The Harrington Hive

"Hey, man," he manages with a strained voice like he'd ran a marathon.

You lean forward, bracing on his chest, and pick up speed, your breasts swaying as you fuck yourself on his dick. The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. Steve clears his throat, disguising a whimper as a cough.

"What's... uh, up?"

Eddie's voice anxiously crackles through, sounding a little rushed. "Steve, dude, I need advice. This date tomorrow... Chrissy's friend, you know? The one with the killer legs. What if I fuck it up? She's way out of my league, man. Rehearsal's got me wiped, and now I'm overthinking every riff I play."

Steve's free hand clamps your hip, trying to still you, but you swat it away and clench your pussy around his hard length, milking him deliberately.

"You'll be fine," Steve says, his abs contract as you slam down extra hard, grinding your clit against his pubic bone.

A soft whine escapes from him, and he turns it into a high, brittle laugh.

Well, he tries. But to no avail.

"Just... play it cool. Chicks dig confidence." His cock throbs inside you.

His thick veins pulse against your fluttering walls. Sweat beads on his forehead, dribbling down his temple.

Eddie continues, oblivious to the situation on Steve's end.

"But what if she hates metal? Or thinks I'm a freak for the whole Hellfire thing? I mean, last date ghosted me after I mentioned demodogs. Should I tone it down? Wear something less... me?"

The phone nearly slips from Steve's grip as his sweaty, shaking hand tries to hold it.

You hold his knees and bend them, changing the position, now his cock drags directly over your g-spot with every plunge. Your arousal soaks the sheets. Steve bites his lip so hard enough to draw blood, his hips bucking up involuntarily to meet your pussy.

"N-no, own it," he forces through clenched teeth, the words hitching on a gasp.

You cover his mouth with your hand, muffling the noise that follows as you ride him viciously, your ass cheeks rippling from the impacts. His eyes roll back, muffled moans come out against your palm. He removes your hand off gently, panting.

"Eddie, she's into you. Trust me. Just... don't overthink the kiss or whatever."

"Kiss? Shit, what if I go for it too soon? Or my breath is bad after practicing? I got mints, but..." Eddie's rambling intensifies, words tumbling fast and you roll your eyes again, in annoyance.

But you don't stop riding him.

Steve's replies start to break.

"Hmm, yeah, timing is key."

You twist your hips as you bounce, stirring his cock deep inside, and he coughs violently to cover the sudden groan, pounding his chest with his fist. His balls draw up tight, slapping wetly against you. Pre-cum floods your cunt, mixing with your slick walls.

You rake your nails down his hair, your nipples nearly brushing his mouth. Steve's back arches, driving his dick even deeper.

"Dude, you're golden," he rasps with a shredded voice. A whimper escapes between his ragged breath. "Gonna... crush it."

Eddie pauses. "You sure you're okay? Sounds like you're dying, man. Working out or something?"

'Yeah– dumbbells. Brutal set." Steve is lying through his teeth.

His face contorts in ecstasy as you speed your pace, your pussy spasming erratically around his throbbing shaft. His free hand sneaks between you, bringing his thumb to find your clit and rubbing furious circles.

A retaliation that sends sparks up your spine. You retaliate back by squeezing your inner walls in circles, from base to tip.

Eddie sighs. "Alright, thanks man. Owe you one. Talk tomorrow?"

Steve nods frantically, though Eddie can see it. It's desperate. "Y-yep. Later."

He shoves the phone into the cradle aggressively, both hands squeezing your waist. "Fuuuuck, baby"

Then, it bursts. You slam down relentlessly, chasing your peak. Steve thrusts up savagely, his cock battering you deeply. Your orgasm hits like lightning. Pussy convulsing, walls clamping his length in pulses, gushing hot fluid down his balls.

He roars, hips snapping as ropes of thick cum blast into you, filling your pussy with creamy rivulets leaking out with each aftershock.

You collapse onto him, chests heaving in sync, his softening cock still twitching inside your cunt. Steve's arms wrap around you, and he brushes his lips against your ear.

"That was torture... best fucking torture. Eddie's clueless ass almost ruined it." He nips your shoulder.

four years. that's how much time passed since the night marcus –your now ex– broke up with you.

the breakup with him didn’t happen because you were unavailable. it happened because he was a lying cheating piece of shit.

and the memory still lingered like a bruise that refused to fade completely.

you found out a random tuesday evening. a mutual friend posted a story on instagram: nothing dramatic, just a casual photo for a party the previous weekend. in the background, clear as day, you saw him with his tongue down another girl’s throat.

the same weekend he told you he was ‘’too tired to hang out’’ and needed ‘’space.’’

you confronted him the next night when you two went out to have dinner. you played your role perfectly; laughing at his jokes and leaning at the right moments.

you were good at faking. you always had been.

you wanted to talk about that, and when you did, he didn’t even try to lie.

‘’yeah. i slept with her. so what? you’re never really present anyway. you’re always halfway out the door emotionally.’’

you tried not to cry. not in public. not in such a luxurious restaurant. you were about to speak, but he interrupted you.

