown and sparkling with mischief, but there was real heat there too. “Too much? Annoying? Sweetheart, you’re standing there looking like every guy’s late-night fantasy and complaining about it?”

He stepped fully into the bathroom doorway now, close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of popcorn from earlier. Not touching, but definitely invading your space in that friendly-yet-not way he did so well. Steve Harrington had always been a flirt, but with you it stayed mostly harmless, teasing compliments, protective arm around your shoulders during movie nights, the occasional lingering hug. Tonight felt different.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “They get in the way all the time. Clothes don’t fit right, running sucks, and don’t even get me started on trying to sleep on my stomach.”

Steve’s smirk deepened. He leaned in slightly, gaze dipping again without shame. “Yeah? Sounds rough. Real tragedy.” His voice was lower now, teasing but sincere. “Mind if I… form my own opinion? As your very supportive, very platonic friend.”

Before you could protest, not that you wanted to he reached out, gentle fingers brushing a stray strap back into place on your shoulder. The touch was light, but it sent sparks down your skin. His eyes stayed locked on the cleavage, drinking in the soft curves, the way the fabric hugged you. You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “They’re perfect. Not annoying at all. Just… a lot to handle. In the best way.” He straightened up, running a hand through his signature hair, but the flush on his cheeks gave him away. Steve was rattled, and he liked it.

You laughed, pushing at his chest lightly. “You’re ridiculous. We’re friends, remember? You’re not supposed to stare like that.”

“Who says?” He caught your hand before you could pull it back, holding it against his chest for a second. His heart was beating faster than normal. “Friends can appreciate… assets. Especially when said friend blurts it out like that. C’mon, you had to know I wasn’t gonna let that slide.”

The air felt thicker in the small bathroom. Steve didn’t back off. Instead, he tugged you gently toward the bedroom, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed with him. The radio kept playing softly in the background, some love ballad that felt way too on-the-nose.

“Seriously though,” he said after a beat, his usual cocky grin fading into something softer, more intense. “You’re gorgeous. All of you. If those are causing you trouble, maybe I can help test some solutions. Like… different tops. Or no tops.” He winked, but his hand stayed near yours on the bed, thumb brushing your knuckles.

You shoved him playfully, but stayed close. “Steve Harrington, king of smooth talk even when he’s half-hard from a wardrobe malfunction.”

He didn’t deny it. His laugh was a little strained this time. “Guilty. Can you blame me? You’re in my bedroom—well, your bedroom—looking like that and talking about your boobs being ‘too much.’ I’m only human.”

The conversation stretched from there. Steve kept the vibe light at first, cracking jokes about his own failed attempts at fashion advice back in his King Steve days, how he used to think he knew everything about what girls wanted. But the looks kept coming, quick stolen glances when you shifted, longer ones when you leaned forward to grab a water bottle from the nightstand. Each time his eyes would trace the cleavage, the soft bounce, the way the top clung.

Eventually you ended up lying back on the bed together, shoulders touching, talking about everything and nothing. The movie, the Upside Down scars you both carried, how nice it was to just exist without monsters for once. But the undercurrent was electric. Steve rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand, and let his free hand rest lightly on your waist.

“You know I’d never push, right?” he said quietly, sincerity cutting through the flirtation. “We’re friends. But… damn, if you ever wanted more than looking…” His eyes dropped again, hungry but patient. “I’d be there. Appreciating every inch.”

You turned to face him, the proximity making your pulse race. His breath was warm against your skin. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Steve leaned in, pressing a soft, testing kiss to your collarbone, right above the line of the top. Not demanding. Just… tasting the moment.

“See?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough.

The night didn’t end with clothes coming off completely, not yet but it evolved. Steve’s hands stayed respectful even as they explored, tracing the curves he’d been admiring, murmuring compliments between kisses along your neck and shoulder. “Too much space? Baby, they fit perfectly in my hands.” His touch was confident, gentle, the same Steve who’d swung a bat at demodogs now completely focused on making you feel wanted.

Hours blurred. Laughter mixed with heated whispers. He never once let the “just friends” line stop him from looking, touching, teasing. By the time the sun threatened to creep up, you were tangled in sheets, his head pillowed near your chest, fingers idly tracing patterns on your skin.

“Still annoying?” he asked sleepily, that smirk audible even in the dark.

You ran your fingers through his hair. “Maybe not so much anymore.”

Steve chuckled, pressing one last kiss there. “Good. Because I’m gonna need a lot more opportunities to study the situation. Friend’s honor.”

And just like that, the line between friends and something more had blurred, thanks to one blurted complaint and Steve Harrington’s inability to look away from what you were blessed with.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

You'd seen Keys on video, of course, both of you on camera when you were playing from time to time, but you weren't quite prepared for his actual, physical presence. He was tall, but hunched over, probably from hours being bent in front of a keyboard and monitor. He smelled nice—which, for gamer boys, was not always the norm. And, even better, he actually treated you like a real gamer, even though you self-deprecatingly said with alarming regularity that you only played “cozy games” and those didn't count.

“They absolutely count,” Keys said. “Who tells you they don't? Don't listen to them. Do you feel like a gamer?”

You paused, waiting for him to go on, until you realized he was actually asking. “Oh. Uh, yeah.”

“Then you're a gamer! Come on, it's so fucking lame to gatekeep shit like that. So, I know you don't love FPS games, but you're a huge Squirrel Girl fan, right?” He talked a lot. But, you were impressed that he remembered you saying you liked Miss Squirrel Girl herself, Doreen Green, in passing once a few months ago. “Have you ever heard of Marvel Rivals?”

&&

You didn't think that counted as your first date, even though Keys really pushed for it to be. You'd been at a table with four other people and yet, for the whole hour and a half you whiled away at the cafe, you two primarily only talked to each other.

Your next excursion—still not something you'd consider your first real date—had you both heading out to Newbury Comics, lamenting how they used to have much cooler shit and now only had t-shirts and Pop Vinyls.

“I bought a plushie TARDIS here once,” you said. “Years ago.”

“Well, now you buy socks that have curse words on them,” Keys said, grabbing a pair from a rack nearby.

“I feel like they should have more comics for a store with 'Comics' in the name.”

“Want to hit a real comic shop?” he asked, and you looked over at him, beaming.

“Yeah!” you enthused, and he took your hand—he took your hand—and led you back onto the street, dragging you uptown to a store that had new releases and back issues upon back issues.

He bought you a trade paperback of The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl, despite your protestations, and when you stopped at the subway entrance to head back to your apartment, he took your hand again.

For a moment you thought he was going to kiss you—he didn't, which is why it was not a date—and asked if he could see you again soon.

You agreed, and he grinned, adjusting his glasses on his nose before he pulled out his phone.

“I know you can just message me on Discord,” he said, “but maybe—you could text me when you get home instead?”

You gave Keys your phone number and promised you'd respond to his text the second you were back at your place.

&&

—home

K: Good! Hi.

—what's your real name?

K: That's dangerous to just tell people willy nilly

—lexy won't tell me —what do you think i'm gonna do? —dox you?

K: That, or fae bullshit. K: My government name is a well-guarded secret. K: Not for the faint of heart.

—lexy said keys is short for your last name

K: Dude K: Seriously? K: Traitor

—i've known her a long time. if she trusts me you should too

K: That is just what someone would say if I c a n ' t trust them.

—i gave you my phone number outside of the subway. the least you could do is tell me your first name

K: But Keys is so much better!

—because you write code?

K: Yes!

—i'll tell you one of my secrets

K: … K: You first.

—i think you're really cute —and i wish you hadn't just taken my phone number today and said bye

K: … K: What should I have done instead?

—💋

K: Walter McKey. When were we hanging out again?

—LOL —walter. that's cute.

K: Now you see why I go by Keys.

—i do see why you go by keys but walter isn't that bad —i promise

K: So what should we do next time we hang out, given we now know each other's deepest, darkest secrets?

—game night?

K: Pretty AND smart. I owe Lexy big time.

—i'll bring my switch :)

K: And maybe we can try Rivals. You can play on my pc and I'll play on the Playstation.

—no promises

K: Just think about it.

&&

You did think about it, which is to say you decided on “Not doing that” and didn't mention it again to Keys. You packed up your Switch and caught the subway to the stop nearest him, then walked the couple blocks down to his building. He met you at the door and let you in, leading you to his apartment.

It was cleaner than you expected—like, nothing out of place, vacuum lines over the area rug in the living room, and even a brand new candle burning on the small dining table. It looked as though he'd just lit it before he came downstairs to meet you.

“Cute place,” you said. “I thought for sure it would be way nerdier than this.”

“Oh. No, it is, this is just—I don't really hang out out here that much.” He gestured down the hall, and once you looked, you could see the room he meant. It was dark inside, but you saw the ambient glow of lights rotating through a variety of colors and the very edge of a computer tower, the fans also glowing different colors.

“Ok, that makes more sense,” you said, not bothering to wait to be invited in, but instead kicking off your shoes and heading straight to the game room.

It was small, but still impressive. He had his PC on his desk, the fans pulsing from red to blue and then back, and the LED lights on the wall cycling through the rainbow.

“Do you stream?” you asked, once he was in the room with you, and you turned to your left, where a futon was angled toward the back wall, a TV with a PS5 and a Switch hooked up to it rested.

“Um... sometimes,” he said. “I'll do more like, Let's Plays rather than livestreaming. Or sometimes I'll post a timelapse of something I built in Minecraft.”

“Oh, speaking of—are we playing Animal Crossing? Or Minecraft? I got it on Switch just for today.”

Keys smiled at you as he settled into his desk chair, gesturing for you to take your seat on the futon. You did. “I was thinking we could start with Minecraft, grind a little, then maybe try Rivals...? And then if you hate that, Animal Crossing. I finally got Fuschia to want to leave my island, weren't you looking for her?”

“You'd give Fuschia to me?” you asked, flabbergasted. She was your favorite villager—had been for ages—and now Keys was going to give her to you just like that?

“I'm still holding out hope that I'll find Ketchup someday,” Keys replied.

“Yes. Please. Oh my god. I'll give you Nook Miles tickets so you can try to find her.”

“Not necessary,” Keys said, laughing and turning back to his computer, jostling the mouse to wake it and then opening Steam to fire up Minecraft. “But I won't say no if you just... drop them on my island somewhere random for me to find in a week when I'm digging for fossils...”

“Deal,” you said, pulling your Switch out of its case. “Thank you so much.” He wasn't looking, so you spoke louder, more emphatically. “Keys. Seriously—thank you.”

He glanced back at you, grinning. “Hey, anything for you.”

You were only a little taken aback, but tried not to read too much into the statement—Lexy had told you how sweet he was, so that tracked. You tried not to take it personally, anyway.

Minecraft was incredible but cut a little short when you dug too far down and accidentally fell into a huge cave, groaning aloud once you hit the ground, all of your items scattering around your character's body.

“Did you just die?” Keys asked, smirking a little over his shoulder at you. “Fell from a great height, maybe?”

“Shut up,” you grumbled, dropping your Switch to your lap. “Let's try Rivals. I couldn't possibly feel worse than I feel right now.”

“Don't sweat it,” Keys said, closing Minecraft and opening Rivals. “I'll carry you.”

“I hate that you think I'll need to be carried but I also hate that you're right.”

As the game loaded, Keys stood up from his chair and gestured for you to sit there instead of him. “I'll get you set up in the training range while I get the Playstation going. Here.”

You'd already sat down in his chair, but he leaned over you, his hand covering yours on the mouse, as he clicked around the screen, choosing Squirrel Girl for you, but also showing you how to change characters if you wanted to.

“If you don't feel like DPS, you might like Cloak and Dagger or Luna Snow,” he suggested.

“Wow, so girls can only play support characters?” you asked, turning to him, very conscious of his hand still atop yours.

His eyes glinted a little. “Do you want to tank?”

“...No,” you admitted.

“Then stick to Squirrel Girl,” he said, finally pulling away. The back of your hand radiated warmth where he had been touching you.

While you messed around as Squirrel Girl in the training range, shooting explosive acorns and sending out Squirrel Stampedes, Keys puttered around behind you getting himself situated on the futon. After a moment, an invitation to join his group popped up on the screen, and you accepted. He queued you into a match, against real people, and you turned to look at him as the map loaded.

“Shouldn't we try versus the computer first?”

“Nah,” Keys said, his back to you as he selected Magneto. “We'll be fine.”

You sighed, moused over to Squirrel Girl, and selected her, loading into the match.

It went... fine, actually. Keys played eerily well and your other DPS definitely carried you, but the supports on your team were great at keeping you up, and so while you heard Keys behind you getting a little worked up every time he died or you missed a pick, it seemed pretty standard gamer stuff. You also got pissed off whenever Lexy forced you to play Dead by Daylight and you found that you actually could not run killers or hit skill checks despite her telling you it was easy.

By the time you loaded into your second match, two other players had already locked tanks, so Keys chose a DPS (Spider-Man), and you chose a support, one of the ones he mentioned: Luna Snow. She seemed less complicated to learn on the fly, plus her hair was pretty cute, so, you figured why not?

You weren't doing great, and while Keys wouldn't blame you, you could tell he was getting frustrated.

“Fuck,” he'd muttered at one point, but still—that was par for the course.

All was quiet for about a minute. Then—

“Fuck off!” he'd half-shouted, after the enemy Iron Fist managed to corner him and kill him. “Oh my fucking god.”

You looked back over your shoulder at Keys, gripping the controller with each hand like a vice, and—since you were both waiting to respawn, because he'd died, you'd died trying to get to him to heal him, and once you were both down the whole team got rolled—spoke.

“You ok?” you asked, voice high and quiet.

Keys turned to look at you, the smile betraying his previous tone, and just quirked his head to the side. “Yeah, 'course. You good? Wanna stop?”

“Oh,” you said, “no. It's... I kind of like Luna.”

Keys grinned, then turned back to the TV once he saw on your screen that you were both back in the spawn room. “Cool, you're doing really good with her.”

That felt like news to you, but you just twirled his desk chair back around and focused on the game. You always kept one eye on Keys, sometimes to the detriment of your team, but he was your friend—ish—so you felt an obligation to keep him alive if you could.

At one point, he managed to get the jump on the Iron Fist, even going so far as to solo ult him, laughing darkly and following it up with a “Get fucked, you piece of shit,” which felt so out of left field that you just... didn't acknowledge it.

What he was saying wasn't ideal, but... the tone his voice took on, the dark edge, the rough anger—you wouldn't admit it to him but maybe it was doing something for you. Which was new. Because you'd have sworn up and down that Keys wasn't the toxic kind of gamer, and yet there he was, swearing and being sweaty and ok, why was this getting you a little wet in his fucking gaming chair? You had to lock in and not get distracted by this guy who hadn't even kissed you yet.

“Get fucking owned,” Keys yelled, and you noticed in the kill feed that he’d killed Iron Fist again. “Gonna focus this clown until he switches,” he added absently; you weren't sure if he was talking to you, or to himself.

“Good idea,” you said in agreement, voice low, and sure enough, two more shouting matches with himself later, Iron Fist had switched to Scarlet Witch and turned the tide of the game even more. Your team won, and Keys immediately turned over to you.

“Hey, sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I get kinda into the game.”

You just looked back at him, nodding, then shaking your head. “Yeah, no worries.” You gave him a weak smile, because intense was the word Lexy had used to describe him and although it wasn’t that far off, you also weren’t sure that it was the correct word to use. You weren’t sure arousing was right either, but holy shit that was how it felt.

But maybe it was a fluke. You weren’t sure, really.

You loaded into a third match, choosing Luna again, while Keys opted for Magneto once more. This time, he didn’t have to bring out his alternate personality, and you won the match 2-1.

It wasn’t your kind of game, you didn’t think, but it was fun with Keys, especially when his alter ego came out to play (you’d have to think up a nickname for it, a la Darkiplier or Antisepticeye), and when you finally logged off of Rivals for the evening, he turned to you on the futon and grinned, back to his normal demeanor.

“Hungry?”

Almost like you’d timed it, your stomach gave a huge growl, and you laughed. “I guess that’s a yes.”

Keys stood up and motioned for you to follow him, leading you back out to the kitchen and opening the junk drawer. Or—what you assumed would be the junk drawer but was in fact actually just full of takeout menus. Indian; Chinese; at least five different pizza places all marked up with certain items crossed out or circled which you took to mean he’d sampled the menus enough that he knew that Tony’s had shitty garlic knots but fantastic bolognese, while Nonna’s Pizzeria was the only place to get a decent grandma pie but under no circumstances should you even think about the pasta from there.

“What d’ya feel like?” Keys asked, fanning out the menus toward you. There were five, and you chose one at random because you weren’t picky and he’d already narrowed it down to what he wanted.

“Falafel,” Keys said, approvingly. “Hell yeah.” He gave you a smile so sweet that you almost couldn’t conflate it with how he’d acted when you were playing Rivals.

He insisted on paying too—”They have my info on file,” he’d said, “it’s just easier”—and let you choose the movie to put on while you waited for the delivery and while you ate. You picked one of your favorites (The Princess Bride), laughing when Keys screwed up his face and said “But that’s a kissing movie.”

“Well, that’s what I want to watch,” you replied, stepping away from him and going back to the game room to flop yourself down onto the couch.

You heard Keys open his fridge, a little bit of rattling, and then he followed you in, plunked two cans of Cherry Coke onto the little folding table that you figured must be a fixture in this room. One was open, so you grabbed the other one, fiddling with the pop tab because you didn’t want to open it too soon and risk it being flat by the time your dinner arrived. While you rolled the can between your hands, Keys snatched the controller to awaken his Playstation again. 

“You’ll never guess,” he said, and when the homescreen loaded, he navigated over to the disc icon floating there.

“No way,” you said, laughing, because The Princess Bride was already in the disc drive.

“I had it on the other day while I was working,” Keys explained, reaching up to card a hand through his hair. 

“But it’s a kissing movie,” you said, mocking him, and he smirked.

“Yeah, well,” Keys said, leaning over to you, face to face, far too close but somehow, not close enough. “Sometimes kissing isn’t so bad.” His lips brushed yours, and then stayed there, pushing himself closer. Your tongue flitted against his mouth, tasting the cherry soda he’d sipped, and once you’d done that, he parted his lips further, kissing you properly, tongues barely meeting before he pulled away. He looked shy even though he’d initiated the whole thing.

“Sweet,” you said absently, reaching up to touch your lips with cold fingers, then his. Then, mortified, you lowered your hand and looked away.

“I have my moments,” Keys replied, starting the movie and settling back against the cushion of the futon. He made no movement to indicate he wanted you to move closer, seemed perfectly content to just watch the movie, but you weren’t. Not at all. In fact, after the man had just kissed you, you actually felt a little put out that he didn’t want to keep kissing you, and so you leaned forward, reaching across him to put your can of soda down beside his, and once you were basically stretched across him, you turned to him, settled half on his lap, took his face in your hands, and kissed him again, the residual desire from the first, admittedly somewhat chaste kiss, still lingering. And then there was the whole matter of everything you’d felt when he was angry during Rivals, still weighing down your stomach with want, tainted need because of how sick you felt being attracted to the meaner side of him.

Not to say you didn’t like the normal, nice guy too.

But… just something about the other version of him, right?

“Oh, hey,” Keys said against your lips, one arm moving around you, the other settling on your leg to move up your thigh. “We just put the movie on.”

“We’ve both seen it,” you said, taking his lips in another kiss. He let you in, his hands remaining in the respectful places on your body: Thigh, far away from your crotch, and mid-back, not daring to dip too low. 

What had started out as eager, heated kissing on your part slowly mellowed into languid, easy making out, you taking your time and Keys savoring every single liplock until his phone chimed from where he’d left it on the kitchen counter, and his hands finally moved to your hips, but only to move you off of him.