‘’maybe if you actually talked to me instead of acting like some mysterious untouchable girl… i wouldn’t have needed to find pleasure in someone else.’’

his words were cruel, but the betrayal burned deeper than the insult.

you had let him in more than most. you shared pieces of yourself you usually kept hidden. and he rewarded that vulnerability by cheating you and then blaming you for it. 

that night you drove home in silence, your hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. you didn’t cry until you took a shower. 

the hot water was burning your skin as reality settled in: trusting someone backfired spectacularly.

after marcus, something inside you shifted.

you stopped believing that real intimacy could be safe. 

every man who showed interest felt like a potential traitor. every sweet word sounded like manipulation waiting to happen. every touch made you wonder what that guy was hiding behind that smile.

you still went on dates. you still flirted effortlessly and still let men take you home and fuck you. but you never truly let them close.

the second things started feeling real –the second a conversation turned vulnerable, when sometime tried to stay the night and hold you, or even when a touch became too tender– you disconnected. you left your own body and watched everything from above.

years passed like this.

a string of shallow relationships that never lasted more than a few weeks. you became an expert at keeping people a comfortable distance while making them believe they were close. 

but you never stayed. not emotionally at least.

your best friend watched this cycle repeat itself with growing worry and frustration. she was there the night you found out about him cheating. she held you while you cried angry tears. and she was tired of seeing her best friend never letting anyone in.

one afternoon, after you mentioned yet another guy who slowly ghosted you after a few dates, she sat you down on her couch with two glasses of wine and a look that said she wasn’t going to let you dodge the conversation this time.

‘’i love you more than anything in this world,’’ she started quietly. ‘’but i can’t keep watching you destroy any chance of real connection because of what he did to you four years ago. you deserve to feel something.’’

you tried to brush it off with some humor, but she wasn't having it.

‘’you need therapy,’’ she said. ‘’you’re so scared and that fear is costing you years of your life. just go to one session. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up.’’

‘’i don’t need therapy,’’

‘’yes, you do. you think you’re fine because you can still flirt and get guys, but you’re not fine. you’re lonely when you’re with someone.’’

you let out a bitter laugh.

‘’i’m not scared. i’m smart. after what marcus did, why the hell would i let someone in again? so they cheat on me and then blame me for having trust issues? no, thanks.’’

‘’not every man is marcus. but you’ll never know that if you keep pushing everyone away before they even have a chance. you deserve to feel safe with someone. you deserve to be loved and not just desired.’’

you looked away.

‘’i’m handling it.’’ you repeated stubbornly.

‘’you’re not handling it,’’ your friend said softly. ‘’you’re surviving. there’s a difference.’’

she slid a small business card across the table toward you.

hawkins behavioral health.

you didn’t book the appointment right away.

for nearly three weeks, the small business card your best friend gave you sat in your kitchen like a quiet accusation. every time you went to drink water, you saw it. every night you came exhausted from work, it was still there.

at first, you ignored it completely.

you told yourself you didn’t need therapy. but the words felt thinner every time you repeated them.

you started researching the place anyway – mostly out of boredom, you convinced yourself. hawkins behavioral health had a clean website and good reviews. 

but one name kept appearing with particularly strong feedback: dr. steve harrington.

you read review after review.

‘’he actually sees you. doesn’t just nod and write things down.’’

‘’first therapist who called me out on my bullshit in the kindest way possible.’’

‘’made me feel safe enough to be honest.’’

you closed the browser more than once, annoyed at yourself for even considering it.

then came the date with tyler. a guy you met.

it was supposed to be casual, just drinks at a nice bar. he was charming, successful, and funny. 

on paper, he was perfect. in reality, he spent most of the night talking about himself.

when you finally opened up a little, he didn’t seem to care. but there was a specific comment that hurt.

‘’guys don’t want to deal with a bunch of emotional baggage, you know?’’

the comment stung more than it should have.

later that night, when he kissed you outside the bar and invited you back to his place, you went. but the entire time you felt hollow. you two didn’t even kiss there, just talked at night and he let you stay to sleep.

the next morning you drove home in silence. when you walked into the apartment, the little business card was still on the counter. you picked it up, turned it over in your hands for a long time, and finally sighed.

‘’fuck it,’’ you whispered.

you called hawkins behavior health that same afternoon and booked an appointment for the following thursday.

the day of your first session arrived faster than you expected. 

you spent the entire morning convincing yourself you could still cancel. you changed outfits three times and almost turned the car around twice on the way there.

but somehow, you ended up walking through the front doors of the building.

the reception area was warm and comforting, with soft lightning and exposed brick walls. behind the desk stood a woman with short brown hair and energetic presence. 

her name tag read: robin buckley – office coordinator.

she looked up and gave you a bright welcoming smile.

‘’hi! you must be the 4:30. first time with us?’’ you nodded, gripping the strap of your bag a little too tightly.

robin’s smile softened, sensing your nerves.

‘’totally normal to feel anxious. everyone is on their first visit.’’ she typed something on her computer. ‘’you’re here to see dr. harrington, right?’’

‘’yes.’’

‘’he’s really good,’’ she said kindly. ‘’a little young for a psychologist, but perceptive. something annoyingly so, but don’t tell him i told you that.’’ she gave you a playful wink. ‘’just be honest with him. he can candle the truth.’’

she printed some forms and handed them to you.

‘’fill these out and i’ll let him know you’re him. deep breath. you’ve got this.’’

ten minutes later, robin returned and led you down a quiet hallway lined with plants. 

she stopped in front of a wooden door and gave you one last encouraging smile.

‘’dr. harrington? your 4:30 is here.’’

you took a deep breath and stepped inside.

the office was nothing like you had imagined. it didn’t feel clinical or cold. warm afternoon light poured through tall windows, bathing the room in a soft golden hue. 

one wall was lined with tall bookshelves filled with psychology texts, novels, and a few personal items – like a small framed picture of a group of friends, and what looked like a tiny hawkins high keychain hanging from a shelf.

two comfortable deep armchairs faxed each other with a low wooden table between them. a box of tissues on the table and a long couch that looked untouched.

and he was rising from one of the armchairs. steve harrington.

he was younger than you expected even if robin told you before. 

much younger. early twenties, if that. 

he looked tall even if he was sitting, with messy brow hair that looked like he’d run his hand through it several times that day.

and he had warm hazel eyes. big hazel eyes you weren’t able to ignore.

he also wore a brown jacket over a button-up shirt. 

steve looked more like a handsome graduate student than a licensed psychologist.

‘’hi,’’ he said with low warm voice. ‘’i’m steve harrington. you can call me steve if that makes you feel more comfortable. come in, please.”

he gestured toward the empty armchair across from him.

‘’sit however you’d like. there are no rules in this room.’’

you gave him a small smile and sat down, crossing your legs neatly and folding your hands in your lap. you studied him from a moment: the way he moved, the way he looked at you. 

he was annoying attractive. too attractive to be doing this job.

steve sat down across from you, leaning forward slightly with his hands clasped loosely between his knees. he didn’t speak right away. he just looked at you –not staring, but truly paying attention– and it made your skin prickle.

‘’so,’’ he said gently after a few seconds, offering a small smile. ‘’what brings you here today?’’

you let out a soft breath and gave him a smile.

‘’well…. apparently i’m very good at making men want me, but terrible at actually letting them stay.’’ you titled your head a little, letting your gaze linger on his face for a second. ‘’my last boyfriend said i’m emotionally unavailable. among other things.’’

you finished with a light laugh, hoping it would steer the conversation into safer waters.

steve didn’t laugh with you.

he simply watched you with a calm and thoughtful expression. 

after a moment, he talked.

“you started with a joke,” he noted gently. “and a compliment hidden inside it. you smiled while talking about something painful. that’s interesting.”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your expression light.

“are you always this direct?”

“well… i’m noticing some things. you are trying to deflect,” he replied but not unkindly. “you’re very good at it. you use charm and humor to keep things from getting serious.”

you felt a flicker of irritation mixed with uncomfortably and nervousness.

“you’re very observant for someone so young,” you said, your tone was still light but with a subtle edge. “does that usually work for you? reading people before they even say anything?”

steve’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.

but his eyes remained steady.

“you’re doing it again,” he said softly. “shifting the focus onto me and testing my reactions.” he paused, then added. “it’s okay. we don’t have to rush. this is your space.”

you sat back slightly, studying him.

he was good. too good.

and the fact that he was young somehow made it worse. 

he shouldn’t be this perceptive.

he shouldn’t be able to see through you this easily.

steve waited patiently, giving you time. his presence was calm, steady, and strangely grounding.

those hazel eyes never left yours, but they weren’t intimidating either.

they were patient. kind. like he really had nowhere else he’d rather be.

“so,” he said again. “when you say you’re “terrible at letting people stay”… what does that feel like for you?”

you opened your mouth, ready to give another polished half-joking answer.

but for the first time in a long time, the words got stuck in your throat.

steve didn’t push. he simply waited, watching you with that calm gaze. 

the silent stretched between you, not awkward, but heavy. for once, you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t have a clever line prepared. you didn’t have a flirty deflection ready.

after a long moment, you let out a slow breath and looked down at your hands.

‘’i don’t know how to… stay,’’ you admitted quietly. ‘’when things get real. when someone starts looking too closely. i just… leave. not physically. but emotionally. i go somewhere else in my head. i smile. i say the right things. but i’m not really there.’’

steve nodded slowly, his expression soft but attentive.

‘’that sounds lonely,’’ he said gently. ‘’being with someone but no really being with them.’’

you swallowed hard.

‘’it is,’’ you whispered. ‘’but it’s safer.

steve leaned forward sightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

‘’can you tell me more about that? when did you start feeling the need to protect yourself from the others like this?’’

you hesitated. the memories of your ex came rushing back – his cruel words, the way he blamed you for his own cheating, the humiliation of realizing you tried to be vulnerable with someone who never deserved it.

‘’four years ago,’’ you said, voice quieter now. ‘’i was with someone. i thought i was letting him in. i was trying and he cheated on me. then told me it was my fault and after that… it just felt easier to never let anyone close enough to hurt me again.’’

steve listened without interrupting. you liked that. and his eyes never left your face.

when you finished, he spoke carefully.

‘’so you learned that being vulnerable leads to pain. and now, even when you want connection, your mind and body protect you by disconnecting.’’

you looked up at him, surprised by how gently he said it.

‘’you’re very young to be this good at this,’’ you said, trying to regain some control with a teasing smile.

steve’s lip curved into a faint smile.

‘’and you’re deflecting again,’’ he replied softly, but there was no judgment in his tone. ‘’it’s okay. we’ll work on that. one step at a time.’’

he paused and then asked gently.

‘’when you’re with someone now… physically… what does that disconnection feel like in your body?’’

you shifted in your seat, feeling exposed under his attentive gaze. you hadn't expected him to go there so directly, yet so kindly.

‘’it feels like… im floating,’’ you admitted. ‘’like i can do everything right but i’m not really feeling anything. it’s like automatic.’’

steve nodded slowly, processing your words.