“That’s dinner,” he said, “wait here.” You fell back beside him on the futon as he leaned in one last time, giving you another cherry soda-tinged kiss, and then stood up, his long legs carrying him out of the room in far fewer steps than it would take you. You heard his front door open and close, and then there were a few minutes of silence wherein you opened your own can of soda and took a sip, nursing it as you watched the movie in Keys’ absence.

But your thoughts wandered. You’d always hated toxic gamer guys—it was part of the reason that you didn’t fuck with FPS games or even battle royales, and the entire reason you never went on voice comms. You had to wonder if you hadn’t been on something akin to a date with Keys (was it a date, now that you’d kissed?) would he have also been trash talking your performance in the game? He didn’t seem like the type to lie to get into your pants—he could have done it twice over by now, when he’d first kissed you and then when you were sat on his lap. But he didn’t, which led you to the conclusion (at least for now) that he was just a nice guy with a little bit of a hot head when he was in the thick of a game. Nothing wrong with that. For every F-bomb he’d dropped during Rivals, you’d surely said twice as many and even worse while playing DBD with Lexy.

And ultimately, it turned you on and you weren’t going to forget about it because you deserved to be horny too, ok?

The front door opened again and you heard Keys’ gait as he closed the door behind him, kicked his shoes off, and made a pitstop in the kitchen. The sound of a crinkling paper bag reached you followed by a heavy sigh, the opening of one drawer, a pause, the opening of another drawer, the metallic tinkling of cutlery, and then both drawers being rolled closed before the paper bag crumpled up again.

“They sometimes forget to give me forks or whatever,” he said, re-entering the room. “This is the third time. Had to note the menu.”

You smiled a little as he placed the bag on the folding table, rummaging in it before handing you your order first, then taking his. He proffered a fork in case you wanted one despite ordering yours in a pita; you took it, tucking your knees up against your chest and holding the tin with your food in one hand, poking at the falafel with the fork. You both ate without talking, the silence in the room broken only by the movie, and by the time your bellies were full and your Coke cans were empty, you were back cuddling up to Keys, his hand cradled in both of yours, on your lap as you rubbed your thumbs over his. 

“It’s getting late,” Keys said, and it wasn’t suggestive, it was actually tinged with concern. “You want me to get you an Uber instead of taking the subway?”

“I can get my own Uber,” you replied, smirking. “If you wanted to come see my game room, you could just ask, you know.”

“Can I come see your game room?” Keys asked, leaning in to you, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he kissed you again. You smiled against his lips, parting your own for him to allow him entrance, taking him in as he turned more toward you, but he pulled away, his forehead against yours. “It is actually getting late though. Do—if you need to get home, that’s ok.”

Despite the close proximity, you looked into his eyes, then leaned your forehead a little more against his, angling your head down to look at his lips. They were softer than any man’s lips had any right to be, the freckles on his cheek just barely visible in your periphery, and no. You didn’t need to get home, much less did you even want to.

“No one’s waiting up for me, if that’s what you think,” you said, turning your face just slightly to let your lips brush over his cheek, those little moles dotting his skin, and he exhaled shakily, then squeezed your hand, still in both of yours.

“I don’t—usually…” he said, trailing off. “I just mean—it’s never been really so easy with anyone else.” He made a small noise in his throat, like he didn’t like that statement either, and then tried to kiss you again, ducking his head a little to do so. You let him. “I know this is just—our first, you know, date, if you wanted to call it that”—you smiled to yourself because yes, you did want to call it that—“but what I mean is… You’re… I’m just getting…”

“Good vibes?” you asked, half-joking, but he nodded.

“Yeah, just—” he smirked, like he’d just remembered he could make jokes and references that you would understand. “You’re, um, matching my freak.”

You did laugh at that—it was a phrase Lexy used all the time on the Discord server and purposely never in the right context, just like now. Not that he was wrong—you had a lot in common.

“I also like how things are going,” you said, trying to be as clear as possible, because in your experience, guys were morons on a good day, and guys who gamed a lot were even worse. “I like you. I… would like this to be our first date,” you confirmed, “and if you were inviting me to stay over… I would like that too.”

To his credit, Keys managed to look extremely normal about the prospect. “Ok, cool,” he said (typical guy), but then leaned in to kiss you, tugging his hand out from yours and wrapping it around your waist. He didn’t pull you closer, just held you, until you were kissing him even deeper, your hands on his chest and your tongue in his mouth, and his hands settled on your back, lower than before, but not low enough to trigger thoughts that he was trying to hook up with you on his futon.

“Hey,” you said, breaking the kiss and letting your tongue flit over your upper lip. “Can we, um… maybe—go somewhere else?”

Keys looked up at you, like he didn’t realize he was going to get lucky on your first date that had only recently been christened as such, but nodded, vehemently. “Yeah. Um, yes, yeah, we can—my room,” he said, waiting for you to climb off of him before he got up himself, then stood there alongside you for an awkward moment only to reach down and take your hand again, tugging you along behind him as he left the game room and angled left into a door across the hall, a dimly-lit room that you could now tell was not supposed to be the master bedroom. No, Keys had utilized the larger bedroom for his gaming equipment, leaving just a full-size bed shoved into the smaller space obviously meant to be a child’s room or home office.

The bed was against the far wall, tucked into the corner, and there was a chest of drawers right up against the foot of the matress—rendering the bottom two drawers useless, as they could not be opened—with a television on top of it. Beside the TV was a Switch dock, a PS3, and a GameBoy Color with a little Tupperware container full of old game cartridges. The room, despite the lack of space and furniture shoved into it, was clean, orderly. His bed was even made—he had you beaten in that aspect.

You looked around, squeezing his hand as you spoke to show him you were kidding, “If you tell me you usually sleep on that futon…”

Keys made a small noise, halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Care to… finish that sentence, so I know how deep in I may be about to dig myself?”

You laughed, pulling him forward this time, leading him over to his own bed. “Honestly? I can’t say I’d blame you. I bet it’s nice to fall asleep to the lights changing colors like that,” you said, referring to the rotating LEDs he had in the game room.

“It kind of fucks,” he said, standing over you as you sat down on the edge of his bed, finally letting go of his hand as you reached over to pull the covers down. You expected white sheets—Keys was an adult man, ergo, adult sheets—but even in the dimness of the room you could tell they were blue with—

“Spider-Man?” you asked, biting your lip.

“Ok, first of all—”

“You have Spider-Man sheets?”

“It’s just the topsheet! And it was only because it was all I had clean. I didn’t have the quarters to do laundry so I just—used what I had.”

“And it was Spider-Man?” you looked closer at the sheets. “Miles Morales Spider-Man? Hey, ok. You get points for taste.”

“I’m taking it off,” Keys said, pulling at the sheet even though you were sitting on both it and the comforter (thankfully plain light and dark brown squares patterned together). 

“No, leave it,” you said, laughing as you pushed yourself back onto the bed. “It’s fun and whimsical and proves you’re not self-conscious.”

“How?” Keys asked, still trying to displace you by attempting to roll you side to side as he pulled at the bedding.

“It just does,” you replied, then grabbed at his wrists to stop him from trying to unmake the bed, and ushered him onto it with you instead. He flopped down beside you, and the two of you moved toward each other with no hesitation, atop the rumpled comforter. “I have Powerpuff Girls sheets at home,” you divulged. “I mean—I don’t use them, but I have them.”

“If you’re trying to tilt me in bed,” Keys said, chuckling a little—just edging on the dark tone he’d laughed with earlier during Rivals, “it’s almost working.”

The thought struck you—because you hadn’t been trying to piss him off, but now it almost seemed like the best idea you’d ever heard.

But—your lack of response only had Keys laughing a little lighter, his hand on your side a little softer.

“Kidding,” he said, lifting his mouth to yours and kissing you, nudging your knees with his own to try and get his leg in between yours.

You kissed him back, letting him press his thigh up against your clothed pussy, and you gasped a little, quietly. He used your parted lips as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, letting you rut down against his thigh until your hands were grasping at the back of his shirt, pulling him closer, half on top of you, your arm trapped beneath him and his weight heavy on top of you in the best way.

“What do you—want?” Keys asked, but didn’t even give you a chance to respond as he kissed you again, and again, gently pushing his thigh into your crotch as you sighed softly against his lips, your legs spread as wide as you could get them. He eased himself half on top of you, the heavy press of his leg against you still giving you a little friction, but you craved more.

“Keys, I—” you said, gasping as he rolled his hips down against your front; even slightly misaligned, it still felt good, still left you wanting and eager for more.

“Tell me,” he said, moving one hand down to your hip, tugging your shirt up and letting his fingertips slip just beneath the waistband of your jeans.

“Touch—me?” you asked, sighing, head rolling back against his pillows, because he could touch you or eat you or fuck you and you’d be happy.

“Touch you,” he repeated, almost like he needed to give himself the assurance, the guidance, the instruction. He rolled half off of you, and together you both removed your jeans, letting them fall to a pile off the side of his bed, his mouth back on yours as he covered your mound through your panties, rubbing you through them with his whole palm, but pressing against your lips with two fingers a little more firmly than the others. 

“Keys,” you sighed, and he swallowed his name as it came from your lips, only to reply himself.

“You’re already so wet,” he mumbled, and you whined a little at the way he pointed it out, but had no time to linger on it because he’d slid his hand up to your stomach, and then back down between your legs, but this time, he was inside your underwear, no thin, soaked cotton between you.

His fingers parted your folds easily, rubbing at you with a deft hand that already had you lifting up into his touch, and you reached for him, one hand grasping at his arm, feeling it flex as he rubbed you, and the other curling around the nape of his neck, guiding his mouth down to yours again to kiss him as he found your clit.

Your chest gave a little kick, your body jumping at the instant gratification, the sudden pleasure of the pad of his finger circling the sensitive bead, and he let you use his mouth as he lowered his hand, bending his wrist and curling just one finger into your slit, easily, slowly, testing that you were ready for it before committing.

“Oh, f—K-Keys,” you half-moaned, holding back a little because it felt silly to call him that but you weren’t sure if you were fully on, well, a first-name basis yet.

And you hadn’t thought it was all that obvious, but he pulled away from you, leaned down to kiss your neck a few times as he fingered you, still working just one in and out of you even as he teased entrance with a second—and then you felt his breath on your cheek, his nose tickling at your temple as he whispered, “You can call me Walter if you like that better.”

It wasn’t what he had said. It wasn’t the permission to use his real name. It was the way his voice had skimmed over you like thick, rich velvet, pleasant for now but rough if you crossed it.

“I,” you stammered, because you didn’t know what you liked better, all you knew was that his practiced hand was working at you in ways that you’d never expected anyone other than yourself to understand. But Keys—Walter?—was reading every subtle cue you gave him, taking in the miniscule shivers of your legs and tremors of your cunt, the way your walls would tighten up on his fingers as he eased two back into you, the way your clit would jump against his thumb if he caught it at just the right angle.

“Wa-Walt—hnn,” you panted, and you felt his cheek round up against yours, his lips curling into a smile that you could only intuit was there but not see from the way his face rested on yours.

“You’re so…” Keys mumbled, pausing to turn just enough to kiss you. You took his mouth with yours desperately, your ass lifting up off the bed into his hand of its own volition, your body wanting more from him, needing more, and Keys—without a damn word from you—understood exactly what your body was asking for. He pushed his fingers into you deeper, curling them upward, making a come-hither gesture deep within your cunt, massaging your walls from the inside even as he doubled down on your clit, his thumb streaking over it side to side, then up and down, circles, ovals, until you were kicking up against him, and he stuck to the pattern you liked, making you mewl out his name again, and again.

“Wa—fuck,” you cried, your body feeling like it might snap in two from the force of your orgasm, your legs curling up, bent at the knee, your body recoiling from itself, your hips jerking up against Keys’ hand as he worked you through it, his thumb on your clit slowing but still rubbing at you, his fingers unmoving inside you as you clamped down on him, your mouth attached to his, sucking his lip, or his tongue, you weren’t sure and didn’t care as your teeth nipped down on him, hearing his sharp intake of breath but your eyes were closed, shut tight.

Your breath stuttered out of your lungs as you felt a soft kiss on your closed eyelid, his lips just barely brushing over your eyebrow too as he pulled away, his hand sliding out of your underwear only once you’d relaxed back down to the bed. You rolled onto your side, your thighs squeezing together as your pussy just kept going, aftershocks rippling through you as you caught your breath, and when you opened your eyes again, Keys was on his side too, and his hand was on your hip, rubbing you through your shirt.

Your lips curled into a smile when you met his eyes, and then you firmly planted your hand on his shoulder, pushing him onto his back and propping yourself up onto your elbow. With your free hand, you started to remove your shirt, with Keys assisting you as best he could until you were finally able to wriggle out of the garment and it joined your jeans on the floor of his bedroom, and even though you’d just positioned him how you wanted him, he sat up to remove his own shirt, lanky body now on view, the slight tummy he had folding over his belt. It was cute, but it disappeared when he laid back down.

Together, you worked his jeans down, his boxers too, his cock flagging down over his thigh even though he was half-chubbed up. 

You didn’t say anything, but your gaze lingered a beat too long, because Keys shifted himself on the bed, and when you looked over at his face, his expression was mixed between smug and embarrassed, like his mouth couldn’t help but curl into a little bit of a smirk—you were staring—while his eyebrows were knitted just a touch together, like maybe you were disappointed or suddenly uninterested since you didn’t actually make any moves closer.

“You, um—” he started to say, but you leaned in, eclipsing his body with yours as you wrapped your fingers gingerly around his prick, making him inhale sharply, and whatever he’d been about to vocalize was gone, your lips on his, scattering all words away.

You kissed him, mouth open, tongue sliding over his, a little more intense, a little dirtier now that you had a hand on him, and stroked up and down over his length, purposely not letting your grip brush the head until he was bucking his hips up into your hand, and then you slid your hand down to the base of his cock, not pushing him but leading him to rest against the bed. Leaning up and over him, you searched his face for any sign that he was going to maybe get a little mean, a little attitude, bossy and annoyed like when you’d been playing Rivals—but no. He just looked up at you.

He just… looked up at you. With soft, wide, desperate eyes, and kiss-bitten lips, and his throat bobbing, and one eyebrow screwed up on one side, like he didn’t know why you were doing this to him but also didn’t know how to get you to do more.

Your lips teased his—he tried to kiss you, you pulled back just enough that he couldn’t—and then you curled your hand over the tip of his dick, rubbing your curved palm over the tip of his cock, marveling in the way he reacted with his entire body. His chest arched up first, and then once his shoulders were back on the bed, his hips lifted up against your hand, and you easily took him back into the circle of your fingers, stroking him off again, eased by the slick you’d collected from his weeping slit.

Keys sighed out your name, one hand lifting up to curl into your hair, moving your mouth back to his as he kissed you, whimpering quietly into your mouth as you jerked his cock, pausing at the head every few passes to tease the slit, letting the pad of your middle finger just play with it, spreading each hot, sticky bead of precome over him until he was pulling away from you, turning his head away to break the kiss, only to turn back to look at you again.

“Please?” he asked—begged. You’d taken his shaft in your hand again, just below the ridge of the head, and you felt a hot dribble of precome as his cock drooled all over your hand. “God, please,” he asked, and you smiled, kissing him again, this time moving your hand in earnest to get him off, the heel of your hand and your wrist smacking into the front of his hip with how quickly you moved now, your intent to watch him come undone just as you had, and it worked—

Keys sucked your tongue as you kept your hand working at his cock, twisting it side to side every now and then just to hear him react to it, the whines heavy and loaded with lust. It didn’t take much longer for him to come—you felt his cock twitch in your hold, and then his whole body stilled with tension for a long moment, poised to snap—and then he did, moaning your name loudly, really fucking loudly actually, as ropes of his come streaked over the pair of you, landing on your arm, his stomach, even one on your hip, staining your underwear just because you’d lowered your hand enough that his cock angled to the side.

You pressed one final kiss to Keys’ lips, and as you pulled away, he covered his face with both hands, rubbing at his cheeks and his eyes before lowering them and looking down his body at you, still above him, your hand on his stomach now, absently rubbing his spunk into his skin, playing a little with the line of hair leading down below his bellybutton.

“Glad I asked you to stay,” he mused, and you laughed, leaning in to kiss him again before you pushed yourself to sit up next to him.

“Oh, is that what you did?” you asked, still playing with some of the short, curly hair at the base of his softening dick.

“Definitely,” he said, lifting a hand to touch yours. Not to stop you, but to gently rest his fingers on the back of your hand, your wrist.

“Then I’m glad you did too,” you said, glancing at the door to the hall. “Um… bathroom?”

“Door next to the game room,” Keys said, and you clambered over him, stopping once he grabbed your wrist. “Wait—do you want something to sleep in? Like—sweats. Or whatever.”

Your cheeks warmed—you hadn’t expected that. You’d figured he’d expect you to sleep naked—if you even slept at all. “Oh, ok. If you have.”

“Yeah,” Keys said standing up, pulling up his boxers and pushing down his jeans, then crossed to his closet doors, pulling them open. On the floor of the closet were the remaining two dresser drawers, and you snorted with laughter as Keys started digging through the one stacked on top of the other, coming up with a pair of black sweatpants, the ends of the legs frayed, with a big hole in the knee. “I know,” he said, poking his finger through one of the other, smaller holes near the waist that you hadn’t noticed upon first glance. “But they’re my most comfortable pair, I promise.”

You bent down to retrieve your shirt, then took the sweatpants from him and made your way to the bathroom, readying yourself for bed. He was right—they were unfairly comfortable. You’d had some pajama pants for years that weren’t nearly as soft as these were. You… might liberate them someday, if things ended up going well.

While you were attempting to brush your teeth with Keys’ toothpaste and your finger, you heard the floor outside the bathroom door creak first one way, and then a few minutes later, the other way, back into the bedroom. 

You emerged to a dark apartment, the only light a bluish glow emanating from Keys’ bedroom, and then as you approached, you heard the telltale menu music of Animal Crossing: New Horizons emanating from Keys’ TV.

You crossed the threshold, your panties and bra balled up in your hand, ready to tuck them away into your jeans, but when you entered the room, Keys only smiled at you, patting the bed beside him where, you noticed, your Switch case was resting.

“I figured we could get you Fuschia before it gets too late and she goes to bed,” Keys said, tapping the button on his Joycons to speed through Isabel’s welcome speech. “I’ll open my airport while you load in.”

You stood there, admittedly a little dumbstruck. Because you’d been worried about Keys not letting you sleep.

Truth was, you were pretty sure there was nothing you wouldn’t do to this man, if he’d let you.

&&

And he did. You’d gotten Fushia to agree to move, sold some of your native fruit at Nook’s Cranny for double the usual price, (thankfully before it closed), then did a few Mystery Tours in search of a tarantula island. Then, you sucked his soul out through his dick and the pair of you fell asleep.

In the morning, Keys insisted on accompanying you back to your apartment, which he claimed was because he wanted to see your game room, but really he just wanted to buy you breakfast on the way. He took you to a deli a few doors down from his apartment building, got you a bacon, egg, and cheese with an iced tea, then promptly told you he didn’t eat breakfast while also snagging a Code Red Mountain Dew.

“You need to eat something,” you insisted. “Most important meal of the day.”

“That’s debatable,” Keys said, but grabbed a plastic-wrapped packaged cinnamon bun, just making you laugh as you bit into your sandwich.

“Whatever,” you said, stepping out of his way at the register because you’d lost the argument about paying yet again.

“I can buy my own food,” you said, “you didn’t have to get me breakfast after you already got me dinner.”

Keys slipped his wallet back into his pocket. “You know what, you’re right. After I let you take Fuschia from my island and everything, wow.”

You chewed angrily toward him. “So let me pay you back for your sugar rush.”

Keys glanced down at the cinnamon bun, then shoved it into his hoodie pocket. “Nah.”