‘’and does that bother you?’’ he asked. ‘’or has it become normal?’’

you stayed silent for a long moment.

‘’.. it bothers me,’’ you finally whispered. ‘’but i don’t know how to stop doing it.’’

he gave you a small nod.

‘’that’s why you’re here,’’ he said gently. ‘’we’re going to figure that out together. no pressure. just honestly, at whatever pace you need.’’

for the rest of the session, steve listened carefully as you spoke. he didn’t interrupt. he didn’t judge. 

he simply asked thoughtful questions and noticed things you hadn’t even realized about yourself; the way you joked when things got heavy, the way you crossed your arms when you felt vulnerable…

by the time the session ended, you felt strangely drained. but also lighter.

steve stood up when the hour was over and gave you a warm smile.

‘’you did really well today,’’ he said. ‘’i know it wasn’t easy. same time next week?’’

you nodded, feeling a strange mix of nervousness and relief. 

as you left his office, you couldn’t stop thinking about how easily he had seen through every wall you tried to put up.

then the days after your first session passed in a strange haze.

you went back to your routine: work, nights with your best friend… but something felt different. lighter, maybe. or perhaps just more aware.

you tried dating again. not because you suddenly believed in love, but because you wanted to prove to yourself (and maybe to steve), that you could try.

his name was daniel. he was kind, funny and worked as a graphic designer. 

he didn’t try too hard. 

on your first date, you talked for almost three hours about music and movies. on the second, he kissed you goodnight outside your car. 

you wanted this to work. 

you returned for the second session. you spent the entire week thinking about steve’s words.

the way he looked at you. the way he actually listened. it was unsettling how much space he was taking up in your mind.

when you walked into his office and steve was already waiting, sitting in his usual chair. he wore a blue polo shirt that made his hazel eyes stand out even more. 

the moment you entered, he gave you a warm smile that made your stomach tighten.

‘’hi,’’ he said. ‘’it’s good to see you again. come in, make yourself comfortable.’’

you sat down in the armchair across from him, crossing your legs and folding your hands in your lap. for a few seconds, you didn’t know where to begin. 

steve waited patiently, as always – never rushing you, never filling the silence.

‘’i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,’’ you started quietly. ‘’and… i went out with this guy named daniel. a few times, actually.’’

steve nodded slowly, giving you his full attention.

‘’tell me about that,’’

you took a deep breath.

‘’he’s really kind. patient. he doesn’t pressure me. we talked for hours and he actually listens.’’ you paused, then added more softly. ‘’i wanted it to be different this time. i want to try going somewhere serious with him. not just casual.’’

steve listened, his eyes steady on you. when you finished, he spoke carefully.

‘’that’s a significant step – choosing to try something real with someone after being hurt. how did it feel for you?’’ you looked down at your hands.

‘’at the beginning it was okay. i felt present. but then i slipped away again.’’ you let out a small breath. ‘’i hate that i keep doing that.’’

steve was quiet for a moment, processing your words with care.

‘’what you’re describing is a very common trauma response,’’ he said gently. ‘’after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your nervous system learned that vulnerability equals danger. so when intimacy starts to feel real, your mind protects you by dissociating.’’

you looked up at him, surprised by how good he explained it. steve continued.

‘’the fact that you’re aware of it happening is already a progress. most people don’t even notice when they disconnect.’’

his words wrapped around you like a blanket. you felt your cheeks grow warm and you bit your lip. 

‘’thank you,’’ you whispered. steve’s expression softened further.

he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

‘’would you like to practice some grounding exercises? things you can use when you feel yourself starting to flow away?’’

you nodded. and for the next thirty minutes, steve guided you through several exercises with patience and care. his voice was incredibly calm and silky as he spoke.

he watched you practice, his eyes never leaving you.

‘’good,’’ he said when you did it correctly. ‘’that’s really good. you’re picking this up quickly.’’

every time he praised you, even subtly, you felt warmth spread through your chest. you found yourself feeling timid under his attention.

steve remembered details from your previous session and wove them in naturally.

‘’you mentioned last time that you tend to perform because you want others to feel good,’’ he looked at you. ‘’we can work on finding balance.’’

you felt exposed but safe. the way steve spoke made you feel truly seen.

when the session was nearing its end, steve looked at you.

‘’you did really well today,’’ he said softly. ‘’you were honest about something difficult. you let yourself be vulnerable.’’

his praise hit you deeply. you felt your face flush.

you left his office with warm cheeks and the confusing realization that your therapist’s gentle praise was starting to affect you far more than any touch from daniel ever had.

after that, you continued seeing daniel. the relationship –if it could even be called that yet– developed slowly and sweetly. he was consistent in a way that was almost foreign to you. 

but every time the moment leaned toward something more intimate, you gently stopped him.

daniel was always understanding. he’d kiss your forehead and never made you feel guilty. and yet, every time you left his apartment, you felt a quiet frustration with yourself.

you wanted him fully. you wanted to be normal. but something inside you still head back.

in the other way, your therapy sessions with steve became the anchor of your week. you found yourself in that office. steve seemed to look better each time you saw him. 

sometimes it was the way his hair fell across his forehead. 

sometimes it was the soft sweaters that hugged his biceps and shoulders. 

sometimes it was simply the way he looked at you.

the flirting on your part was subtle, almost unconscious. quiet and soft words while tucking your hair behind your ear. 

steve never crossed any lines. 

he remained perfectly professional. but his gaze would linger a second longer than necessary, and his voice would drop into that low silky tone when he praised you.

you told yourself it was nothing. he was just doing his job.

one afternoon, after a particularly long session, you met your best friend for a coffee. the moment you sat down, she studied your face with a knowing look.