“You’re so annoying!” you half-shouted as you pushed the door open to the street, but you were laughing so it wasn’t exactly convincing. Keys only smiled to himself as he followed you out and down to the subway entrance. The car wasn’t too busy on a lazy Sunday morning, so you were able to sit together—closer than was really necessary, thighs touching, his fingers brushing your lips as he fed you the heart of his cinnamon bun—and by the time you were off the train and heading to your walk-up apartment, your hand was in his, sugar-sticky fingers and all.

“It’s not as… robust as yours,” you said, pushing the heavy front door open and leading Keys inside, bypassing everything else in your place and taking him straight to the game room. Contrary to what he’d done, yours was in the smaller spare room, because you actually liked to have room to do things like get dressed and put your laundry away.

Even though your game room was smaller, and you only had a PC, Switch dock, and your PS2 set up for nostalgia reasons, Keys still walked in like he was in awe. His decor was mostly functional aside from the LED lights, but you had a ton of fanart of various fandoms, all pastels and soft colors; it must have taken forever to curate the pieces that you were displaying, and as you crossed the room to replace your Switch, he stepped closer to a small collection of framed cross stitch pieces.

“Did you make these?” he asked, pointing.

“Um… yeah,” you said, joining him. He was leaning in, inspecting them—they were all Pokemon, your favorites, and even a cross stitch of what was ostensibly your trainer’s avatar from in-game.

“Would you make me one?” he asked.

“I—ok, sure. What’s your favorite Pokemon?”

“Magneton?” he said, sounding unsure even though he couldn’t be. “Or maybe Deoxys.”

“Not Klefki?” you asked, teasing. “I mean…”

He turned to look at your mischievous grin. “You know what, if you wanna be like that, sure, I’ll take Klefki.” He hesitated, then reached out to let his hand brush over your wrist, down to your pinky.

“I’ll surprise you,” you said, taking the half-step needed to close the distance, and lifting your face up to his. You’d barely managed to kiss him before both of your phones vibrated at the same time. You’d both been getting pings and texts here and there all through the previous evening and all morning, but never at the exact same moment.

You grabbed your phone first, and looked up at Keys as he fished his out of his pocket.

“Discord?” you asked.

He glanced down at his phone. “Discord. Lexy wants to play R.E.P.O.” He turned his wrist to show you the notification like you didn’t have the same “@ everyone” ping.

“I’m just glad it’s not Dead by Daylight,” you said, glancing at your computer, and Keys shifted his weight a little, taking the hint.

“You wanna play?” he asked.

“I… mean, yeah, but you can join when you get home!” you said, reaching out with your free hand to tug at one of his hoodie strings. 

“Not a friendslop guy,” he said, grimacing and making you laugh.

“Right, sorry, you only play the most revered, serious games around, like Marvel Rivals and COD—” 

He cut you off with a kiss, making you draw up a little straighter as his hands landed on your hips.

“Speaking of Rivals,” he said, “message me if you want to play again?”

“Is you asking me to be your girlfriend contingent on me playing Rivals?” you asked, and then snapped your jaw shut, because you hadn’t meant to say that out loud. You hadn’t really been planning on saying it ever. It was a half-formed thought that you weren’t anywhere near pathetic enough to ask, and yet, you’d just asked it. “Sorry, I know this is—still new, that wasn’t—you know, it’s, we can just—” You felt like Keys must have felt when he was trying to explain how much he liked spending time with you.

Thankfully, his face only softened, like he remembered how he’d fumbled over his words too. “I mean, if I say yes, then I’m the asshole, right?” he said, laughing. “No, of course not. You don’t have to be a Celestial Rivals player to date me.” He winked and added, “But it helps!” You scoffed out a laugh. “I’m kidding.” You scowled at him. “Kidding,” he said, and then almost like he was worried he’d blown his shot, he pulled you a little closer by your waist, leaning down to kiss you again. “I could see things going… really well. Between us. I would love to take you out sometime. Like—actually out. Maybe to dinner.”

“Can I pay this time?” you asked, a little smirk playing at the corner of your lips, because he’d made you feel a little better about your gaffe.

Keys pursed his lips, then leaned down to kiss you again. “I’ll think about it.”

“Then I’ll think about saying yes,” you joked. Keys kissed you one more time, and then let you walk him to the door of your apartment. “Think about R.E.P.O. too.”

“I just might,” Keys said, stepping out into the hall. He lifted his hand to give you a two-fingered salute, and as you laughed you saw him make a face at himself, clearly wondering why the fuck he’d done that. “Sorry. Bye.”

“Bye,” you said, smiling as you shut the door, your right hand easing it shut while your left hand slid the chain and then moved down to turn the deadbolt. You let your palm rest flat on the door while your left moved down to the knob, just to have something to hold on to, as you placed your forehead against the back of your hand, lips still curved, a secret for just you to know. You’d said much more awkward things to guys before, and Keys still liked you. 

Even fifteen minutes later, when you’d broken the Chunky Vase and had Lexy screaming at you about it (it was entirely your fault and you knew it), you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

&&

Your job didn’t afford the same luxury of working from home that Keys’ and Lexy’s did, so you weren’t able to meet him for dinner for another week, and your commute left you unable to game for longer than an hour and a half max after work, since you had to be awake so early to make your trains (and bus). That left you with the only option you really had to hang out with Keys, even virtually: Animal Crossing. 

Which was fine—you’d check turnip prices and sell fruit, go fishing while he ran around trying to find the last bug he needed for his museum (stick bug. He always missed the thin line of pixels and scared them away before he could catch one), and then end up seated on the hidden beach on the back of your island, camera angled up as high as you could get it to look at the sunset, since you couldn’t very well see it all that well in a city full of high rises. You’d just sit in quiet conversation in a Discord voice call, listening to the sound of the waves from your game, until you’d inevitably say “I have to go,” and Keys would say, “Tomorrow?”

Until Friday night, when “Tomorrow” no longer meant playing Animal Crossing together and actually meant “Dinner date.” Keys had finally relented and agreed to let you pay, so you’d gotten to choose where you wanted to go, which was an outrageously gaudy family-style Italian restaurant that was going to serve you way too much food for just two people, but would also furnish you both with enough leftovers for several days.

And sure enough, after you had dinner, you’d invited Keys back to your place to start a new run of Kingdom Hearts 2. You walked back to your apartment—“Good for digestion,” you’d said—laden down with doggy bags of food that you stuck in your refrigerator before settling in in your game room. 

You chose to try the game on Proud Mode, swapping off with Keys every now and then (you were better, you noticed), and after the fourth time you’d let the controller change hands, Keys stood up and left the room. Figuring he was going to the bathroom, you didn’t think anything of it until he returned in barely a minute, an aluminum tin of pasta in one hand and a fork in the other. You paused the game and looked over at him.

“How can you be hungry?” you asked, and he shrugged.

“Just am,” he said, twirling some of the fettuccine around the fork.

“That’s mine,” you said, indignant. “We agreed that you’d take home the manicotti and I’d get the fettuccine alfredo.”

“Ok, fine,” Keys said, lifting the huge mouthful of pasta he’d just picked up and holding it out to you. “Here.”

“That’s—” you started to say, but before you could finish the thought, he had nudged your lips with the fork.

“Open,” he said, and you were so surprised that you could only do what he’d asked, letting him feed you the bite. “Very good, thank you.”

You blinked, chewing slowly, until you just picked up the controller and unpaused the game. Because what the fuck was what and why was it the hottest thing ever? Thanking you for obeying him?

Swallowing the bite he’d given you, you looked over at him from the corner of your eyes, but Keys was just sitting there happily chowing down on your leftovers, and when he noticed you looking and decidedly not playing, he turned to you and grinned, a little bit of sauce clinging to his upper lip.

He was too fucking cute to ask to be mean, rough, stern with you. At least—not tonight. Tonight could be for other things.

Kingdom Hearts 2 sat on pause again, the fettuccine and fork on the couch, as you pulled Keys to your bedroom, climbing on top of him and letting your hips roll down into his as you kissed him silly.

&&

A couple more dates in a couple more weeks, and finally, you confirmed what the entire server had been speculating and suspecting since you and Keys had changed your profile pictures to matching ones of Professor Layton’s hat and Luke’s hat. Just weird enough to catch attention, just innocuous enough to potentially mean nothing. (It did mean nothing—it was just a joke because you both liked those games. Seriously.)

But you’d had to tell the truth, because a few of your other friends had been trying to plan a D&D oneshot for months. So when Hakeem had announced that they’d found a DM for you, and asked was everyone free tonight even though it was short notice? Well, you had to let them down easy.

cant, i have a date was all you’d said before your post got no less than six different replies, and perpetual thorn in your side (Lexy) was calling you while simultaneously sending you text after text.

“—th WHO?” Lexy shouted, the moment you picked up, already speaking before you’d even answered.

“Lexy,” you said, but she was not to be deterred.

“Is it Keys? It’s Keys, isn’t it? I knew he would never change his profile picture from Ichigo without a good reason. And you’re the best reason, obviously.”

Since she already knew, and you didn’t want to straight up lie, you just told her everything. The date, the hookup, the inside jokes and the game nights, the way he’d given you Fuschia and even bought you a bootleg Amiibo card for her in case you ever wanted to restart your island (you didn’t, but the gesture was so sweet you were almost tempted).

“Oh my god, I just knew he’d be the best fucking boyfriend,” Lexy said, sighing. “And he’s so sweet.”

You hummed in agreement, because he sure was. Not that you’d forgotten that other side of him that you’d yet to draw out since the first night.

“Hey—so, do you think I could play Rivals with you guys again sometime?”

“Wait—really?”

“Really,” you said. “It’s not so bad with Keys.”

“It’s not so bad with Keys?!” Lexy repeated. “Girl. What? He’s so toxic in shooters.”

“I mean… I get like that when we play DBD,” you said.

“Yeah, but it’s not like you’re shit-talking me, you’re complaining about the killer. Keys will lay into anyone on Rivals. Enemy team, our team, even us.” He hadn’t said a goddamn word about you, actually, so that part was kind of news to you.

“Well, can I anyway?”

You practically heard Lexy roll her eyes. “Sure. Don’t say I didn’t want you.”

“I’ve already played with him,” you said.

“Whatever floats your boat,” Lexy said. “Hey—have fun tonight, ok?”

“I will,” you said. “Thanks.”

She let you off the phone and you looked at the screen, notifications still pouring in from Discord. While you were looking, Keys texted you, sending a screenshot of his own app icon, bursting with 14 notifications. You were at 35, and all of them were your friends and Lexy’s coworkers still replying to your post, first asking who it was, then slowly devolving into everyone asking if it was Keys, before they all started posting screenshots of interactions you’d had and of course, the matching icons.

you guys are taking this way too far you said.

It’s our job to give you a hard time! 🍭 said Veronica, your first ever best friend and partner in crime, before you’d even met Lexy.

You muted the server for the next 24 hours and then navigated to your texts with keys.

K: [screenshot attached]

—i’m so sorry —i didn’t want to lie to hakeem because they’ve been wanting to play dnd for months and have been SCOURING reddit for a dm and finally found one —and i just couldn’t lie to them because it’s so so important to them!

K: Haha it’s ok

—you’re not mad?

K: Why would I be mad?

Worth a shot.

—no reason —just wasn’t sure if we were not telling people

K: We were not NOT telling people. K: I kinda told my brother I was seeing someone. K: So.

—you told your family about me?

K: I told my brother. Very different.

—how? —that’s family

K: My brother is a little shit who always says I make such a cute couple with [insert Video Game or Anime Girl here]. So now that I have a real girl who likes me, I had to brag.

—so who else are you dating?

K: Oh, well. K: Ada Wong, Yuffie, Faith from Mirror’s Edge, Luna Snow, Ryuko from Kill la Kill, and one time Tanjiro.

—??? —from demonslayer?

K: The very same.

—i’m sort of sensing you have a type

K: He thinks I have a type. You hang up one poster of Ada Wong one time when you’re 16 and any time he sees anyone who vaguely resembles her…

—tanjiro?????

K: I did say he’s a little shit.

—that’s true. so anyway. i guess we could have had this conversation in like an hour.

K: Want anything for the movie? I’m stopping to get candy on the way.

—snocaps!!!

K: ?

—the candy

K: I know the candy. It’s just chocolate chips with sprinkles on it.

—yeah!!!

K: That’s what you want?

—yes walter that’s what i want

K: I don’t understand you.

And yet, when he took you home that night, he seemed to understand you and your body language just fine, soft touches and insistent licks wherever you needed them, feeding his cock between your lips and then between your legs as you begged him to fuck you, facedown, ass in the air as he rode you from behind, body folded over yours, hands soothing you, exploring you, pressing chaste kisses to your fingertips as he lifted them to his mouth, contrasting the way his hips slapped into yours with his tender mouth.

It was good—it was really fucking good—but you still hadn’t gotten up the courage to ask for a little more just yet.

&&

“You know,” Keys said, batting the side of your face with a Twizzler as you opened your mouth, biting at it and missing, half because he was teasing you and pulling it away, and half because you weren’t really trying, “you’ve had girlfriend status for a month now and we still haven’t played Rivals again.”

You pouted, though it devolved into extreme giggles as he kept poking your lips with the licorice.

“That’s not my fault,” you said, “the timing just keeps not working out.”

“The real BBEG: Scheduling.”

“Hold on,” you said, pausing the Let’s Play you were watching of one of your favorite PS2 games (Haunting Ground) and grabbing your phone. You opened Discord, navigated to the gaming channel, and tapped out a message:

@ everyone tomorrow keys and i will be playing marvel rivals at 7PM so be there or be square

You felt Keys’ phone vibrate in his pocket against your lower back, where you were leaning against him, and then watched as people started reacting to your post. You got a few ✅s but also several ⬛️ which you took to mean those gamers would not be joining you. The checkmarks ticked up to 8 total, which was more than enough for a full group.

“Easy,” you said.

“I mean, flawless, really. You make it look effortless.”

You arched your back, leaning up toward him even though at the angle, you were upside down. He kissed you anyway, because you just knew it reminded him of Spider-Man and Mary Jane, and when you finally pulled away, he fed you your Twizzler properly, and you returned to the video, Fiona calling out to Hewey every two seconds, something you could tell you and Keys both would be imitating for days to come.

The next day, you’d settled down to your computer at 6:30 to try and get some practice matches in before everyone joined you, but as soon as you loaded into the game, you received an invite from Keys to join his group. You did, then tabbed over to Discord to join the voice chat that he was already in.

“I didn’t want you to see me being bad,” you said, as Keys queued you for a Quick Match, which instantly pulled you into a game.

“You’re not bad,” he said, locking Magneto as you chose Mantis. “That’s new,” he commented.

“I wanted to try something else,” you said. “Thus logging on early.”

“Mantis is good,” he said, “just watch your cooldowns.”

You knew, logically, what he meant—but Mantis’ kit was so different from Luna Snow’s that you did have some trouble balancing her heals. You could hear Keys getting frustrated whenever he died before you got your Healing Flower back, but he always blamed it on the other healer, even though they were doing twice your healing output with half the deaths.

By the time Lexy, Hakeem, Serena, and Torbjorn (one of Lexy’s friends from Overwatch who refused to tell anyone his real name) joined, Keys was barely speaking and you could tell everyone else were all going to have one hell of a night because of it. And then there was you, imagining his tongue in his cheek, poking at the inside like it did when he was hyperfocused or annoyed, and getting yourself all turned on from just the thought alone.

“How’ve the games been?” Lexy asked, and Keys didn’t respond so you took it upon yourself.

“Not great,” you answered.

“Well, you’re still learning,” she said, and there was a general murmur of assent as Keys invited everyone to the group, and then you queued. Having a six stack in a voice chat would help in terms of coordination and comms, but you also had the feeling that the matchmaker in the game would put you against other large groups, which meant you’d be going against people who had the same advantages. Except they were all probably better than you. Even if it was just by virtue having more time in the game.

You locked Luna almost exclusively, even though Hakeem suggested Rocket Racoon or Cloak & Dagger because they were a little easier, but you explained that you felt most comfortable on the ice-themed K-pop star.

The first game didn’t go too badly, and Keys even sounded like he was smiling as he made calls, joining in on praising whoever got a good pick or saved him when he was cornered—especially you, but no one commented on it.

It was after an hours’ worth of pretty decent games in a row that you got matched against six other players who were absolutely fucking cracked. Their Black Widow got a headshot on you as soon as you walked out of spawn. Their Jeff swallowed four of you several minutes into the game, when you’d finally gotten a couple picks to start to push the objective. And when you saw him get a quad kill on the feed, you heard Keys pipe up.

“Fucking bullshit, man,” he said. “Can someone please kill the fucking Jeff?”

It was hard not to take that personally, and also as an order—you were playing strategist, your job was to help keep the team up, not go for kills.

“Actually,” Keys said, “if anyone could kill anything, that would be spec-fucking-tacular.”

You fell silent, while Lexy and Torbjorn told Keys to relax, and Hakeem changed off of Captain America to go Moon Knight to try and haunt the other team with la luna herself.

“Hulk’s two,” Serena said, flanking as Star-Lord, and just as she was about to finish him off, her name popped up in the killfeed and she half-shouted, “Fuck!”

“This fucking guy,” Keys said, his voice dark and flat. “If he fucking—can somebody kill the Jeff?” He asked the question just as Jeff ulted beneath the team again, managing to swallow three of you this time, spitting you off the edge of the map. Again.

“You could kill the Jeff,” Lexy suggested.

“Are you kidding?” Keys countered, as the team fell back to regroup. “I’m too busy trying to shield you guys from all this fucking damage.”

“We can’t keep you up,” Lexy said, who was your fellow healer in this match. “I’m trying to shield you but it’s tough on an escort map.” As she said it, she placed Invisible Woman’s shield in front of Magneto, but Keys moved right through it, needing to advance the cart toward the end of the map.

“We just need picks,” Keys replied.

“I have ult,” Serena said. “If I can get to their backline you guys should be able to wipe the rest of them.”

“Might as well,” Keys said, but his tone was far from placated. If anything, he sounded incredulous, like that wouldn’t work at all. His follow up grumble proved that thought: “We’re getting fucking rolled either way.”

“They don’t know I’m back here,” Serena said. “Keep them distracted up there.”

Hakeem and Torbjorn were playing a little up from the cart, behind Keys, while you and Lexy stayed toward the back, providing heals when you had to and shooting at the enemy team when you could. It was when the other team’s Star-Lord moved a little too forward, aggressive because thus far, he had been without getting punished for it, that Serena made her move and ulted behind the other team, Star-Lord’s laugh followed by “All right!” rang out, and the killfeed pinged. She’d taken out both healers and even the other team’s Scarlet Witch.

“Let’s fucking go,” Keys said, and sure enough, once the other healers were down, you were able to wipe the other team, staggering their Hulk so he would respawn after and maybe even give you the chance to actually push the cart to the last point.

“Great job, Serena,” you said, earning yourself a “Thanks!” in return, but the friendly exchange was overshadowed by Keys.

“Picks, picks, picks,” he was saying, like your team needed the reminder.

The countdown at the top of the screen was nearing 0:00, and you weren’t even at the halfway point of the map yet—it had been a fucking struggle.

“Can we please”—Keys said, drawing out the word angrily, as the enemy Jeff swallowed him, only him, and spit him off the edge of the map—“kill the JEFF?”

It didn’t matter—the clock at the top of the screen ran down, and DEFEAT appeared on your screen.

“Hey, that was my last one,” Torbjorn said, leaving the group before anyone could even say anything.

“Yeah, me too,” Serena said, leaving. Hakeem said nothing, just dropping out of the call, and that just left you, Lexy, and Keys.

“One more?” Keys asked.