‘’so… how are things going with daniel?’’ she asked, cutting into her avocado toast.

you smiled, a small genuine one.

‘’they’re good, actually. he’s really sweet. we’ve been seeing each other a couple times a week. we haven’t slept together yet… but i feel like i might be getting closer to wanting that.’’

her eyes lit up.

‘’that’s great! i’m really happy for you. he sounds like a good guy.’’ you nodded, stirring your coffee.

there was a comfortable pause. then she took a sip of her drink and asked casually:

‘’and how’s therapy going? you haven’t told me much about it lately.’’

you hesitated for a second, then shrugged lightly.

‘’it’s… going well, i think. my therapist is really good. he’s patient, he actually listens, and he explains things in a way that doesn’t make me feel like i’m broken. we’ve working on grounding exercises so i can stay more present, especially with daniel.’’

she raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

‘’tell me more about him. what’s he like?’’

you looked down at your cup, feeling a little shy.

‘’he’s… younger than i expected. really perceptive. he remember everything i tell him. he just helps me understand why i do it.’’

she stayed quiet for a moment. then she leaned forward with a mischievous grin.

‘’okay… i have to confess something. after you told me you started therapy, i got curious and looked him up on google.’’

you blinked. ‘’you what?’’

‘’i googled him,’’ she said, laughing. ‘’dr. steve harrington. i found his profile on the practice’s website and some pictures. girl… he’s ridiculously hot. like, stupidly attractive. i mean… i get why tour sessions feel intense.’’

you felt your face heat up instantly. you looked down at your latte.

‘’he’s just my therapist,’’ you said quickly, trying to sound casual. ‘’he’s professional. really good at his job. that’s all.’’

‘’sure. that’s why you are blushing right now.’’

after that comment, you may have started seeing steve a little bit differently. 

maybe more handsome. 

maybe with more interest.

you tried to think it was just nonsense, that your best friend’s talk was inside your brain.

while waiting in the reception area for your session, you made the mistake of checking the practice's recent google reviews on your phone.

several new ones appeared. from women in their twenties.

one in particular caught your eye:

‘’dr. Harrington is incredible. i’ve never felt so understood in my life. he’s helped me so much with my intimacy issues. 10/10, would recommend to anyone.”

there were several more like that – all women praising how attentive and emotionally available steve was.

your stomach twisted with an ugly feeling you didn’t want to name.

jealousy.

then, as you were sitting in the waiting room, the door to steve’s office opened.

a pretty brunette woman stepped out, smiling brightly. steve followed her to the door, speaking to her in that same gentle, warm tone he used with you.

“see you next week. you did great today.”

she left, laughing at something he said. you felt a sharp pang in your chest.

when Steve turned and saw you waiting, his expression softened immediately.

“hey,” he said warmly. “ready?” 

you forced a small smile and followed him into the office, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot of jealousy twisting inside you.

you sat down in your usual armchair. steve settled across from you, leaning forward sightly with his elbows on his knees.

‘’how has your week been?’’ he asked softly. 

you hesitated for a moment and opened your mouth to give a vague answer, but steve continued you could speak, his tone calm.

‘’you mentioned last session that you’ve been seeing someone. daniel, right? how are things going with him?’’

the question caught you slightly off guard. he had remembered the name. 

of course he had.

you shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed.

“they’re… going well,” you said carefully. “he’s really kind. patient. we’ve been spending more time together. we talk a lot, we kiss… but we haven’t slept together yet.”

steve listened with complete focus, his eyes never leaving your face. he nodded slowly, processing your words.

“and how do you feel about that?” he asked with a soft voice. “about holding back with him?”

you let out a slow breath.

“i feel guilty sometimes,” you admitted. “he’s a good guy. he deserves someone who can give him everything. but i’m scared. every time things get more physical, i feel myself starting to disconnect again. i don’t want to perform with him… but i don’t know how to stop doing it.”

steve was quiet for a few seconds. His expression remained calm and professional, but you noticed the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tightened slightly around his pen.

“it makes sense that you’re scared,” he said gently. “after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your mind and body learned that intimacy equals danger.”

he paused, then added in that low silky tone he had.

“but I also notice that when you talk about daniel, you describe him as ‘nice’ and ‘kind.’ you don’t talk about desire. about wanting him. does that feel significant to you?”

his question felt more direct than usual. you felt your cheeks warm under his steady gaze.

“i… i don’t know,” you whispered. “maybe I’m still not ready. or maybe i’m comparing how i feel with him to… other things.”

steve’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. he didn’t push further on that comment, but the air in the room felt heavier.

you felt your face flush. you looked down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes. 

a shy, nervous smile formed on your lips as you played with the hem of your sweater and your fingers trembled slightly.

you left his office with the confusing realization that steve’s gentle praise affected you.

and no matter how many times you told yourself he was just being a good therapist. 

the feeling was getting harder to ignore.

another day that daniel texted you asking if you wanted to do something casual. you said yes before you could overthink it.

the night arrived. he was the same as always: easy to talk to, interested in what you said, and never pushy. he brought you flowers –white daisies– and remembered your drink.

when dinner was over, you ended up on his couch. the kissing started slow and sweet. his hands were careful as they slid under your sweater, caressing your back. 

for a while, you stayed present. you felt the warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, the way he whispered how beautiful you were. it felt nice.

but the moment his hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, something inside you tightened.

you pulled back gently, placing a hand on his chest.