“Um,” you said, because everything that had just happened had been a lot, and even though he was mean, he wasn’t mean to you, and you really needed to figure out why you liked it so much. At least—when your pussy wasn’t currently pulsing in your fucking seat. Because you wanted to talk to him alone, wanted to get to the bottom of this, wanted to—

“I’m gonna go too, actually,” Lexy said, and you saw a DM from her pop up in the bottom of your screen.

You ok?

yeah you said back. you?

I’m used to him she said. If he’s getting too tilted you can just dip

“I’m gonna log off too,” you said, in the voice chat.

To Lexy, you replied i’ll talk to him.

“I had fun,” Keys said, his voice back to normal, and you heard Lexy laugh before she replied.

“Always a pleasure, Walter,” she said, then left.

“Um,” you said. “Can I—can we talk not in here? I don’t want anyone else to come in.”

A valid excuse—you’d gotten 8 checkmarks on your invitation asking people to play, so theoretically, Maxine, Franky, Dom, or Natalia could pop in at any moment if they saw you still on Rivals.

“Oh,” Keys said. “Yeah—call… call whenever.”

You left the voice chat and then navigated over to your DMs, finding the one with Keys only and then calling him through Discord. He answered immediately.

“Hey,” he said, before you even could, “I’m sorry.”

“Keys,” you tried, but he kept going.

“I just get—so into it, it’s really lame, I know.”

“Keys—”

“I just get so competitive—”

“Walter,” you said, using his real name and emphasizing it enough that he stopped speaking.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll—try to rein it in. Maybe we shouldn’t play Rivals anymore. I don’t want you to have to hear me like that.”

You stayed silent.

“Are you—are you on mute?” Keys asked. “I can’t hear you if you’re talking.”

“I’m not on mute,” you said. “I was waiting for you to finish so I could talk.”

“...Sorry.”

But now that you had the floor, you worried that what you were about to say was actually insane.

“No. Um,” you said. “I just…” You sighed. “I definitely want to keep playing Rivals.”

Keys snickered. “Even though I’m salty?”

You bit your lip. “Kind of… because of that?”

You could practically hear his head tilt through your headset. “What?”

“I… kind of like it,” you said, voice quiet. The only reason you could tell that it was even audible was the little green ring showing up around your icon in Discord.

“You like—what?”

“When you… I don’t know, get all angry and bossy and frustrated.”

“Are—seriously?”

“Yeah,” you said, breathy. Your throat felt tight and you swallowed nervously. Your stomach felt full of butterflies—and between your legs was still all hot and ready. You’d be willing to bet that if you checked, you’d be wet.

“So you like me like this?” Keys asked, voice clipped, and the tone with which he spoke made your cunt clench down on nothing.

“Kinda, yeah,” you said.

“Well which is it?” he asked—demanded, maybe. “Kinda? Or yes?”

“Yes,” you answered.

“This turns you on?” Keys asked, derisively, and the judgement—real or perceived, you couldn’t tell—made you actually moan a little as you squeezed your thighs together. For a moment, the real Keys reappeared. “Holy…shit, you’re—you’re actually into this?”

“Uh huh,” you intoned. “Yes, yeah, I am.”

A pause. And then—“Well, why don’t you stop wasting my time and tell me just how much?”

You swallowed again, thickly, your lips smacking a little as you parted them, and you moused over to turn off the mic setting for noise reduction to filter out background noise, because you wanted him to hear every single thing he possibly could. 

“I’m really wet,” you said, because you could feel it now, as you pressed your thighs closed: the slick slide of your pussy lips.

“Touching yourself?” he asked.

“N-not yet,” you said.

Keys loosed a short laugh. It hit you in your core. “What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing,” you said, standing up and unbuttoning your jeans, pushing them down and just stepping out of them. For the first time, you wished you had a standalone mic so you could hold it down by your pussy so Keys could hear everything, but he’d just have to settle for your words.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Keys said, and while his voice had the edge to it, you could still hear the kind undertones of your regular boyfriend.

“Getting undressed,” you said, and just pushed your boyshorts down too, stepping out of them and then glancing at the crotch. It was a slightly darker blue than the rest of the fabric, the wet spot entirely visible and not even a little bit subtle. 

“Finger yourself for me,” Keys said, and you sat back down in your chair, slumping down so your pussy hung off the edge of the seat, one of your legs thrown over the arm to keep yourself open.

“How many?” you asked, and by the way he groaned, you could tell he didn’t expect the question.

“Two,” he replied. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Are you—touching yourself too?” you asked.

Keys chuckled darkly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you squeaked, curling two fingers into your slit. Fuck, you really were just as soaked as you’d told him. “Walter, I’m—really wet, fuck.”

“Yeah?” he asked. “Easy to fuck yourself, huh?”

“Yeah,” you echoed. “Feels really good.”

You heard what sounded like him spitting over the call, and just as you were about to ask, he groaned loudly again.

“Trying to get my—myself as wet as you,” he said, faltering only for a moment, and you wondered if this was his first time fucking around over a voice call, because it wasn’t always easy to say shit like that out loud.

“I’m dripping,” you said, because sometimes, it was.

“Yeah?” Keys asked. “Let me hear it.”

You hesitated, then fumbled with your headset with your clean hand, pulling it off your ears and holding the microphone down between your legs. You pulled your fingers out and rubbed them over your folds, watching as the green ring around your icon lit up with each squelch of your fingers, each wet, slippery sound that came as you started spreading your arousal over your clit, rubbing it. You saw the same green ring light up around Keys’ icon, meaning he was talking to you but you couldn’t hear him.

Slowly, with a shaky hand, you lifted your headset back up and put it on as well as you could with just one hand, and you heard him talking, just barely, the sound of his wrist hitting into—his front? his hip, his thigh?—just as clearly as he must have heard you.

“Gonna come for me?” you asked, and Keys barked a laugh, the question clearly unexpected.

“‘Course,” he said. “Guess you proved you deserve it, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you replied, still working your fingers over your clit, dipping down every few strokes to rub at your slit, curling your fingers inside just enough to feel the stretch, then returning to your swollen, sensitive bead.

“You first,” Keys said. “Wanna hear you, ‘k? Once I hear you—I’ll—I’ll—”

“Ok,” you replied, then bit your lip and took off your headset again. This time, you held it halfway between your face and your pussy, so you could hear him a bit better but also, hopefully, he could hear you. You fingered yourself, spreading your legs a bit wider, the slick sounds of your folds almost covering the rhythm of his hand moving over his dick, but you could still just hear it, hear his moans and his encouragements, telling you how much he liked hearing you, how much he liked knowing you were like this for him. 

You focused on your clit, and replaced your headphones where they belonged again, letting him just hear your whimpers and mewls as you got even closer, his own heavy breathing and sighs of your name shoving all thoughts other than your own impending orgasm away.

“Wal—Walt,” you whined, loud, and then as you rubbed two fingers over your clit, up and down, faster, faster, faster, you came with a loud cry, half a sob and half a scream, the sound ripped from your throat as you choked on it on its way out, the moan broken and unending.

Keys followed after you, your name coming repeatedly from his lips, again and again, drawing it out longer and lower as he came too, you could tell—his hand had stopped moving and he was panting a little. And then, his voice in your ears.

“Was that good?” Keys. Back to normal.

And the switch was flipped.

&&

Things didn’t change much after that fated Discord call, even though you thought that they might. But to the contrary—you and Keys went out on dates, more frequently got together for game nights, finally joined Hakeem for their D&D oneshot, and even found time to fool around, learning more about each other’s likes and dislikes, what was compatible between you and what wasn’t. And even as you grew closer, as you found that you were absolutely, definitely compatible both personality-wise and physically, you still never brought up the other side of Keys, and he never seemed to realize that you wanted him to let it loose.

Even when you purposely were a little bratty to him in bed, even when you antagonized him just enough to try to get him to snap at you, he just smirked at your petulance and kissed you right on the end of the nose, and then fucked you six ways to Sunday and kind of made you forget about how enticing you found Mean Keys in that moment, though the thought always crept back up on you later, after he’d fallen asleep next to you or as you rode the subway home the next morning.

It was on another Rivals night that the universe decided to make your move for you, because by pure luck and happenstance, you were at Keys’ apartment when Lexy pinged in the Discord, asking for all Marvel fans to report for duty (actually, what she’d said was AVENGERS ASSEMBLEEEEEEEE, so). You’d met Keys’ eyes across the game room, where you were sitting playing through Gone Home on your Switch, curled up on his futon, while he was working on some project for work, trying to get ahead of a deadline.

“I could go for some Rivals,” you said, shrugging one shoulder.

“You sure?” he asked, glancing at his computer, saving his work, and then looking back over his shoulder at you. “I know how it gets you.”

That was the first time either of you had mentioned your… proclivity toward his alter ego, and you slowly lowered your Switch, unsure if you should feel embarrassed, called out, or excited.

“You mean how it gets you,” you said. 

Keys only smirked, maybe a little self-deprecating, but just a little, and half-shrugged one shoulder, partially nodding his head to concede the point.

“Well,” you started to say, but Keys continued.

“And I just want to be clear, if you want to, I’ll take you across the hall and let you have as much of me as you want.”

He wasn’t even nasty yet, the way you wanted, but you just nodded, because the prospect was too much to waste.

“I’ll take everything,” you said, voice hushed, and then cringed after a moment as he laughed.

“All right, Rogue,” he said, because you’d just inadvertently quoted the character’s ultimate voice line, then winked at you. “Gambit never folds.” Of course he would hit you back with Rogue’s husband’s voice line. God, you almost wanted to skip the games—but no, you wanted him in the right mood more. Wanted him to show you who was boss, and most importantly, wanted him to spit the attitude at you in just the right way to get you soaked, fucking dripping wet for him.

And after five matches, he was right there.

“How the fuck did we fuck that up, guys?” Keys asked. You’d been about to win—the enemy team’s cart was right at the end of the map, and you’d been picking them off one by one. They kept resetting the overtime counter by trickling in, and unfortunately all it took was one perfectly timed Scarlet Witch ult to get enough of you off the objective to allow them to roll it to the final point.

“My freeze was on cooldown,” you said, having gone back to Luna Snow after realizing that Mantis just wasn’t for you the last time.

“You could have put your shield up,” Maxine suggested to Keys.

“I have cooldowns too,” Keys said.

“Oh, you mean you weren’t managing them correctly, just like the rest of us?” Lexy said, because Keys had been shitting on everyone for exactly that, and he knew it.

“One mistake in five games,” Keys said. Lexy scoffed, but Keys asked anyway, “More?”

“I’m down,” Hakeem said, and you heard them take a drag on their vape, meaning they were exponentially more level-headed dealing with Keys tonight than they had been last time.

“Sure,” Lexy said, at the same time Maxine hummed her assent.

“Actually,” you said, looking over at Keys, who was on the futon, playing on his console while you were seated in his desk chair, pressing your thighs together. “I think I’m kinda done with Rivals for tonight.”

“Ugh, whatever,” Lexy said. “Hey, Keem, can you let Bryan know we have open spots now? He wanted to play but we were full.”

“Got it,” Hakeem said, and you watched the bottom corner of Keys’ center monitor flash with a Discord message from the server.

“Later,” you said, leaving the voice chat at the same moment that Keys did.

You turned to him, reaching down to cup yourself through your jeans, but Keys only shook his head.

“Do you think you played well enough for me to let you touch yourself?” he asked.

You immediately withdrew your hand and placed it on your knee.

“Thank you,” Keys said, and you felt your clit throb a little as you squeezed your pussy down around nothing. You hadn’t even done anything but listen to him. “So… what is it you’re looking for? When you have me like this.”

“I just—like when you’re… kind of mean, you know? When you talk down to me.”

You saw a look of uncertainty cross his face, because you had the distinct impression that this was new to him, that this was never something someone had asked him to do before.

“All right,” he said. “Why don’t you show me how bad you want it?”

You weren’t sure if even Keys knew how that question sounded, but your response was to stand from his desk chair, tug up the hem of the hoodie you’d borrowed from him when you’d arrived, and then push down the leggings you had on. Keys stayed perfectly still on the futon, watching, because you stepped out of the leggings and then hooked your thumbs into your panties, and you realized that as affected as you were by Keys being more stern with you than normal, so too was he affected by your obedience, your lack of inhibition.

His eyes rose from your hips to your face, then dipped back down as the waistband of your underwear rolled down around your hips, just a hint of your pubic hair peeking out, the wet spot you were sure was there visible to Keys, at least. You watched as he swallowed, his hoodie falling back down around you as you pushed your underwear down far enough that you were able to let them fall to the floor where you stood in front of his desk. And then you were standing there, half dressed, wearing your boyfriend’s hoodie with the promise of exactly what he’d wanted to see beneath it, and Keys finally stood up.

“I said show me,” he said.

Biting your lip, you reached down with both hands to curl them into the hoodie, lifting it up as Keys approached you, getting close enough to reach out and touch you but decidedly not doing it. You heard the heavy breath he took as he looked down at you—this was the most tension you’d ever had between you, you thought, and god, it was only going to get even better.

The soft fabric of the hoodie tickled you a little as you pulled it up, exposing your bare lower half to Keys, whose eyes settled on the spot between your thighs as he stared. You squirmed a little under his gaze, keeping your face turned up to his as you he finally reached out for you, letting his hands come to rest on your bare hips before he trailed the fingertips of one down over your front, then the back of his hand was brushing the inside of your thigh, and then his fingers were pressing up against you, parting your puffy lips. His breath caught when he felt how wet you were, and even you could tell by how easily his fingers slipped in between your folds. He withdrew his hand and lifted it between you, the grip of his other hand on your hip tighter now than it had been just moments ago. He showed you his glistening fingertips, and then moved his hand to his mouth, stopping just before he reached it.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he said. “Letting this kind of thing get you this wet?” You swallowed, lips parted, because the derision was exactly what you wanted. “What’s wrong with you?”

Even as he asked it, he continued moving his hand toward his mouth, and as soon as you stammered out an “I—I don’t know,” he took his fingers between his lips, sucking your fluids off of them before, humming quietly before taking them back out of his mouth, now shiny with saliva.

“You don’t know?” Keys repeated.

You shook your head. Keys smirked, leaning down closer to your level, and looked straight into your eyes. 

“I don’t know either,” he said. “But I think I’m starting to like it.”

—

There was no reason for Keys to keep you standing in his game room, in front of his desk, his fingers curled into your cunt as you arched yourself up against him to kiss him, and when you pulled away to look at him through half-lidded eyes, breathing out a “Can we—please—?” he just ushered you to his bedroom, laying you down on his bed, pushing your legs apart and nosing in between your thighs, letting his face press into the fold of skin where your leg met your mound, but he didn’t lick you where you wanted him to—no, he sucked a long, wet kiss to one of your lips, then looked up at you, hands fisted in the front of his sweatshirt, the hood up and over your head. It made you look cute.

It made him—this side of him, the one that you liked, the one that you’d given permission for him to try on—want to ruin you.

“Walter,” you whimpered, as he laved his tongue over the side of your cunt, not delving into you, just teasing you, not giving you what you wanted.

He ignored you, even as you curled a hand into his hair, tugging at him, trying to angle his mouth slightly to the side, trying to get him where you needed him.

Before you even realized he’d moved one of his hands from the expanse of your thigh, it was wrapped around your wrist, taking your hand from his hair and moving it to the same spot his hand had just vacated.

“Enough,” he said, his voice low, steady. You felt your thighs twitch a little, partly from how open he was holding you, and partly from the commanding tone. “Behave. Ok?”

“Ok,” you mewled in response, and felt cunt squeeze down around nothing when his lips curved upward on one side, a half-smile.

“Thank you,” he said, and you took in a shaky breath. 

Then, he gave in to you.

With just a small tilt of the head, his mouth was exactly where you needed him most. His lips dragged over your clit before moving further down, and his nose pressed against your supple skin as he sucked at your folds, mouthing at your slit before burying his face into you, his chin already wet with you, his hands on your thighs, one still holding your own hand against you too.

This was nice—this was really good, like he always was to you. But it wasn’t what you actually wanted.

“Mmn,” you whined, trying to make it sound as though you weren’t enjoying yourself. Which you absolutely were, so where was your Oscar?

Because the moment the displeased-sounding mewl fell from your lips, Keys pulled away to look up at you.

Concerned. Normal Keys.

You let the barest hint of a smirk touch your lips, and his brow furrowed.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

You squirmed a little beneath him, spread open and willing, yet still wanting. “No…”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Uh huh,” you whispered, nodding.

Keys lowered his face to you again, resuming eating you out, and again, you shifted your hips.

And again, Keys removed his mouth from you. This time, he didn’t speak, just looked at you expectantly.

That was better. That was… closer.

“Problem?” he said, because this time, it wasn’t a question. It was a demand for an explanation. He was figuring, pushing, testing the limits; yours and his. 

Your breath caught, but only for a moment.

“No,” you said again, and this time, he rose to it.

“Try again.”

And it had all the weight you wanted, the rigidity, the glint of harshness that you heard in his tone when he got frustrated with a game, transferred onto you. Because you’d told him you would behave, and you weren’t.

You tucked your head back into the hood more, and when you spoke, it was a soft little murmur. A flash of honesty—because if you didn’t tell him what you wanted, how could he know? This was push and pull, give and take, a tug of war that you’d both win in the end.

“It was too easy,” you said, speaking from the heart. “I want to work for it.”

Keys blinked. The normal version of him shined through, and he gave you a half grin and a nod, and then let the stoic expression reappear.

“Work for it,” he said, and you could tell that he was working through getting used to this but also enjoying it, playing the role you wanted him to fill for you. “You mean you want to earn it.”

“Yeah,” you said.

“Done.”

Your breath caught as he pushed himself away from you, moved to stand up over you with his legs between yours, still slung over the side of the bed. You hesitated, then pushed yourself up onto your elbows, still looking up at him.

“Get up,” Keys said, almost like an invitation rather than a command.

You pushed yourself up to your elbows, unable to press your thighs together since he was still standing between your legs, his knees pressed against the side of his mattress. The sweatshirt fell down over your abdomen, the hem coming to rest atop your thighs with the hood half dropping over your face.

“Turn over, please,” Keys said, and even with the polite phrasing his voice was still exactly where you wanted it to be, the lower register with the detached, aloof tone.

Sliding back over the bedspread, you opted not to try and stand while he was basically on top of you, and instead just rolled onto all fours, the hoodie riding up over your waist again, exposing your ass and your lower back to him. You didn’t hear any movement, didn’t hear him speak, didn’t even hear him breathing, but what you did hear was the sound of his closet door opening behind you.

You chanced a look and saw him kneeling in front of the closet, the same way he had been when he’d given you a pair of sweats to wear to sleep in, but this time, he had moved the drawer on top to the side and was looking through the bottom drawer.

“You know,” Keys said, glancing over at you like he’d known you would look. “I’m usually more of a… mouth guy.” You were very aware—oral was his favorite thing to do, and to ask you to do. “But… a techy guy like me, I’d be kind of remiss if I didn’t at least plan to have some fun with this kind of stuff, right?”

You couldn’t see what he was talking about—it was too dim in the room, plus the drawer was fully in his closet on the floor, and he was blocking it from your view. You had an inkling, though. And as you strained your neck to just try and see him out of the corner of your eye, you were absolutely proven right when he pulled out—

“You have a fucking Hitachi?” you asked, and even Keys broke a little too.

“Well—I bought it because, you know, people on Reddit said—”

“Reddit?” you asked, laughing a little even though moments ago you’d been legitimately quivering in anticipation. “You get sex advice from Reddit?”

“Well, I’m not about to ask Lexy what you like—”

“You bought it for me?”

Keys opened his mouth, then closed it, took a breath—that one you heard—and then was right back to it. “I bought it for you,” he said, but the simple words were colored by the way he said them. He stood up, crossing to the bed; your eyes were unable to leave the vibrator he held in his hands. It had a cable for fuck’s sake. You’d used toys before, but never one that would probably leave you spent before Keys even had a hand on you.