‘’daniel… wait,’’ you whispered. he stopped immediately, looking at you with concern.

‘’is everything okay?’’ he asked softly.

you sat up a little, pulling your sweater back down. 

your heart was racing, but not from desire – from anxiety.

‘’i’m sorry,’’ you said quietly. ‘’i thought i was ready, but… i’m not. not tonight.’’

daniel nodded without hesitation. he sat back and gave you a kind, understanding smile.

“that’s completely fine,” he said. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. i’m really happy just spending time with you.”

you felt a wave of relief mixed with guilt. 

yet you still couldn’t give him what he probably wanted.

you stayed for a little while longer, talking on the couch, but the atmosphere shifted. 

when you left his apartment that night, you hugged him goodbye and told him you’d text him soon. the drive home was quiet. you felt disappointed in yourself.

by the time you got home, took a shower, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the frustration had built up to a breaking point.

now it has been months. months of this same cycle. flirting, dating, getting close, but then freezing or performing the moment things became truly intimate. 

you were tired of it. exhausted.

you arrived at your session feeling a mix of determination and deep embarrassment.

steve was already seated when you walked in. he wore a sweater that made his shoulders look broader. when he saw you, his hazel eyes softened with that familiar warm attention.

“hi,” he said gently. “come in. make yourself comfortable.”

you sat down. steve noticed your body language immediately.

“you seem a little nervous today,” he observed softly. “would you like to tell me what’s on your mind?”

you took a deep breath and decided to be honest.

“i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,” you said quietly. “about why i disconnect during sex. i… i want to understand it better. so i can try to fix it with daniel.”

steve nodded slowly, his gaze steady and kind.

“i’m glad you want to explore this,” he said. “to help you, i’m going to ask some personal questions about your sexual experiences. you don’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable. but the more honest you can be, the better i can understand what’s happening and help you work through it. is that okay with you?”

you swallowed hard and nodded. steve kept his voice low and professional.

“when you’re with daniel, or with previous partners… do you feel any physical pleasure at all? or does it become purely mechanical after a certain point?”

your cheeks started burning.

“sometimes… at the beginning,” you whispered. “i feel warmth. tingling. but then it fades. i start focusing on what i should be doing instead of what i’m feeling.”

steve nodded, completely focused on you.

“do you touch yourself when you’re alone?” he asked calmly. “masturbate?”

your face went hot. you looked down at your lap, fingers twisting nervously in your sweater.

“…yes,” you admitted.

“how does that feel compared to sex with someone else?” he asked gently. “do you stay present when you’re touching yourself?”

you bit your lip, feeling incredibly exposed.

“mostly yes,” you whispered. “it’s easier when i’m alone. i can control everything. i don’t have to worry about what the other person is thinking.”

steve’s voice remained soothing.

“that’s very common,” he said. “when you’re alone, there’s no fear of judgment or betrayal. your body feels safe enough to stay present. but when someone else is involved, that safety disappears and your mind protects you by dissociating.”

he paused, then continued.

“when you masturbate… what do you usually think about? do you stay focused on the sensations in your body, or does your mind wander to fantasies?”

your face was burning now. you couldn’t look at him.

“i… try to focus on the sensations,” you mumbled. “but sometimes i fantasize. about… being wanted. being seen. not just fucked.”

steve was quiet for a moment, giving you space. the silence felt heavy but not uncomfortable. 

when he finally spoke, his voice was even softer, almost careful.

“thank you for being honest about that,” he said. “that’s really helpful information.”

he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

“as an exercise for this week, i’d like you to try something at home. when you masturbate, i want you to focus completely on the physical sensations. you don’t have to do it every day, just when you feel comfortable.”

your heart was beating fast. the idea of doing that and then telling him about it made your stomach twist with nerves.

“and… you want me to tell you how it went?” you asked, voice small.

steve nodded calmly. 

“only if you feel comfortable sharing. this is your space. but yes, talking about it next session could help us understand what makes it easier or harder for you to stay present.”

you swallowed hard, cheeks still burning.

“okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try.”

the drive home was quiet. your hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly the whole way. 

steve’s voice kept echoing in your head. 

the way he looked at you when you spoke. the subtle way his fingers tapped against his knee.

by the time you stepped into your apartment, you kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed, replaying steve’s words from the session.

you lay back on your bed, still wearing your clothes from the day. you slid your hand inside your now pajama pants and started slowly rubbing yourself over your panties. 

you tried to focus on the sensation, on your own body like steve suggested. but after a few minutes your mind began to wander.

you kept thinking about him.

about the calm way he looked at you when he spoke.

about how low and steady his voice got when he explained things. 

about the way his hands rested on his thighs during sessions. 

you imagined those same hands on you and immediately felt a rush of heat between your legs.

you slipped your fingers under your panties and touched yourself directly, circling your clit slowly. soft sounds left your lips as you got wetter. 

every time you tried to push the thoughts away, they came back stronger. 

you pictured steve’s face, his kind eyes, the slight scruff on his jaw, the way he said your name.

guilt twisted in your chest even as pleasure built between your legs.this is wrong, you thought. 

he was your therapist. he was trying to help you and you were here touching yourself while thinking about him.

still, you didn’t stop. your fingers moved faster, sliding inside yourself while your other hand gripped the sheets. 

your breathing grew heavier. you whispered his name once, very quietly, like a secret you couldn’t keep inside.

when you finally came it was sharp and intense; your thighs shaking, a soft broken sound leaving your throat.

you felt dirty. wrong. like you had crossed a line you could never uncross. 

steve trusted you. 

he was patient and professional and genuinely trying to help you heal, and here you were fantasizing about him.