“I figure this might be a way to… prove yourself, hm?” Keys asked, climbing onto the bed behind you. But instead of touching you, he just leaned over to the side, letting his hand slip between the side of his mattress and the wall, and plugged the toy in. Making sure you were looking back at him, he turned it onto the lower setting and it still buzzed, loudly. “Can you do that?” He turned it off again.

“I—can try,” you uttered, and he smirked at you.

“Thank you,” he said, and you felt yourself clench up again. Every time he thanked you it made you want to scream in the best fucking way.

He offered you the toy, his arm moving up around your side, and you reached to take it. Once you had it in hand, he finally touched you again, letting his fingers skim up your back as he eased your chest down to the bed, your ass in the air, hips flexed. His touch beneath the hoodie tickled you—you were surprised you were still wearing it, but, admittedly, you liked having his clothes on while you were doing this. It made it feel all the more intimate somehow, even though your body was hidden; it was still wrapped in something that belonged to him.

“I want you to hold it right here,” Keys said, taking your wrist and guiding your hand up between your legs, letting the bulb of the toy rest against your mound. “However you want. You can take it away if you need to. Ok?”

“Ok,” you breathed. He was in control, but he was still letting you have some agency—you liked that. A lot. “When—” you started to ask, but stopped. “How…”

“Hm?” Keys asked, and you shuddered as you felt his lips move over your lower back.

“How do I earn it?”

You felt more than heard his smirk. “I’ll let you know when you have.”

Flicking the toy on and off a few times, you couldn’t quite help but to talk back just a little. “Or don’t.”

He paused, sighed. “Yeah, I—I’m sorry, I’m still—getting used to this. M…meaner?”

“Kinda,” you said, turning to look back at him, and he nodded.

“I’m tryin’ here,” he said.

“I know,” you said. “Just—don’t overthink it? I’ll stop you if it’s too much. I—” You swallowed. “I want you to be mean to me. So be mean to me.”

“Mean,” Keys echoed. “Mean…” He leaned over you, tucking his face right beside yours, cheek to cheek as he reached below you, taking your wrist in hand again. “If you need me to stop, say…” he trailed off, ostensibly trying to think of a word to use.

“Tilted,” you said, and he laughed.

Then, just as quickly, he stopped. The mood shifted. He pressed his face into yours, and you were suddenly aware of the way his body was on top of yours, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, the weight of his cock pressing against your ass cheek, even though his jeans. His nose at your temple, his lips on your earlobe, closing around it.

“Tilted,” Keys repeated. “That’s perfect.”

He backed away from you, his hands moving to your ass, spreading you apart, and you felt even more exposed than you had minutes ago when he was going down on you. A sharp little clicking noise sounded behind you, and it took you a moment to realize he’d just snapped his fingers at you.

“The toy,” he said, just this side of commanding. “You said you wanted to earn it. So earn it.”

You gasped a little as his fingers dug into your ass cheeks, and then his tongue was moving over your lower back, trailing down, between your cheeks, and you felt him stop just shy of actually licking you anywhere interesting. He waited, so you didn’t. 

The wand started buzzing as you hit the switch, and as you touched it to your mound—not even your clit, the vibrations plenty strong to stimulate yourself—you heard him again, behind you.

“Thank you,” he said, and you turned your face into the mattress as you pushed the toy a little more firmly against yourself, thighs shuddering already even without direct contact to your clit.

And then, he started in again. He licked between your folds, tongue slipping into your slit as he licked at you from the inside, moving against you as you adjusted the toy, still not making direct contact because you could tell it would be too much, especially with him eating you out. 

You could barely hear him over the hum of the toy, the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy, the moans that emanated from his chest as he sucked at your lips and even tongued at your clit, his chin bumping into the bulb as you moved it back and forth over yourself, giving yourself a little massage with it, and it was working even though the only thing touching your clit was Keys’ tongue.

“Mm,” you intoned, but Keys didn’t react to it, didn’t respond other than to lave his tongue over you, licking a long, thick stripe from your clit to your slit, gathering up your arousal onto his tongue—and then continuing on right up your crack, spreading your fluids and arousal up and over your asshole, his tongue flicking against the puckered rim as you gasped, then whimpered as he focused his attention on it.

“Yeah?” Keys asked, his lips against your ass. “Tilted?”

“No,” you said vehemently, and he felt your body give a kick as you pushed the wand further down between your legs, this time actually touching your clit with it. You jumped again and again at the intense vibration, but it didn’t deter him—on the contrary. He fully intended to give you as many orgasms as you wanted, as you could take, and even though he hadn’t expressed that to you, he was certain you could assess the situation and figure it out all on your own.

“Didn’t think so,” he said. “You really want to show me, huh?” he said. He placed a kiss, a soft, gentle press of his lips, directly on your asshole, and your pussy quivered. You were close—he could tell. It didn’t deter him.

“Walter,” you whined as he opened his mouth, licked at your hole. You could feel how much spit he’d spread over you, the wet feeling of his mouth as he prodded your rim gently with the tip of his tongue, not quite trying to ease it inside just yet, but trying to relax you enough to. You pulled the wand away from your clit, wanting to stave it off, and resumed just rubbing it over your mound, feeling the buzzing but just a pinch more muted.

Keys sucked at your asshole, tongue lapping over you, before he ducked down again, his mouth back on your pussy. You gasped, the sound punched out of your chest as he fucked you with his tongue. His hands were still on you, but as you arched your back, you turned your head as much as you could and saw him behind you, his hips pressed against his bed, still clothed, grinding his front against the mattress, giving himself some friction as he rolled himself down, not quite humping the bed but close. 

“Fuck,” you muttered, angling your wrist again, the Hitachi passing over your clit, and as soon as the vinyl head skimmed over your clit, swollen and ready, smearing across it—your body practically convulsed, your orgasm crashing into you, turning your head to hide your face in the bedspread beneath you, chest kicking as you feel your clit pulse, your pussy spasm, clench down on his tongue that was apparently still inside of you—you hadn’t even realized Keys was still in the damn room, such was the force at which the magic wand (aptly fucking named, holy shit) made you come.

Your wrist dipped, the toy falling away from you, but no it didn’t—because Keys’ hand was there, supporting your wrist, even as he licked at your asshole again.

“Walt…” you moaned, because your brain still felt a little fuzzy but your body was revving up again.

“You did so good. Such good work for me,” Keys said. “I almost believe you’ll earn it.”

“Please,” you said, but he let go of your wrist, let you move the toy off of your clit and down, down further, now letting the bulb press against your slit as he trailed his tongue around your asshole, teasing your rim.

The moan that fell from your lips was muffled by the comforter beneath you as you hid your face again. The head of the toy was nestled between your folds, feeling like it was making your entire lower half shake with the intensity of the vibrations. And maybe you were—you couldn’t be certain. Your thighs were trembling at least, of that you were sure, and as you twisted your wrist, pressing the wand tighter up against your cunt, Keys’ tongue just barely slipped inside of your asshole, and you groaned at the intrusion, the half-sob you loosed making your hand tighten around the vibrator, your other hand curl into a fist around nothing just clenching up.

Until you felt fingers coaxing you to relax yours, and Keys’ hand slid into yours, letting you hold onto him as you felt your pussy tightening up again, squeezing down on nothing but itself, your wetness drooling out of your cunt as Keys fed his tongue into your ass, stretching you around the pliant muscle as it flitted in and out of you, teasing and eager.

“K-Keys,” you said, losing your composure, forgetting his real name just for a moment, forgetting your own goddamn name. Who were you? You didn’t fucking know—all you knew was the singularity between your thighs, your entire being forced down into one tight, explosive mote of being.

“What’s my name?” he asked you, pulling away, spitting on his thumb and letting it rub over your hole. “Try again.”

“Ke—Walter,” you managed, your heart thrumming in your chest. You felt his lips return to your lower back, wet but gentle.

“Very good,” he praised you, and you whined, flexing your hips back against the toy as you held it against yourself, so close now, but needing just a little more. You wanted to wait until his mouth was back on you before giving it to yourself; and like he anticipated what you hoped for, he ducked down to lap at your asshole again, tongue dipping inside you every few passes. Once he was back on you, his mouth servicing you, his hands on your ass, holding you open for him, you slid the wand further forward, focusing on your clit, and just like the first time, your orgasm was there almost instantly, your body kicking forward enough that you detached yourself from Keys’ mouth, hips bucking forward away from him. You half-screamed as your orgasm tore through you, grinding your pussy down against the toy as you came, tears pricking the corner of your eyes as you felt one roll down your face and settle into the hollow beside your nose.

“Fuck, fuck, Walt—Walt, I’m so—”

“You’re so close,” Keys said, reaching down beneath you, taking your wrist again, his arm reaching down and around you. He leaned fully over you, his front against yours, and let you feel his weight atop you, his mouth littering kisses at the back of your ear, the sensitive spot there, before he continued. “Do you know that?” He rolled his hips against you, his erection much more noticeable now, the thick press of his cock commanding all of your attention, if not for the vibrator still down between your legs, numbing your thigh as it buzzed away at the innocuous plane of skin.

“To—what?” you asked, because thinking wasn’t your strong suit at the moment.

“To proving you earned it,” Keys said. “I think… one more oughtta do it.” He tucked his face in between your neck and shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie almost in the way, but not quite. His voice was quiet as he checked in on you, pulling your wrist down so the vibrator kept on working, but touched nothing, letting you almost clear your head. “Tilted?”

“No,” you said, turning to try and look at him. “Please I—want you to—not stop.”

His eyes met yours, icy. “And you think I should listen to you?” he asked. “You like being treated like this. Not sure I should trust your judgement.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “One more and I—I earned it. You said.”

Keys chuckled, and even with the darkness, you heard his real, genuine Keys amusement, the lightness that made you want to fly every time you joked and earned yourself a laugh. “I did, you’re right.” He leaned further into you, his cock against your ass through the denim, and kissed the corner of your mouth, pulling away even as you tried for more. “You’re so close,” he said again. “Let’s fucking go.”

It would have made you laugh in any other circumstances, because god, how often did the two of you say that when you were gaming and something good happened? Well now you were fucking and something good was about to happen, so—warranted.

He didn’t move off of you, letting his body rest on yours as he tightened his grip on your wrist, not just holding it anymore but taking control, guiding the head of the wand against your clit, and even when your hips kicked, flexed, overstimulation driving you into madness, he held it there, feeling your body writhe below his, your legs try to move, flatten, stretch, wanting your body laid out instead of bent at the waist, wanting room to feel as much pleasure as you could rather than confined to a smaller space.

“Almost,” Keys said, his voice low, making you close your eyes to take it in, the deep, richness of it sweet and heavy, covering over you like honey. “Almost, right?”

“Almost,” you echoed him, reveling in his body draped over yours, the way he kissed your jaw and rubbed your wrist with his thumb, soothing you as the vibrator worked at you, your body half-spent but only just getting started.

Keys moved the toy back and forth over you, gently, easily, but even so, after barely another few moments, you broke beneath him, a stuttered groan leaving you as you came, spreading your knees, the two of you sinking low until you were flat on the bed, the Hitachi still rumbling away beneath you, your pussy spasming on top of it as you rode out your orgasm with Keys still on top of you, his breath hot on your neck as he—oh, fuck, fuck—started grinding down against you, humping your ass just the same as he’d been doing to his bed itself earlier.

“Walter—” you whimpered, and he slid an arm beneath you, feeling along the shaft of the toy to turn it off, the two of you feeling the lack of the vibration like it was still there, your cunt tingling, his hips still working into you, but slowing.

“So, so good, you were,” Keys whispered to you, the arm beneath you hugging you from below, squeezing you tight against him even though he was already fully on top of you. “Thank you.”

“Fuck—” you moaned, the gratitude making your pussy clamp up again, and you felt a little rush of your fluids trickle out of your slit.

“You like that, huh?” Keys asked, halfway between normal and derisive. He moved his free hand to stroke back over your hair, feeling the slight beading of sweat at your hairline. “When I thank you for being so good?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, agreeing even though you had no explanation as for why.

“Yeah,” Keys repeated, pushing himself up and off of you, but letting his front linger against your ass as long as he could, before he had to roll back onto his knees and climb off of you. “You want even more? Or would that be too good to you?”

“No, it’s—”

“It’s what?” Keys asked, cutting you off as he moved off of the bed to stand beside it, looking down at your prone form, still in his hoodie, the hem just above your ass, the hood all bunched up at the nape of your neck. “Not too good?” He leaned down, his face right beside yours. “I think maybe it’s about time you start thanking me, don’t you? Show me how grateful you are for how… generous I’m being.”

You stared up at him, fucked out and dumbstruck.

Keeping his eyes locked on yours, Keys undid his button and fly, pushing down his jeans and boxers, letting his cock spring out once it was clear of his waistband. Even in the dark of the room you could see the flushed head, the way the tip was a little darker than the rest of him, and he wrapped a hand around himself, right at the base. “Well?”

“I earned it?” you asked, and for a moment, affection—nay, adoration—flashed over his face. Then it was gone.

“You did. So what do you say.”

“Thank you,” you said, and before you could even close your lips after speaking, Keys had one knee on the bed, holding his cock down, angled toward your mouth, and you shifted closer as best you could while your limbs still felt like jelly, unable to really support yourself for now.

Smirking down at you, Keys waited for you to part your lips, your cheek still flat on the bedspread, and let the tip of his cock rest shallowly in your open mouth. You loosened your jaw, propping yourself up a little on your elbow, and he slid his knee forward, his cock entering your mouth, stretching your lips around him as you exhaled out your nose and let your eyes slip closed.

He didn’t fuck your face. He didn’t try to spur you to action. He didn’t really even move until you did, trying to keep his cock between your lips as you first balanced on your elbows, and then shifted onto your knees, curled up before him, your head still kind of sideways, the two of you managing to move together and finagle yourselves into a position where you could let his cock rest in your mouth, saliva mixing with the precome he’d been leaking, both dripping down your throat so you barely tasted him, just taste what was already coating him on the underside from where his slit had leaked while pleasuring you.

You tried to keep your eyes on his, still wet and shiny with the unshed tears from the force of your orgasm, and as you started to feel less wobbly, you reached for his hips, coming to hold them as you faced him properly, bobbing your head on his cock a little, his length sliding out from your lips almost the whole way before you moved right back on, burying your nose into the short, curled hair at the base of his cock, your chin nudging his balls as you let the head slip into your throat.

“Shit,” Keys swore, and covered one of your hands with his, the other moving to cup your face. It was a crack in his facade, and as you started to pull off, you saw the mask slip back onto him, the half-scowl on his lips as you let his cock fall, dripping spit, from your lips.

“Thank you,” you said, soft but clear, and it was a reminder to him, what you were doing, what you wanted. His mouth hardened into a thin line again, even as he rubbed his hand over yours on his hip, and lifted his free hand from your cheek to take his cock in hand again. He tapped the tip onto your lower lip, and you opened your mouth, taking him in again, and this time he did fuck into your mouth. Not hard, not harsh, but enough that you gagged a little at the quick motion, how fast he filled you, and you swallowed around the head as he leaned his thigh against the edge of the mattress, his other knee still bent and digging a point into the bedspread. 

One of your hands, the one not covered by Keys’ own, slid down to his thigh, bracing yourself as you sucked him off, your jaw slack and your eyes fluttering, wanting to watch his cock move in and out of your mouth, but the blissed out feeling of him stretching you, brushing the back of your throat, almost choking you had you unable to keep them open. You felt his cock twitch against the back of your mouth, deep in you, and you swallowed around the head, your throat tightening up around him as he sighed above you.

“If this is too much,” Keys said, turning your hand in his so your fingers locked together, “squeeze twice.” He demonstrated on your hand, gripping you tight two times in quick succession. “Ok?”

You squeezed his hand once and hummed to communicate that you understood, and then he was bending over you, climbing onto the bed, both knees on it as he moved his hands to your shoulders and then—no warning other than him holding you still and pulling back—snapped his hips forward into your face, his cock rushing into your mouth, your throat, your gag reflex triggering, your throat spasming around him, but you took him in anyway. Your hand slid upward, palm-flat against him, to disappear beneath his shirt, feeling over his stomach, his chest, and then, barely as soon as you were able to relax around his length, as your throat closed around the head, you felt him really dig into you, his front grinding against you, your nose buried in his happy trail—a groan was punched out of his chest, a small, barely audible whimper following as he came, the first two shots of his come sliding right down your throat. But as he kept going, thick spurts of come shooting from the slit in the head, he pulled out, letting them land instead on your tongue, then against your palate as he left your lips, cock swinging down, ropes of his release landing on the front of his hoodie, his bedspread, his heavy length staining his bedspread with the last few dribbles of spunk as his orgasm receded, a bead of pearly come collecting at the head.

Keys slicked his hand over his cock, still slippery with your spit, smearing it over himself, before he looked into your eyes, breath coming a little harder than he’d anticipated, his orgasm washing over him much sooner than he’d expected.

And before he could say anything—praise you, degrade you, get out literally one goddamn word, you spoke instead.

“Thank you,” you said, voice soft and quiet, and Key’s cock twitched, right in front of you, the dynamic doing wonders for both of you, so unexpected but still welcome.

“Take—this off,” Keys said, tangling a shaky hand into the hoodie, trying to tug it over your head.

“I got it—” you mumbled, and he stumbled backward off the bed, tearing his clothes off, his shirt landing somewhere near the door and his jeans and boxers ending up in a tangled pile as you shrugged off the come-stained hoodie, undoing your bra and dropping them both beside you on the bed. That was really as far as you could get them, because as soon as you were both naked, Keys was on top of you again, this time turning you over so you were facing him, letting his mouth meet yours in a fervid kiss, heated and desperate, both on your part and his.

For the moment, the attitude was forgotten, the desire for him to be mean to you, the praise and the degradation—everything was at the back of your mind besides your boyfriend, kissing you, tasting himself on you—and your hands, touching him everywhere; his hands, on your waist and your back and holding you closer, pulling you to him, until he rolled you onto your back, following, settling atop you and kissing your upper lip, drawing your tongue into his mouth, moving his against yours and then your legs were on either side of him and he was stretching up and to the side, yanking open his nightstand drawer, fumbling for a condom in the box, his cock hard against your stomach, smearing your saliva and his residual come over your front.

Your lips didn’t leave his, even as he just grabbed the stupid box and threw it down onto the bed above your head. A little giggle escaped you against Keys’ mouth, and he finally broke the kiss, looking down at you, a sheepish little smirk on his lips as he finally managed to pull a rubber from the box. He kissed you again before he pushed himself up, his long legs bent on either side of your hips. You let your hands stray to his thighs, rubbing over them as he opened the condom and then rolled it on, shuffling back a little so he could press the head of his cock to your slit, still slick with spit and your own come. He pushed in, your folds parting to take him, your body sucking him in just as much as he was moving into you on his own.

“So—so,” Keys said, gasping just a little as he tried to get the words out, bottoming out inside you as his front came to rest against yours, “do—you think you earned this?”

“I—” you tried, but your body superceded your mouth, your brain. You squeezed down on him, bringing a moan to the surface for both of you, your legs moving to wrap around him, trying to pull him down flush against you, and so he moved with you, lowering his front to yours, your bare skin heated on his, your chest arching up into him as he kissed your neck, finally moving his hips, fucking into you.

“Did you earn it?” Keys asked, and you whined, open-mouthed, needy, his mouth finding yours as he licked into it, tongue licking over yours before he spoke again. “Say it.”

“I—” you tried again, but his hips were slapping into yours, his cock was fucking you open, splitting you apart beneath him and so all you could do was take it, mouth open in a silent moan, back arching, neck craned, and then—he stopped.

“I told you to say it,” Keys said, and before you could do as he asked, before you could get your wits back about you, he kept going. “Beg me to give it to you like this, tell me how much you like it, tell me you want me mean. And I do all of it for you and you can’t even do one thing for me? Brat.”

You stared up at him, because—it seemed he finally found his groove, he found the space you wanted him to occupy, and you were just nodding along, still not speaking.

“Oh, you agree?” he asked. You, still, silently nodded. “Brat.” He fucked into you harshly, one final movement, stilling deep within you. “You better learn to use your words,” Keys said. “Say it.” He kissed you, harsh, just as wanting as you felt—which let you still feel tethered to the real Keys, the one who was soft and sweet and doing all of this for you, because you asked him to. “Say you earned this cock.”

Your moan was wanton, breathy, and he didn’t move, hips stalled on yours, and you swallowed thickly, lips smacking as you opened them. “I earned it.”

“Earned what?”

Another loud breath. “Your cock.”

“How?” Keys asked, one hand slipping down between your bodies, readying itself, but not touching you yet. His lips were against yours now, and when you spoke, you felt him shudder.

“By—being good?” you said, half a question, half a certainty.

“By being good,” he repeated. “Still a brat, though.”

“No,” you whined. 

“No what?” he asked. His eyes scanned your face. “Ti—” he started to ask, but you cut him off, because no—you weren’t tilted.

“‘M not a brat,” you said, trying to entice him to move again by lifting your hips against his. “Just—want you.”

Keys studied you for a moment, taking you in, examining you—making sure you were being truthful, making sure you were still good to continue. You tipped your chin up to his, kissing him, conveying everything unsaid in a different way with your mouth, and then he broke the kiss, just enough to answer you.

“Then what do you say?”

“Walter…” you mewled, because you weren’t about to th—

“Say it,” he said again, and it struck you that maybe you weren’t the only one wrapped up in it now. Maybe you weren’t the only one who wanted it, was affected by it. So you lifted your hips into Keys’, bullied your pussy even further onto his cock, taking him fully to the hilt, pulling him even closer by your thighs, and did as he’d asked.

“Thank you,” you nearly purred up at him, and you felt his front dip down against yours in interest, in desperation, chasing his orgasm the same way he wanted to give you yours—you could tell because his fingers moved down between your folds, slicking over your swollen, sensitive bead, and you bucked your cunt up onto his cock as he found it, because you were so worn out, so overly played with, that you were right there already, just from having him inside you, from a little bit of rubbing at your clit.

“Yeah?” Keys asked, sounding like he was willing to let go of his usual decorum, his usual collectedness, only for you, like this. “Yeah?” he prompted you, again.

“Yes,” you sighed. “Thank you, th-thank you, Walter, I—ahn, please—”

He’d started moving again, his knees buried in the bedspread as he fucked you, hard enough that he nudged you up the bed in increments, chasing you as he did, not wanting to let you away from him, not wanting to slip out of your hot, wet channel.

“So fucking hot,” he mumbled, “so beautiful, so—so good, aren’t—you?” 

His stammering words fluttered over you, and you nodded, your arms moving up to wrap around him as he kissed you again, his fingers rubbing your clit, full of intention, purpose, wanting to feel you finish around him, wet his cock and your thighs with your release, and you could tell he was about to go first because his rhythm stuttered, his hips ground into you a little more intensely, a little harsher.

“Walter,” you sighed against his lips, and he nearly collapsed on top of you, smothering your body with his, needing absolutely no space between you, wanting every inch of you touching every inch of him. You clung to him as he pistoned his hips against yours, his cock seeming to fill you more and more with each thrust, every instroke reaching the most tender places in you, the ridge of his length dragging over every spot you needed it to, and then he was gasping against your tongue and you were sighing on his cheek, his cock rigid and tense inside you, your thighs locked around his back as he filled the condom within you, and your walls rippled on him, milking his dick as you practically gushed around his cock, your whole body so fucking fulfilled you felt that you’d be satisfied for hours to come, if not days.

His bedroom was filled with heavy breathing, the soft smacking of lips as you kissed, and then he rolled onto his side next to you, his hand wandering over your side as he leaned his forehead to yours.

“Was it ok?” he asked. Regular Keys, back to normal.

“More than ok,” you replied, smiling, looking into his eyes, shining even in the darkness of his bedroom.

Then, at the same moment, you both spoke the words “Thank you”—you dissolved into giggles, and he just held you closer.

&& taglist: @sunriseinhawkins @ghostlyriddles @souperbloom @sheisjoeschateau @cheugy-djobe @cpnsteverogers @nowandajenn @configurre @cecesblogg @britt-mf @harringtondarling @valentine-night @charismatickeery @charlston-chews @bearwithegg @starkleila @sommie08 @xoxocelestial @kristywidget97 @calelundaa @mistyblueinks @projections-mortal @cupofdjoplease

You click HARRINGTON-5G because the signal is obnoxiously strong, then remember you don’t have the password and click your own instead. The old router the landlord left gives a half-hearted wheeze and flashes its lights at you. You hover over the SSID settings, considering your options as the music thrums at an obnoxiously loud volume.

The bass thuds through the wall again, and someone yells, “CHUG, HARRINGTON, CHUG!”

Through clenched teeth, you rename your network: APT203ULoudAsFuck.

You hit save with a nasty little smile, imagining Party Boy Harrington, your new neighbour, opening his laptop tomorrow, looking for Wi-Fi, and seeing that.

Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Also yes.

. . .

You meet him the next morning in the hallway.

You’re locking up, coveralls rolled to your calves, grease under your nails because you were up at six fixing the misfiring cylinder in your truck. He is… the opposite of you.

Grey sweatpants, old college hoodie hanging off broad shoulders, hair fluffed up in that artfully messy way that has to be deliberate. He’s juggling two trash bags and an empty pizza box, and there are faint purple shadows under his eyes that say he did, in fact, CHUG, HARRINGTON, CHUG last night. He stops when he sees you. Gives you the once-over—boots, coveralls, the wrench sticking out of your back pocket—then glances past you at your door number.

“Morning,” he calls out, voice still rough with sleep. “You, uh… new?”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “How’d you guess?”

He blinks. A quick huff of a laugh escapes, like you caught him off-guard. “Well, I don’t recognise you, and I’m a very observant guy.”

“Yeah,” you hum. “I noticed. I can recognise your entire playlist through the wall.”

His mouth does an awkward little twist. “That bad, huh?”

“Let’s just say if I never hear Pitbull say ‘Dale’ again, it’ll be too soon.”

He winces. “Okay, in my defence, I did not make the playlist. But, uh.” He shifts the trash bags to one hand and offers the other. “Steve. 203.”

Of course he’s Steve from 203.

You look at his hand, then at his face. He’s unfairly pretty in a boy-next-door, toothpaste-commercial way—warm brown eyes, lashes better than yours, a jaw you could probably cut sheet metal on. The kind of guy high school you would’ve avoided on principle. You wipe your palm on your coveralls, purely to be annoying, then shake his hand firmly. “Mechanic. 204.”

His brows jump. “Wait. Mechanic as in…?”

You tap the name patch stitched over your chest. The garage logo is fraying at the edges. “As in my actual job. It’s not a kink thing.”

Colour rises in his cheeks; you don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or because his brain very briefly went there. “Didn’t say it was.”

“You thought it,” you shoot back knowingly. “I could hear it rattling around in your skull.”

His mouth drops open, outrage mixing with that reluctant interest you’ve seen on guys’ faces your whole life when they realise the girl they’re talking to is both competent and deeply unimpressed by them.

“You’re kinda rude for this early,” he notes, brows still high.

“You’re kinda loud for this early,” you shoot back, stepping around him toward the stairs. “Thin walls. Maybe keep that in mind next time you decide to host the World Cup in your living room.”

Behind you, Steve calls, “It was just a few friends!”

“You have bad friends,” you yell back.

You hear him laugh behind you. You hate to admit it, but it’s a rather nice sound. 

. . .

That night, the Wi-Fi list looks different. You open your laptop, intent on drowning in emails and invoices, and see it immediately.

APT203ULoudAsFuck

Underneath it, new:

Apt???SayItToMyFace#203

You stare. Then you start to laugh, helpless and startled, dropping your forehead to the edge of the table.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, but you’re still smiling when you connect to your own network.

He must’ve seen it. Must’ve put two and two together—new neighbour, mechanic, attitude problem—and changed his SSID just to spit back.

Say it to my face.

You absolutely will.

You just have to catch him when he’s not surrounded by half the city.

. . .

You don’t have to wait long.

Two days later, you’re in the building’s sad excuse for a laundry room, wedged between humming machines that look older than both of you combined. You’ve got a socket wrench in one hand and the guts of your washing machine in the other; the landlord said, “It’s been making a weird noise”, like you haven't spend your entire life coaxing broken machinery back from the dead.

The door creaks behind you. You glance up absently, still half focused on your task.

Steve freezes in the doorway, laundry basket crooked on his hip. “Wow,” he says. “You really can’t turn it off, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, basic problem-solving skills?”

He steps in, letting the door swing shut behind him. Boxes of detergent and fabric softener shake on their shelf as the machines thud through a spin cycle. The air smells like synthetic lavender and damp concrete, humidity clinging to the walls whenever you inhale.

“And the attitude,” he mutters. “Don’t forget the attitude.”

You go back to checking the belt tension. “Trust me, if you were less annoying, I’d be a delight.”

He laughs softly, sets the basket down on the nearest machine. He’s in jeans and a worn white t-shirt this time, hair damp like he just showered. There’s a fading bruise at his collarbone, the kind that looks suspiciously like teeth.

You ignore it.

Mostly.

“So,” he hedges, a terrible attempt at sounding casual. “You, uh, see any good Wi-Fi names lately?”

You don’t look up. “Can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Oh, c’mon.” You can hear the grin. “APT203ULoudAsFuck? I respect the commitment.”

“That wasn’t about you,” you drawl, still not looking up. “Maybe there’s another 203 in the building, did you think of that?”

Steve’s hand appears in your peripheral vision, offering a small, silver screw you hadn’t realised you’d dropped. “Yeah? ‘Cause my router sure thought it was about me.”

You take it, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm, calloused at the pads in a way that surprises you; he doesn’t look like the type to use his hands for anything other than using a comb. There’s a faint grease smudge on the side of his thumb; you’re ninety percent sure it’s yours.

“Maybe my network just has strong opinions,” you tell him. “You can’t censor her. She’s a free spirit.”

He leans against the machine opposite you, arms folding over his chest, watching you work. “She?”

“My router’s called Judith,” you explain, tightening the last bolt. “She’s temperamental and occasionally bursts into flames.”

“I’m starting to understand your friendship circle,” he jokes.

You sit back on your heels, flick the machine’s side panel closed, and hit the start button. The washer whirs, then roars back to life, no more grinding. Satisfied, you wipe your hands on a rag and finally look at him. He’s already looking at you. Not the polite oh cool you fixed it look you get from customers, either. It’s more assessing. Intrigued. Like he’s trying to figure out which box to put you in and realising none of the usual ones fit.

“You’re good at that,” he states, but doesn’t sound patronising or surprised about it, just mildly thoughtful. “The… fixing things.”

“Yeah, well,” you say. “Someone has to keep this place standing when the landlord’s solution is slapping duct tape on structural problems.”

His mouth quirks. “You talk about everything like it’s a busted machine.”

“Maybe because most things are,” you shoot back. “People, too.”

“Wow.” Steve whistles. “That’s bleak.”

You shrug. 

He tilts his head. “So what am I? Cracked spark plug? Blown head gasket?”

“Overheated engine,” you say without missing a beat. “All noise, very little actual power. Needs constant cooling so it doesn’t explode.”

He blinks, then laughs, bright and disbelieving, a raspy sound you hate to admit is very pleasant. “You’ve known me, like, three days.”

“That’s all it takes,” you inform him gravely, matching the slight smile he wears on his face. “You’re loud. You throw parties on a Tuesday. Your Wi-Fi name is a cry for help.”

“Hey.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Apt???SayItToMyFace#203 is an iconic clapback.”

“It’s a crime,” you inform him bluntly. “There are too many question marks. It’s all desperation.”

He grins, and there’s something a little sharper at the edges now, something that says he’s enjoying this more than he’d admit. “Maybe I wanted to make sure you saw it.”

“Congratulations,” you say dryly. “Consider me deeply, profoundly, spiritually seen.”

Steve’s eyes skip briefly to your mouth, then away, like he didn’t mean to let them. “You ever do anything without a joke attached?”

“You ever do anything without an audience?” you fire back. “Every time I walk past your door, there’s at least three people in there.”

“Maybe I like people.”

“Maybe you don't like being alone.”

You see the tiny tightening at the corners of his eyes, the way his fingers drum once against the washing machine, then stop. Those words, clearly, have hit a nerve. The room hums around you, all noise and rattling metal. The washer shakes beneath you, the boring, steady rhythm of it filling the silence.

“You really don’t pull punches, do you?” he says finally.

“You asked,” you point out. “You want compliments, talk to your groupies. I’m busy.”

“Busy fixing Judith,” he quips helpfully.

A tiny grin twitches your mouth. “Exactly.”

He watches you for a long moment, something new in his gaze. Less lazy amusement, more… focus. You can feel the weight of it along your skin, a slow slide like he’s cataloguing every sharp edge and deciding not to look away.

“You know,” he says, softer, “you’re kind of annoying.”

The funny part is, it doesn’t sound like an insult. Not really.

You smirk. “Good. Now you know how it feels.”

Steve shakes his head, that small, disbelieving laugh again. “If I turn the music down,” he poses curiously, “am I allowed to keep the Wi-Fi name?”

“You can keep it,” you reply. “But just so you know, Judith’s already working on her response.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans in, entirely too close for someone you met over trash bags and passive-aggressive SSIDs. “What’s she thinking?”

You consider him—the stupidly pretty face, the earnest eyes, the way he keeps stepping closer even as you keep giving him verbal paper cuts.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, hopping off the machine and grabbing your tool bag. “You’ll see it next time you open your laptop.”

You brush past him, shoulder catching the warm line of his arm. It’s deliberate. So is the way you don’t look back.

Behind you, you hear him exhale, low and a little exasperated. “You’re gonna drive me crazy, you know that?”

“Get in line, Harrington,” you shout back, pushing the door open with your hip.

By the time you’re back in your apartment, Judith’s network is already renamed.

TurnItDownPrettyBoy_203

You grin at the screen, imagine him seeing it, imagine his hand flexing in his hair in that frustrated way.

On the other side of the wall, the bass clicks on, then drops to a much more reasonable volume.

Progress.

“Sure,” the orderly said easily. “Deputy, I know you were supposed to have a private room down here, but unfortunately our hallways are overcrowded and it’s not safe to have so little room to maneuver, particularly with how busy we are tonight.”

“Ok?” Gator asked, already annoyed. You could hear it in his voice.

“We have another patient who will be in your room for a short time—she won’t take up much space. No bed, just a chair.”

There was a pause, during which you found yourself surprised that Gator was actually entertaining it, but then—

“Absolutely fuckin’ not. Hell you think this is?” Gator asked.

“It’s a hospital, sir. She needs to be out of the hallway, and she’ll be in and out.”

“I’ll show ‘er in and out,” Gator quipped, but before either he or you could protest, the orderly exited the room, took hold of the handles of your wheelchair, and pushed you into Gator’s room. The overhead lights were dark, but the light directly above Gator’s bed was on, and you saw him glaring over at you as you entered. “Mind hittin’ that light, Butch?” Gator asked the orderly, and as he left the room he flicked the light switch, bathing you both in cold fluorescent light from above as the door swung shut behind him. “Eh,” Gator intoned.

“Eh?” you repeated, frowning and crossing your arm (well, arm, since the other was basically immobile), squinting a little at the glare of the lights even as your eyes slowly adjusted.

“Ain’t nothin’ too special t’look at,” he said, eyeing you, sling and all. “Coulda left the lights off.”

“Jesus,” you muttered, standing up from the wheelchair and crossing over to turn the lights off again with your good arm. “There, you look a hell of a lot better in the dark too.”

But Gator only chuckled. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he muttered, and then went back to what he’d been doing when the orderly had interrupted him: A book of word search puzzles.

You stared long enough, standing in the middle of the room, that it was noticeable, and Gator looked up at you again, scratching the side of his nose with the pencil he was holding.

“What?”

Caught, you stumbled over your words. “Nothing, I just—I wouldn’t expect to see you doing word puzzles.”

Gator blinked at you, eyes narrowed. “We know each other’r somethin’?”

“Wh—No,” you said. “I just—I know of you.”

His face relaxed into a smirk. “You know of me? Fuck’s that mean?” He sounded amused.

“I mean—The sheriff… Sheriff Tillman. ‘A hard man for hard times.’” You forgot to keep the mocking edge from your voice, so you just spurred on. “You’re his son. Everyone in the county knows you.”

Gator kept his eyes on you, then hummed, noncommittal. “A’right.” He went back to his book.

You sat back down, mostly because you felt awkward standing in the middle of the room, and pushed yourself back and forth a little, rolling the wheelchair to and fro. It went on for a minute or so, probably, until Gator sighed heavily and looked over at you.

“So what happened t’yer arm?” he asked. “Some guy rough y’up?”

You snickered. “Not in the way you think.”

“Hell’s’at mean?”

“We were having a good time, until we weren’t.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he snickered. “So it’s a sex thing?” He laughed. “Damn, how’d you fuck up fuckin’ that bad that ya needed the hospital?”

“I dislocated my shoulder,” you said.

“You did?” Gator asked. “Or he did?”

“Ok, Deputy, relax.” You adjusted your arm a little in the sling. “Everyone was a consenting adult, I just—got the shit end of the stick.”

“So where’s yer guy?” Gator asked. “Bet he’d love knowin’ y’were in here w’me. Since everyone in the county knows me ‘nd all.”

“He—” you said, but cut yourself off. Where was he? Last you’d seen him he was in the drivers’ seat of his pickup, telling you you’d be fine but he had work in the AM so he couldn’t stick around, and if you needed anything, to just let him know. He’d driven away before you realized that he’d never given you his number, so. Where was he indeed. By now, he was probably home, beer drunk and cock jerked, sleeping like a baby before his shift in the morning. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

Gator laughed. “Cold.”

“Well, he left me here and blew me off, so.”

“A’right, that’s worse. ‘Nd after you blew him’n everything too. Damn.”

“Who said I blew him?” you asked, not quite believing you were entertaining this line of conversation.

“Ya look like the type,” Gator said, shrugging.

“Excuse me?” you asked, scowling at him, offended.

“What?” he asked, trying to hide his amusement, but you absolutely heard him snickering. “It’s a compliment.”

“How is that a compliment?”

“Means ya look… givin’. ‘Nd carin’, y’know. Generous and shit.”

“Pig,” you said, turning your wheelchair away from him and facing the door.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. I meant it. Ya seem like a real nice broad.” You turned to glare at him over your shoulder.

“I don’t want to be in here with you just as much as you don’t want to be in here with me,” you said.

“So we’re even,” he said, then gestured at your arm. “That shit hurt?”

“Uh, yeah?” you said. “We can try to recreate what I was doing if you want to see for yourself.”

“Yeah, fuck that,” Gator said, but he was chuckling to himself. He smiled over at you. “Fun as I’m sure it was.”

“So what happened to you?” you asked.

“Waitin’ on some stitches,” he said, then fell silent.

You waited for him to keep talking, but he didn’t. “What happened?”

“This,” Gator said, and curled his hand into the sheets on top of him, pulling them to the side to reveal his leg, thigh draped in the hospital gown. He tugged up the hem of the gown and you saw a thick pad of gauze, not quite bled through but a red sliver was making itself known.

“Um,” you said, because that didn’t quite answer your question in its entirety.

“Some fucker’ got me with a boxcutter,” he said.