“what the hell is wrong with me…” you whispered into the quiet room.

the next few days were hell.

you tried to pretend it never happened.

you told yourself it was a one-time mistake. that it wouldn’t happen again.

but when thursday afternoon came and you walked into steve’s office, your hands were already shaking.

steve was sitting in his usual chair, wearing a soft beige sweater, looking calm and professional like always. 

he smiled gently when you entered.

“hey,” he said warmly. “how have you been since last session?” 

you sat down on the couch across from him, legs pressed tightly together.

“fine,” you mumbled.

he studied you for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“did you try the homework i gave you?” he asked, voice gentle but direct. “touching yourself without pressure?”

you stayed silent, staring at the floor. your throat felt tight. steve waited patiently.

“you don’t have to share details if you don’t want to,” he continued softly, “but it would help if you could tell me whether you did it or not… and if you did, what came up for you. what you were thinking about.”

you still didn’t answer. your fingers twisted in your lap.

steve tilted his head.

“it’s okay,” he said. “you can sit over here if it feels easier to talk.” he gestured to the smaller couch closer to his chair, only a couple feet away. “sometimes being a little closer helps.”

you didn’t move.

after a few seconds of silence, steve slowly reached out and placed his hand gently on your knee, warm and steady, trying to get your attention.

“hey,” he said quietly, voice low. “talk to me. what’s going on in that head of yours?”

your heart hammered in your chest. his hand on your leg made everything worse. you felt tears burning in your eyes.you finally whispered, barely audible:

“…i did it.”

steve nodded slowly, thumb brushing lightly against your knee in a comforting motion.

“good. that’s okay. and when you were doing it… what were you thinking about?”

you stayed quiet for a long moment, shame burning through your whole body. then, in a tiny, broken voice, you admitted:

“…you.”

the word hung heavy in the air between you.steve froze. his hand stilled on your knee. 

for the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

steve didn’t move. the air between you grew thick. 

he stayed quiet for a few seconds, processing your words, then spoke carefully.

“you need to try thinking about something like that when you’re with daniel. that kind of arousal… that’s what we’re trying to build with him.”

you finally looked up at him with glassy and frustrated eyes.

“how am i supposed to feel that way with daniel?” your voice cracked. “how do i differentiate it? how do i know what i really want with him?”

steve stared at you. his breathing changed.

the professional mask cracked right in front of you. 

for a moment he looked conflicted, struggling hard with himself.

then he leaned in slowly, cupped your face with one hand, and kissed you.

the kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but full of months of hidden tension. his lips were warm and gentle against yours. your heart slammed in your chest.

he pulled back after a few seconds with his breathing ragged.

“fuck… i’m sorry,” he whispered. “that was completely unprofessional. i shouldn’t have done that. we can’t—”

you didn’t let him finish.

you grabbed the front of his sweater and pulled him back into the kiss, harder this time. 

steve froze for half a second before he gave in completely, kissing you back with a quiet groan. his hand slid to the back of your neck as the kiss deepened, growing more desperate.

both of you knew how wrong this was.

but in that moment, neither of you cared.

“this is so wrong…” he said. “i could lose my license. i could get fired. we shouldn’t be doing this.”

you looked into his eyes, desperate.

“i need you, steve,” you whispered back, voice breaking. “i don’t want anyone else. i only think about you.”

he let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself. 

then pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your jeans rubbing against his thighs. his hands immediately gripped your hips.

“fuck… you’re going to ruin me,” he murmured before kissing you again, deeper this time.

his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and sucking on your skin as his hands worked between you. 

“ride my thigh, baby,” he whispered hotly against your neck. “just like this. with your clothes on. use me to feel good.”

you moaned softly and started rocking your hips, grinding your clothed pussy against his thick, muscular thigh. 

the rough fabric of your jeans created a delicious friction against your clit with every roll of your hips.

steve’s hands stayed on your hips, guiding you, pulling you harder against his leg.

“that’s it,” he breathed, sucking on the sensitive spot below your ear. “grind on me. use my thigh to get yourself off.”

you moved faster, rolling your hips in desperate circles, the seam of your jeans pressing perfectly against your clit. 

you could feel how wet you were getting, the fabric growing damp as you humped his leg.

“steve…” you whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

“good girl,” he praised softly, kissing down your neck while helping you grind harder. “look at you… riding my thigh fully dressed like you can’t wait any longer.”

his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you down firmer against him with every roll. the pressure was intense, the friction making your legs shake.

“does that feel good, princess?” he murmured, voice low and rough. “humping my leg like a needy girl?”

“yes… fuck, yes,” you moaned quietly, moving faster, chasing the building pleasure.

steve kept kissing and biting your neck gently while you rode his thigh desperately, the wet patch on your jeans growing bigger with every grind.

then he didn’t even wait for you to cum and unbuttoned your jeans and tugged the zipper down. his long fingers slipped inside your jeans and under your panties, finding you soaked.

you gasped as two thick fingers touched you.