“And it was big enough to need stitches?”

Gator fixed you with a look. “Wanna see it?”

“No, I’m good,” you said, but he started peeling the gauze away. “I said I’m good. Gator! I’m good!” 

He’d barely uncovered an inch of it, but you could see that the gash was larger, a decent slice dug into his thigh. “So yeah, need some stitches. Wasn’t too deep, it ain’t still bleedin’ too much or nothin’, but it’s long enough it needed, ah… medical attention.” He turned to look at you, and before you could react he continued. “Got something else long enough y’d need medical attention. ‘Nd as luck should have it we’re both already in the goddamn hospital.”

“You’re disgusting,” you said. “And just to knock you down another peg, you’re not nearly as attractive in a hospital gown as you think you are.”

“Not even with these on?” Gator asked, reaching to the tray table set off to the side. He grabbed something you couldn’t see, then slid his sunglasses onto his face. It was so unexpected and lighthearted that you laughed—genuinely.

“Sorry, no,” you said, shaking your head a little. Sure, you were both trapped in the same room off of the emergency department at the hospital, but Gator Tillman was fucking flirting with you. Badly, but still. Even if he was just doing it to pass the time, he was still coming on to you.

“So—y’know my name,” Gator said. “You gonna tell me yers or do I gotta bust out the badge and ask fer ID?”

“The badge is worse than the shades,” you said, and he lifted them off his eyes and furrowed his brow at you, like he was trying to gauge if you were serious or not. But before he could question you, you’d given him your name.

Gator marked his page in the puzzle book with the pencil, then held out his right hand toward you to shake, reaching out over his own body. You didn’t make a move to stand or wheel closer to him.

“Dammit woman, don’t leave me hangin’,” he said. “Tryna be, uh, upstandin’ here.”

“My arm’s in a sling,” you said, pointing to your right arm with your working left one. “Sorry.”

“Fuckin’ excuses,” he grumbled.

But he wasn’t such terrible company, really, not for the few short minutes you’d spent with him. At least he was entertaining, and he’d rolled with the punches you’d thrown back at him in response to his sexist BS. You stood up, took the two steps to his bedside, and placed your left hand in his, not quite shaking it but trying to, at least. His hand was cold in yours, the skin rough like you’d expected, but still softer than you’d thought it would be. Just as the thought crossed your mind, you pulled your hand away, because you didn’t want to linger and give him any ideas.

“You got any more puzzle books?” you asked, gesturing at the word search book.

“You can take this one,” Gator said. “Was in here already when they dumped my ass on this bed.” He proffered it to you. You took it.

“How long have you been in here?” you asked, sitting back down and opening the book to where he’d marked it. The word searches on the open pages were complete (left) and half-done (right). 

“Got here after you,” Gator said. “Y’said, what—you been here fer three hours?” 

You nodded, looking down at the word search he’d left unfinished. The theme was “Picnic.” You noticed that he did them the same way you did: alphabetically by the word list. That… surprised you. He’d left off at lemonade so you started searching for it, the pencil clutched in your left hand, the book balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, I got here ‘bout… midnight.”

“Surprised you’re still waiting,” you commented, trying to be flippant, but it definitely came out more bitter than you’d intended.

“Why’s’at?” Gator asked.

You circled lemonade in the word search, a little wobbly since you were balancing it on your legs and handling it with just one hand. Now you were looking for napkins. “The name Tillman carries weight around here. Didn’t you know?”

“‘Parently not enough,” Gator said. “Got my ass sittin’ in here with some chick who thinks she can just say whatever’s on her mind like I ain’t gonna take it personal.”

“That’s a fragile ego, Deputy,” you said. Napkins jumped out at you on the page, but when you went to circle it, you dropped the pencil, and when you leaned over to pick it up, the book fell off your lap. You sighed heavily and picked them up.

“Ain’t nothin’ fragile ‘bout me, sweetheart,” Gator said, derisively, watching you.

“Well, from where I’m sitting,” you said, hoisting yourself back into the wheelchair, book and pencil in hand, the puzzle page you were working on lost, “seems like there is.”

“Why? ‘Cause’a my leg? Fucker got the jump on me, ain’t nothin’ more to it.”

“No. Because you care what a chick you just met and probably never will again thinks about you.”

“Whoa. Now just wait a fuckin’ second, who said that?”

“You did,” you said, absently flipping through the pages of the puzzle book, looking for “Picnic” again.

“When the fuck did I say that?”

“Just now,” you said, looking up at him, tucking the pencil behind your ear so you had one less thing to balance while you were looking through the book. “If you’re taking what I’m saying personally, you’re giving it weight. And if me not being a badge bunny and knowing you throw your last name around like it’s an extra six inches is getting to you, then that ego of yours is made of fine china.”

He watched you, eyes narrowed just a little, as you found the page you’d left off on, then reached to untuck the pencil from your ear. As soon as you’d lifted your hand, the book fell to the floor again and you groaned, tossing your head back, and the pencil clattered to the floor behind you.

“God fucking—damn it,” you groaned, and Gator only chuckled.

“Gimme that fuckin’ book,” Gator said, ignoring—or, at the very least not acknowledging—what you’d said. 

“You said I could have it,” you said, mostly to be petulant.

“And they said you’d be ‘in’n’out’,” Gator said, mimicking the orderly’s voice. “‘Nd yet yer still fuckin’ here. Gimme that book, pick up the pencil, ‘nd get yer ass over here.”

As you watched, he reached his left hand out to lower the railing on the side of the bed, then shimmied a little to the side, like he was making room for you to sit beside him.

You shook your head, but stood up to grab the pencil from where it had fallen anyway, then looked at him again, confusion still etched on your face.

“I said git,” Gator said, palm slapping the mattress beside him.

“For what?”

“Only got three workin’ arms ’tween us,” he said. “You wanna do yer fuckin’ word search, you look for ‘em ‘nd I’ll cross ‘em off.”

It felt like a trap, almost. You weren’t the biggest busybody in Dickinson, but you heard everything that women said about the police in this town, especially the Tillmans. And yet, you were with Gator, getting firsthand, empirical evidence that he could, actually, behave himself. You were still more than an arm’s length away, though, so who knew how long that would last?

You picked up the fallen book, then handed it and the pencil to Gator. He took it, opened it, found “Picnic,” then looked at you expectantly, before angling his head toward the bed beside him, looking at it pointedly. You stepped over and climbed onto it beside him, careful not to jostle his injured leg.

“Napkin,” Gator said, and you pointed with your good arm, because you still remembered where you’d seen it. “Fuckin’ crack shot, huh?”

You laughed, despite yourself. “Something like that.”

And after you’d found park and plates in quick succession, Gator shifted the book a little bit away from you.

“Yer too good at this,” he said. “I ain’t even gettin’ a chance t’look myself.”

You paused. “Is this a race?”

He paused too. “Yeah. Think it is.”

“Well you have to let me see it, then,” you said, unable to lean too close to him, your right arm already stiff and sore from being in the sling.

“You seen it enough,” Gator said. “Plus, yer too good, I should get a lil’ advantage.”

“You mean you should get to cheat,” you replied.

Gator turned to you, grinning all smug, and nodded. “Real glad we see eye t’eye on that. ‘Preciate it.” You watched as he circled the next word, which you could barely read due to the angle at which he was holding the book.

“You’re such a dick,” you said, and you just saw his cheek round up even more, his smile widening as he crossed the word off the bottom of the list.

“My dick is one’a the most notable things about me,” Gator said, and you were so used to his crass comments by now that you just sighed in exasperation and rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you.

“Just let me see the puzzle,” you said, shifting so that you were kneeling beside him on the bed, since you couldn’t lean into him with your arm as tender as it was. You leaned over him, taking extreme care not to actually let any part of your body touch his, and reached over with your left hand to try and grab the book. “We can do it together, just let me hold the book. You can keep the pencil.”

Gator switched the book to his right hand, holding it out of your reach before you even got close. “You wanna do it wi’me? Damn, ‘n I thought you were different. But I like ‘em a little mean sometimes.”

“You are such a—” you started to say, but stopped yourself, trying to think of a name to call him that he wouldn’t be able to turn into something sexual or make suggestive. And as you cycled through your choices, his smirk only grew, until he had bent his good leg at the knee, resting his elbow on it and balancing his chin on his hand, watching you with a bemused expression while your mind whirled through the various insults you knew. “Manchild.”

Gator guffawed at that, and you really had to work to suppress your own smile, moving back to sit beside him normally, no longer wanting to play his stupid games.

“First time I heard that one,” Gator said, moving to hold the puzzle book between the two of you, half on your lap, half on his.

“Color me shocked,” you snapped back, but there was no venom in it. “I would’ve guessed that was, like, your middle name.”

“So then what’s yers?” Gator asked. “Smartass?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” you said, and this time, when he laughed, you did too. You hadn’t ever wanted to cross paths with this guy, but being stuck in this room with him—willingly sharing space with him, so close your injured arm and his injured leg were almost brushing against each other—it wasn’t turning out to be the worst part of your night. That, amazingly, was still your shoulder. It wasn’t like you’d let him know he was making things bearable and the time pass quickly. You could keep your gratitude unspoken. And you would.

“You lookin’ or what?” Gator asked, shaking the book a little, and you looked over at him to find him staring at the side of your face, tapping the book with the pencil’s eraser. “I already fuckin found sandwich but I don’t wanna circle it if yer gonna chew me the fuck out about it.”

“Sandwich,” you said, letting your eyes rove over the puzzle. “There.” You pointed and he drew an elongated oval around the letters.

“Very good,” he said, condescendingly.

But instead of rising to it, you just decided to show him up. There were four words left: spring, tablecloth, wasps, and watermelon. You’d already found them—but sandwich had needed to be circled first—so you simply tapped the page in four spots, in order.

“There you go,” you said, repeating the taps so he knew you weren’t bullshitting and had found the remaining four words. “So, what do I win?”

“Win,” Gator repeated, circling each of the four words, then crossing them off the list. He stuck the pencil in the book and closed it. “Fuck makes you think you won somethin’?”

“You said it was a race,” you said. “I found the words faster than you. That means I get a prize.”

“Fuck kinda prize you think this place got? Hold on, lemme page the nurse ‘nd see if I can score ya some ice chips.”

You laughed, a true, hearty laugh, eyes closed and giggles bubbling bright out of your chest, and when you opened your eyes again and let your gaze fall on Gator, you didn’t miss the way he was looking at you, expression soft for the briefest moment, until he remembered himself, remembered who and what he was supposed to be under observation—a Tillman—and let the scowl creep back onto his features. A little too late; you wondered if he ever showed this part of himself to anyone else. Not that you were special—you knew you weren’t, not to Gator Tillman—but here he wasn’t supposed to be anyone, wasn’t beholden to his father or the department. He was just a guy waiting for stitches, messing around with a puzzle book and the woman they’d dumped on him by chance.

“So,” Gator said, clearing his throat a little as though he’d just realized now how close you were to him. “Ya wanna try ta explain how the hell ya dislocated yer arm mid-fuck?”

You sighed. “We weren’t actually… doing anything yet,” you said. “He was kinda—so he was behind me, and he had my arms behind my back.” You gestured, but Gator watched you, a half-smirk playing at his lips, one eyebrow quirked up. “He was holding them behind me, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m followin’,” Gator said, suppressing a grin.

“And I guess he just—I kinda… Twisted the wrong way from how he was moving, and next thing I knew I couldn’t really move my arm. It didn’t hurt that much when it popped out, but moving it back in front of me was really bad. And then add the emotional damage of him having to put my clothes back on...” You grimaced at Gator. “Maybe I lucked out that he just left me here.”

“Prob’ly,” Gator said, lifting his hand to bite at one of his cuticles, though he lowered his hand when you scrunched up your nose at him. “Nah, I’m just sayin’—guy like that ain’t gonna see shit through after he hurts ya? Scumbag.”

You blinked, shaking your head a little in disbelief. “What?” you asked, probably somewhat dumbly, because you hadn’t thought Gator could feel sympathy for the fairer sex.

“Guy fuckin’ dislocates yer damn arm and can’t even stick witcha at least through triage? That’s some lame ass shit.” He glanced over at you and realized you were looking at him like he had six heads. “What, you think I wouldn’t?”

“I mean—everything I’ve ever heard about you points to no, you wouldn’t.”

Gator cocked his head to the side. “‘Nd why’s that?”

You shrugged your good shoulder, but the movement still made you flinch a little. As though it were his fault, Gator moved away from you, like he’d nudged your arm and that was what made you shudder in pain.

“You’re not a… long haul kind of guy,” you said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Mm,” Gator hummed, then sucked his teeth. “Gotta say, this whole ‘you knowin’ of me’ thing fuckin’ sucks.”

“Sorry,” you said.

“No you ain’t,” Gator said, but he chuckled a little, darkly, unamused. “You came in here thinkin’ you knew all there was t’know about me and yer still just sayin’ it. Well, if your opinion holds so much weight like ya think I think it does, maybe try watchin’ yer mouth.” He looks over at you. “Or I’ll give ya somethin’ better t’do with it.”

You moved yourself a bit away from him to sit on the edge of the mattress, letting your left leg drape off of it, toes to the floor. “Ok, fair point. I don’t even know you, I shouldn’t judge you.” You looked over at him out of the corner of your eyes, assessing. You decided to be honest and press your luck. “You just don’t exactly give off the most… comforting aura.”

Gator turned to look blankly at you, his expression slowly morphing into disgust. “Don’t say shit like that t’me,” he said, then laughed. “I ain’t tryna be no one’s friend out here. I can’t be seen as… comforting. I’m the law.”

“Oh my god, you really say that? You really say that. I didn’t think—”

“I really say what?” he interrupted you.

You dropped your voice to match his. “‘I’m the law.’ You’re a real piece of work, you know that? ‘I’m the law,’ get the hell out of here.” You laughed and reached across your body with your left hand to shove at his left arm, playful and teasing.

“I don’t know why you think yer so cool, Miss Can’t-Even-Fuck-Right,” Gator said. “Promise ya if y’were with me, you wouldn’t’a dislocated nothin’. ‘Cept maybe yer—”

“Let me guess, my jaw?” you asked. “Because your dick’s so big? I get it, you’re packing. Can we move on?” But you were smiling. Despite yourself, despite his demeanor, you were starting to find the moments in between when he dropped the act actually… charming. Something else you’d keep to yourself, because if he found out you were actually enjoying his company, he’d be even more insufferable.

“Nah,” Gator said, stretching out his injured leg, wincing a little as he did. Surreptitiously, he lifted the hospital gown again, checking the gauze taped to his thigh. The little red sliver you’d seen before was just a touch wider, the wound still oozing. He covered it again quickly, but you’d still seen. “Got m’self.”

You almost didn’t register that he’d spoken, because it didn’t sound like he’d actually said words. “What?”

“With the boxcutter.” He cleared his throat. “I got m’self.”

“You—” you started to say, but stopped yourself. “Oh, my god.”

“Was a fuckin’ accident, a’right?” he said, huffy. “Breakin’ down some shit at the station, lost m’grip on the box, next thing ya know I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

“That’s so embarrassing for you,” you said, and Gator lifted his left hand, flipping you off. You laughed, but were pleased to see he was smirking too.

“Ain’t no more embarrassing than twistin’ yer arm out of its socket when yer just tryna get it in.”

You nodded your head to the side, conceding the point. “Fair enough.” You paused. “Why… did you tell me that?” you asked.

Gator shrugged. “You told me ‘bout yours. Figure we’re even now.”

“We needed to be even?” you asked.

“Yeah, why not,” Gator said. “Yer cool.”

If it had been five minutes earlier, you’d have ribbed him for that, given him shit for it. But it had happened at exactly the right moment—you felt decent enough even though your shoulder still hurt, and he seemed to have loosened up enough that he could be real, or at least as real as a Tillman could be in these parts.

“You might be cool too,” you said, pulling your leg back up onto the bed, pushing yourself up closer beside him, your knees pressing into his hip as you tried to face him—and then promptly fell sideways into the upright part of the bed because your right arm was in a sling and you had no way to prop yourself up.

“I take it back,” Gator said, absolutely losing his shit at your awkward faceplant, your dislocated arm held in place by the sling. “Nothin’ fuckin’ cool aboutcha, my god, woman.” He reached back to help you up, wrapping his arm around you and holding you securely to his side. “Y’ok?”

When he asked it, his voice was quieter, lighter, brushing against your cheek like the touch of a lover, of someone who cared about you, even though he couldn’t and he didn’t.

“I’m fine,” you said, your cheek burning not only from the impact on the hospital mattress but also embarrassment. You glanced over at him, and noticed: He was a lot closer than you realized, even as he retracted his arm, which was dumb as hell, because you were practically sitting on his lap, and just might be if not for his cut leg and your immobile arm.

“That’s one word fer it,” Gator said, his hand moving over your knee, up your thigh, just enough for you to feel affected by it.

And you shouldn’t. This was Gator Tillman, fundamentally one of the worst people you could get involved with, and yet aside from some locker room talk and all of the rumors and conjecture you’d gathered from living in his vicinity, he hadn’t done anything to truly turn you off. It was the push and pull of flirting with a guy, the little barbs and pokes that made something new into something fun, something brimming with potential. So when his hand skimmed a little further up your thigh, you leaned in and just barely let your lips brush over his.

He kissed you back. Of course he did. You figured he was going to, because you were there and you were making it easy, but what you didn’t count on was how he would do it. With his fingers pressing just enough into your thigh that you could feel it, with his nose bumping against yours as he tilted his head the slightest bit to the side, with his lips closing around your cupid’s bow, keeping it simple and sweet before he pulled back. It was the perfect kind of kiss for the moment, and you never would have expected Gator to read the mood like that. You were starting to think you’d been wrong about him, or maybe everyone else had.

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, the door to the room opened and the orderly marched back in, stopping short when he saw you perched on Gator’s bed. You felt his hand move off of your thigh and instead to your lower back, holding you steady as you hurriedly stood up from the bed.

“Careful,” he muttered, as you slid your legs down over the lowered railing.

“Mr. Tillman,” the orderly said.

“Deputy,” Gator corrected him, and you smirked as you took your seat again.

“Deputy,” the orderly continued. “The doctor is about ready to see you, and since you have a… roommate, we’ll be bringing you to one of the exam rooms for the stitches.” You were wheeled over to the side, while the orderly unlocked the wheels of Gator’s bed and pushed him out of the room.

“See ya,” you said, lifting your good arm to wave.

Gator nodded his chin toward you as he passed by. “Ya just might.”

Except when he was brought back to the room to wait for his discharge paperwork, you were gone.

Several girls in the front row straighten when they spot him. One even twirls a piece of hair around her finger. Another giggles. 

You watch him take it all in with a casual glance—the room, the glaring teacher, the vague hunger in the stares from girls around him. 

“Nice of you to join us, Mr Harrington,” Mr Greene says dryly, lowering her copy of the book. 

“Sorry,” he begins, even though he doesn’t sound at all sorry. “Got held up.”

Held up by what, you think irritably, the existential crisis of picking which jacket matches your ego? Or which girl’s lipstick you’re going to wear today?

His gaze snags on you. Because today, unfortunately for you, there’s an empty seat beside you—the result of your usual neighbour transferring schools mid-semester—and Ms Greene is already gesturing him towards it without looking. 

His eyes flick to you again, some thought forming there, but you can’t really tell what exactly. So you stare back at him, unimpressed. Something like amusement bleeds across his expression, his eyes crinkling. 

He drops into the desk beside you with a soft thud, kicking his expensive sneakers forward. His knee bumps your chair. Biting back your annoyance, you tighten your fingers around your pen. You keep your eyes on your notebook as Ms Greene launches into a chipper announcement: group presentation, pairs, themes, grades that are—she stresses with a pointed look in Steve’s direction—worth twenty percent of your final mark.  

“The teams are already assigned,” she interrupts when your classmates break into enthusiastic whispers, already pairing up. The class deflates when she pointedly picks up her clipboard, scanning it with a thoughtful expression. Everyone collectively tenses. “Alan and Stacey. Brian and Mark. Steve and—”

She says your name. 

A small part of you waits for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. You close your eyes for a split second, steeling yourself. When you open them again, Steve has already turned, mouth tilted into a charming half-grin. You’ve seen him flashing this same smile at a hundred other girls. His trademark you will totally do the work for me because I’m gracing you with my presence.

“Guess we’re partners,” he says under his breath, like it’s a joke. 

You shoot him a look you truly hope says I don’t care about you or your stupid hair. 

He blinks, eyebrows lifting slightly, then turns back towards the front. You try to ignore him, spending the rest of the class pretending you’re not acutely aware of him. Of the way he shifts in his seat, of how he bobs his knee like he has somewhere better to be, or the fact that his handwriting, when you steal a glance, is surprisingly neat. 

The bell rings, and with it, chaos erupts around you. Chairs scrape, footsteps thud, people rapidly falling into orbit around their friends.  

Steve leans back in his chair, his hand casually draped over the back. 

“So,” he drawls. “Partner.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder without bothering to look at him. “Don’t worry, Harrington. I’ll just do the project. It’s fine.”

Not like you would stake your grade on his flaky ass anyway. This is about protecting your GPA, not his. 

He frowns, and you’re not entirely sure why he looks confused. He’s done this before. “Hey, now. I didn’t say I wasn’t gonna help.”

“You don’t have to,” you argue at once, finally lifting your attention to him. “It’s implied with you. You’re the king of the hallways. You’ve got better things to do than talk about Steinbeck with me. Basketball practice, maybe?”

His cocky front cracks slightly, like you’ve thrown an unexpected rock at the glass veneer. For a single second, something sharper glints in his eyes, as if your words, the dismissal in them, have managed to slip somewhere deeper. 

“You don’t even know me,” he says, a fact half-whispered. 

Masking your surprise, you shrug. “I know enough. Everyone in this town does.”

His jaw flexes. You half-expect him to crack a joke, maybe brush it off, because who are you really? Just another face in the crowd. No one of worth. Instead, he nods once, like he’s accepted the judgment you’ve passed onto him. 

“Right,” he begins slowly, standing a little too fast. “Well. In case you ever feel like I’m not doing my share, you can yell at me or whatever. I’ll be at practice tonight, but I can meet up after if you’re free? Henderson lives next door to you, right? I could meet you there.”

Your brain stutters. By now, you’re the only ones still in the classroom alongside Ms Greene, who is pretending extremely hard she’s not eavesdropping. “Dustin Henderson has you in his kitchen?”

You’ve known Dustin since he was still in diapers. A cute kid, always talking a thousand miles an hour. You’ve grown rather fond of him over the years, and you were apparently “cool” enough to be introduced to his friend circle. 

Steve gives you a look like you’ve sprouted a second head. “Yeah? I’m… I’m his babysitter.”

“You babysit.” 

“Is there an echo in here?” he jokes, but you don’t smile. 

The whole thing is so ridiculous that you just stare at him, mystified. The problem is that you’ve long since slotted him into a particular set of boxes: girls, hair, ego, Mr Popular, Nancy Wheeler; background decoration in the bigger narrative of your ordinary life. 

He doesn’t fit neatly anymore, not with this new bit of information knocking around your brain. 

“Fine,” you mutter with a suspicious squint. “After practice. I’m not waiting past seven. Don’t be late.”

“Got it,” he says, brightening, something loosening in his shoulders. “See? We’re already communicating. Group project dream team.”

You roll your eyes so hard they almost stick to the back of your head. 

He grins at you, all teeth and warmth, and you tell yourself the weird little flutter in your chest is just irritation. 

Nothing else. Not at all. 

He doesn’t know why your opinion matters. Why you believing he’s nothing more than a stupid jock bothers him so much. It’s not like people haven’t made assumptions about him in the past. He’s aware of the persona: Steve Harrington, Hair King, basketball, parties, Nancy. 

He’s built this, after all—bit by bit. 

But there's something about the way you said it—I know enough—that lodged under his ribs like a splinter he feels with every inhale. Like you’ve taken one look and written the whole narrative inside your head. Beginning and end. Just him, stuck in one place, never changing. 

And even worse: you said it like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter. 

“Dude, you look like someone spat in your cereal,” Tommy calls out, slamming his locker shut next to Steve’s. 

Steve blinks out of his stupor, forcing his expression back into nonchalant. “Just thinking, man.”

Tommy snorts, frowning like he said something stupid. “Gross,” he says, his narrowed eyes lighting up with sudden glee, the twist of his mouth turning lecherous. “About Wheeler? Can’t blame you, man. That skirt—”

“Don’t.” The word is out before Steve can smooth out the angry edges in his voice. 

Tommy raises his hands, smirking a little wider, shark-like. “Relax. I’m just saying, man, you’ve been off all day. We still on for Friday?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve answers automatically. Party, keg, people throwing up in the bushes. The usual. Or it would if Will Byers hadn’t gone missing last year and Steve’s entire worldview hadn’t cracked into two. But it’s behind him now, and he has to keep moving, one foot in front of another, into the bright and scary unknown. “Sure thing.”

Against his own accord, his eyes slide down the hallway. 

You’re at your locker, hands moving deftly as you switch out textbooks. Some freshman bumps into you in his hurry and drops all his papers at your feet. You sigh, crouch, and start helping him gather the stray pieces. Your annoyance sits plainly on your face, but you still hand him the stack, all neat and orderly. 

“Watch where you’re going,” he hears you say, but not unkindly. “Seniors won’t be so nice if you walk into them.”

All sharp corners, he thinks distantly. Sharp mouth, sharp eyes, sharp mind. 

Sharp enough to cut. His mind folds back the memory of the way your gaze slid over him, cool and unimpressed, and something stubborn stirs in his breastbone. 

Maybe you’re right. Perhaps you do know enough. But for some unknown reason, Steve wants to prove you wrong. 

He doesn’t know it yet, but that’s the first step. The first nudge in a path that will lead to bat bites and blood and ruin and the way your hand will feel wrapped painfully tight in his in the dark. 

Right now, he’s just a boy watching a girl straightening a freshman’s backpack. 

Right now, it’s small, insignificant. 

Later, he’ll look back on this and realise it wasn’t small at all. And never insignificant. 

The problem with Steve Harrington is that he keeps not fitting the version of him you’ve sworn to dislike. 

He shows up at 6:58 that night. 

By 6:55, you honestly assume he’s blown you off. You’re halfway through the mental speech you will give your friend on the phone later about stupid jocks with stupid hair—

There’s a knock on the Handersons’ front door. 

Tugging the door open, you find him standing there, damp from the drizzle, hair a little flattened around the edges, a few strands curling around his ears. A binder is tucked under his arm like he’s doing an impression of a responsible student. 

“Hey,” he says lamely.

You glance pointedly at the time. “Wow. Early. Colour me impressed, Harrington. Did you get lost on the way to not caring about your grades?”

His mouth quirks a little. “Nah. Henderson threatened to tell Nancy I flaked if I didn’t take this seriously.”

Your eyes track down the hall. Dustin leans over the bannister, grinning like a mischievous goblin. “Told you he’ll come,” he stage whispers. 

“Traitor,” you mumble under your breath, knowing full well that if your moms weren’t such good friends, you would give him hell. 

“Got your back, man,” he calls out to Steve, giving him a thumbs-up. 

Steve steps inside with a roll of his eyes. “Go finish your homework, kid.”

“Yes, Dad,” Dustin singsongs gleefully. 

Steve chokes at the same time you laugh. “Dude, shut up—”

But Dustin only cackles, vanishing up the stairs and into his room. Muffled laughter echoes down to the ground floor, where you both stand awkwardly, unsure how to move around each other. 

Clearing your throat, you lead him to the kitchen, where your notes lay spread out across the table. Dustin’s house is almost as familiar to you as your own. You’ve both spent so much time at each other’s houses growing up, you both know all the best hiding spots, the hidden snack drawers and where floorboards creak. 

You’ve already outlined themes and character arcs, pairing them with matching quotes; your handwriting crams the margins with little arrows and tightly outlined thoughts. Steve pauses, taking in the work you’ve done so far. 

“Wow, this is… a lot,” he states, eyes wide. 

“It’s called preparation,” you say, dropping down on the uncomfortable chair, angling your chin towards the spare seat opposite you. “You should try it sometime.”  

He drops his binder beside yours, opens it with a flick of his wrist. You brace for blank pages or some sort of chaos that would take hours to unravel, maybe doodles of basketball. Instead, there are… notes. Or a genuine attempt at some. A bit messy, sure, but with underlines and even a few highlights in different colours. 

He shrugs, fiddling with his fingers at your slack expression. “What? I’m not a complete idiot, y’know?”

“Nobody said complete,” you say, clearing your throat, but there’s no bite there, more reflex than anything. “Just… I guess I’m surprised.”

Steve mimics laughter mockingly, but there’s no irritation on his face; if anything, he’s visibly amused, a little abashed, and you choose not to embarrass him further. He’s making… an attempt, which is already a lot more than what you expected. There’s a small hope in your chest that you might actually have a nice time doing this project together. 

So you work. 

It’s awkward at first, all stilted suggestions, and you shooting down his ideas like clay pigeons. He pushes through it, though, more stubborn than you would have figured him to be. He points out a theme you missed with a clumsy but earnest explanation. Makes a decent case for using index cards rather than memorising everything. You have your suspicions about where he got that particular idea from. 

He also fidgets constantly, taps his pen too much, chews the end of it, then looks at it like he’s not sure who is responsible for the damage. He laughs too loudly at his own jokes and then looks visibly embarrassed afterwards. 

This is not what Harrington does; it’s painfully apparent that studying isn’t his forte, but you still respect the fact that he’s sticking out. If only for Nancy.

Somewhere between analysing George and Lennie and arguing about the nature of mercy, you stop thinking of him as simply Harrington and start thinking of him as… Steve. 

It’s as unsettling as it is exhilarating. You’ve glimpsed something underneath the popular cast Steve wears, and you’re not entirely sure you can put the genie back in its bottle. 

At 9:30, Claudia returns from her outing with your mom, immediately announcing popcorn as a treat in thanks for watching Dustin and a somewhat pointed, “School night, you two.”

You both pack your things. Steve stands, stretching his arms over his head with a groan, his t-shirt riding up enough to flash a line of smooth skin. Blinking rapidly, you veer your attention to your beaten binder. 

“Same time Thursday?” he asks.

You hesitate. Saying no would be the wiser thing to do. You could insist on dividing work and doing it alone, like you initially planned. But you’ve seen how Dustin looked at Steve earlier when he came down for snacks—the easy banter between them. The way Steve automatically checked if Dustin’s shoes were tied before letting him run back upstairs with treats he most certainly shouldn’t be having this late. 

You’ve seen enough to understand now how wrong you’ve been, how there’s more here than just ego and empty talk. 

“Fine,” you relent with a sigh, and spotting the victorious gleam in Steve’s eyes, add a stern, “Don’t be late.”

His grin is wide and far too pleased. It’s a nice smile; warm and genuine, like your agreement brought him real, uncomplicated joy. Not that you would tell him as much. His head is already big enough as it is. 

“I’ll be there, trouble.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t you dare.”

“Yup.”

“Harrington, don’t you dare.”

“See you around, trouble.”

He leaves with a lazy wave, whistling something under his breath. When the door clicks shut, you turn, freezing when you spot your mom and Claudia bent over the counter to spy on you. 

“Mom.”

Both women only laugh and exchange knowing glances. 

You hurriedly pack your things, ignoring them, telling yourself the warm hum under your skin is simply relief that your grade won’t tank. Nothing else. 

He starts noticing you everywhere after that. 

In the library, where you sit cross-legged on the floor between shelves, highlighter cap between your teeth, oblivious to anyone else messing around. In the cafeteria, elbows on the table, scowling at your algebra worksheet while your friends chatter around you. 

Trouble. 

He keeps calling you that. 

At first, you glare every time. Then, with time, the glare softens into a reflexive eye-roll. By the time your project presentation rolls around, when Steve leans over and murmurs ready, trouble? you just nudge him with your elbow. 

You do well. Really damn well. He doesn’t screw up once. His voice doesn’t crack. He remembers his lines, each one spoken with conviction because you’ve discussed each point for hours by that point. He doesn’t need to make jokes to cover the fact he doesn’t know something, or minimise this project so he doesn’t feel inadequate or, worse, like an idiot. 

You both get an A. 

You pass him in the hall later and say, “Nice job, Harrington.”

And he feels, then, absurdly proud. 

Tommy and Carol give him shit for spending so much time with you. They call you names. They laugh about the way you dress, the way you always seem to be glaring, evidently allergic to fun or letting loose. 

He laughs along reflexively. But something inside his stomach curdles each time. He can’t figure out why. 

At parties, you’re usually on the fringes. You don’t drink much. You don’t dance. You sit on the kitchen counters and watch, shoulders hunched like you’re bracing against some invisible wave no one else can see. Part of the noise, but not quite a fit.

Yet he notices how if any freshman wanders too close to the keg, you appear out of nowhere to steer them away. If a girl looks uncomfortable, you materialise beside her, inserting yourself into the conversation with a sharp remark to break the tension. He doesn’t understand you at all. Many call you names. Uptight. Frigid. Miss Perfect. A girl who should mind her business more and stop poking her nose into situations that have nothing to do with her.

He wants to understand badly. But then Nancy happens. 

And for a while, everything narrows to a pinprick. 

It’s not that he forgets you exist; you’re still there, always in his peripheral . But his world tilts towards Nancy: to the sharp sting of her wit, the way her eyes burn when she talks about truth and justice, the bruising honesty of her disappointment when he screws up. Nancy knows. She’s seen the horrors beneath the thin film of this world. 

You see him and Nancy at parties, in the hallways. At his locker, heads bowed close.

Your expression when you catch sight of them is hard to read from where he stands.

Steve pushes it aside. He has no idea how someday this will be one of the things he hates most about his seventeen-year-old self: how easy it was to overlook someone steady for the thrill of someone new.   

Right now, he thinks he’s in love for the first time. The real thing, all blinding and consuming. 

Right now, he’s still pretending the world isn’t full of monsters.  

You’re holding a red Solo cup you don’t want when you watch Steve Harrington choose Nancy Wheeler over everything else. 

You’re at a house party, one of those sprawling, loud things spilling from the living room to the backyard, music thudding hard enough to rattle the base of your skull. The air stinks of smoke, sour beer and sweat of too many bodies pressing together. 

If it weren’t for your friend begging, you wouldn’t have shown up at all. Promises matter in your group, and you gave her your word that you would drive her home after. 

You lean against the kitchen counter, sipping flat Coke from your cup, idly tracking the throbbing crowd. 

Tommy smashes a beer can on his forehead at the same time Carol shrieks with laughter. Someone cannonballs into the pool outside, even though the temperature tipped towards freezing weeks ago. A couple makes out aggressively against the fridge beside you, more teeth and spit than actual passion. 

Steve is in the middle of the crowd, like a sun that others orbit. 

He’s in his element: easy laugh in his throat, hair bigger than physics should allow, arms waving as he tells some story you can’t hear over the music. Nancy Wheeler hovers beside him, more reserved, watching with a thin but genuine smile. 

You like Nancy. Always have. You take similar classes and sometimes share notes between quizzes. She’s sharp and intense, driven, and cares in a way you respect because it’s so rare. She also happens to be the girl Steve’s eyes find every time she’s in the room. 

When he kisses her, finally, you see the whole room invert towards them. It’s almost cinematic with the cheers and the inevitability of it all. 

You look away. Your nail scrapes on the plastic cup, and you tell yourself you don’t care. That he’s a distraction you don’t need in your life anyway. That your partnership in English was a blip, nothing more than one off. 

Even if you can’t shake a memory crawling from the back of your mind, him asking you in the soft lull between your arguments about symbolism, “Do you ever think about… after?”

“After what?” you asked him, not looking up from the notes you were making, your hand cramping from hours of writing. 

“After all this,” he replied. “High school. Hawkins. Whatever. You know. The big… future thing.”

You snorted then. “How existential of you.”

But there was no smile on his face. “I’m serious,” he said quietly. “I dunno. Sometimes I look at my parents, and it’s like they’re running this script someone handed to them, and they’re not even sure who wrote it or why it’s important.”

You chewed on your pen cap, plastic digging into your lower lip. “I really haven’t thought about it.”

“Yes, you have,” he interrupted, causing you to blink, startled. “You’ve probably got like, colour-coded five-year plan in your desk drawer.”

You rolled your eyes at his self-assurance. Unsure if he’s earned honesty from you yet. “I plan to get out,” you admitted carefully, watching him for any signs of ridicule. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

“Out where?”

“Anywhere,” you said immediately, lowering your pen back on the table. “Anywhere that’s not Hawkins.”

He stayed quiet for a long moment after that. “Yeah. I get that.”

You hadn’t believed him back then. It was hard to imagine Steve Harrington ever understanding what drives you, how vastly incompatible your needs and desires are. 

Now, watching him with Nancy, you’re struck by the sudden, mean thought that he never needed to get out. Hawkins is already bending around him. His perfect little kingdom, where he gets to be the prom king and get his dream girl all in one go. He gets to marry, have two kids, and live in his perfect house with a picket fence.

You look away from the cheering crowd, drain your Coke, and go to find your friend. 

Later, nestled in your bed and halfway adrift, you realise the unfairness in that thought. The way it misses the quiet ache in him, the one Steve doesn’t have words for yet, but you’ve glimpsed over the weeks you worked together. There’s more to him, a certain softness, a subtle kindness behind the bluster. 

But right now, you’re tired and hurt and convinced you see the whole picture. 

Right now, you don’t know the world is about to crack open again and swallow every certainty in your life whole. 

The first time he sees you after the lab, after the tunnels, you’re standing at the edge of the town square, arms folded around yourself. 

His ears are still ringing. His hands still remember the wet crunch of the bat connecting with something that’s not supposed to exist. His lungs still sting from the spores and the burning matter, and all of it, unfailingly, fills his lungs, spreading deep into his tissues. There’s a sense of being stained, somehow, a little wrong. The craziest part is that this is only a fraction of how little Will must feel like. 

The town is abuzz; the media, the military and people who work in government sectors you won’t find on any register or list. A form of truth is out, flawed and altered, but at least it’s something.   

Steve steps out of his car, eyes unfocused as he drinks in the buzz. And there you are. 

You stand slightly apart from the cluster of Hawkins residents, away from the din of conversation. The wind lifts your jacket, your jaw set, and your eyes sharp, scanning. This supposed chemical leak isn’t settling in you the way it is in others, Steve can tell. You have this look on your face, like you’re trying to see beyond what’s physically here. Like you can feel the wrongness even if the “truth” is being given to you. 

Your attention snags onto Steve. He can’t help it: he flinches. 

For once, he must look precisely as wrecked as he feels. There’s a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, a cut at his temple, a stiffness in his shoulders from injury he can’t name if you ask. Otherwise, he undoes everything Nancy and Johnathan have done for Barb. 

Trouble, he thinks desperately, and his chest squeezes in a way he doesn’t have space or energy to examine right now.

As if sensing the intensity of his thoughts, you take a measured step towards him. 

He panics. 

He can’t handle anyone else’s questions. Not now, not on top of Nancy’s brittle silence when he asked her about Johnathan. 

So Steve turns away.  

Later, he’ll think about that moment with shame clogging his windpipe. Him, flinching from you. The way he chose distance instead of the one person in the crowd who looked like they might actually see him, instead of some version he’s presenting on the surface. 

He avoids you for months after.