“so wet already,” he breathed against your neck, kissing and biting softly while his fingers played with your pussy. “you really do need this, don’t you?”

you moaned quietly, rocking your hips against his hand as he fingered you deeper. 

his thumb found your clit and rubbed firm, steady circles while his mouth continued its assault on your neck.

“steve…” you whimpered, gripping his shoulders. “with you… i feel good.”

he lifted his head from your neck, eyes dark but full of concern. his fingers kept moving inside you, slower now.

“tell me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and careful.“i don’t feel blocked,” you breathed, grinding down onto his fingers. “i’m not anxious… i’m not overthinking. i’m just… enjoying it. i feel safe with you.”

steve let out a shaky breath, clearly worried.

he stopped moving his fingers for a moment and looked straight into your eyes, his free hand gently cupping your cheek.

“are you sure?” he asked softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “i need you to be honest with me. if anything feels wrong or too much, you tell me immediately, okay? your comfort is the most important thing right now.”

you nodded, leaning into his touch.

“i’m sure,” you whispered. “i want this. i want you.”

steve searched your face for any sign of doubt, then kissed you again, slower this time, more tenderly. 

his fingers started moving once more, curling gently inside you while his thumb kept rubbing your clit in steady circles.

“good girl,” he whispered against your lips, voice full of care. “just relax. i’ve got you. tell me if you want it slower or deeper.” he whispered hotly against your skin, curling his fingers inside you perfectly. “just ride my fingers, baby. take what you need.”

his other hand slid under your shirt, squeezing your breast as he kept kissing and marking your neck. 

his fingers moved faster inside you, thrusting deep while his thumb pressed harder on your clit.

you were grinding desperately on his hand, moaning softly into his shoulder, completely lost in the feeling of his fingers stretching you and his mouth on your neck.

steve groaned quietly against your skin.

“you feel so fucking good… so tight around my fingers.”

you moaned quietly, rolling your hips against his hand as he fingered you with perfect rhythm. 

his mouth returned to your neck, kissing and sucking softly while he focused completely on your pleasure, always watching your reactions, always making sure you felt safe.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmured against your skin, fingers curling just right. “i just want you to feel good, baby. nothing else matters right now.”

the pleasure built quickly until it crashed over you. you came hard with a broken moan, thighs shaking, pussy clenching tightly around his fingers as waves of pleasure rolled through your body. 

steve kept moving his fingers gently, helping you ride out every last pulse.

when you finally came down, breathing heavily, you reached down to palm his obvious erection through his pants.

steve immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.

“no,” he said softly but firmly, breathing hard. “not today. this is about you.”

he gently lifted you off his lap and laid you down on the couch. 

he knelt on the floor between your legs, pulled your jeans and panties down in one smooth motion, and spread your thighs wide.

steve leaned in and kissed your inner thigh, then higher, until his mouth was on your pussy. he licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, tasting you. 

you moaned loudly, your hand flying to his hair.

he licked you slowly at first, savoring you, then became more eager; sucking gently on your clit, fucking you with his tongue, then sliding two fingers back inside you while he focused his mouth on your sensitive bud.

“steve…” you whimpered, back arching. “oh my god…”

he ate you out with perfect focus, humming against you, curling his fingers deep while his tongue worked your clit in stead patterns. 

you felt completely overwhelmed in the best way.

“it’s been so long…” you moaned, voice breaking, fingers tightening in his hair. “i haven’t felt this good with anyone in so long… steve, fuck—”

he groaned against your pussy, the vibration making you shiver. 

he doubled down, sucking harder on your clit while his fingers thrust faster.

you came again with a loud cry, thighs clamping around his head as intense pleasure flooded your body. 

steve kept licking you gently through it, drawing out every wave until you were trembling and oversensitive.

he finally pulled back, lips shiny, breathing heavily. he looked up at you with dark, worried, but undeniably hungry eyes. then he slowly stood up, towering over you as you lay on the couch. 

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at you for a long moment.

“do you really want me to fuck you?” he asked, voice low and rough. “because we’ve already broken every rule… if we do this, there’s no going back.”

you nodded, still catching your breath.

“yes,” you whispered. “i want you.” steve let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself one last time.

he quickly unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, pulling out his cock. he was big — thick and long, the head already leaking. 

you stared at it, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding you.

“you have to be quiet,” he warned, voice serious. “no matter what. if someone hears us, i’m done.”

you nodded quickly. steve pulled your jeans and panties completely off, then climbed on top of you on the small couch. 

he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked pussy before slowly pushing inside.you gasped at the stretch. he was so big it almost hurt, but it felt so good. 

he covered your mouth with his large hand as he sank deeper while his eyes were locked on yours.

“shhh, baby,” he whispered, bottoming out inside you. “fuck… you’re so tight.”

he started fucking you on the couch, deep and steady thrusts, his hand still firmly over your mouth to muffle your moans. every time he buried himself completely you whimpered against his palm, eyes rolling back.

after a few minutes he pulled out, stood up and turned you around, bending you over the desk. he pushed back inside you from behind in one smooth thrust, groaning quietly.

“quiet, princess,” he reminded you, hand returning to cover your mouth as he started fucking you harder. 

the desk creaked softly with every deep thrust. steve was so big you could feel him in your stomach, stretching you perfectly.

his free hand gripped your hip tightly as he pounded into you, trying to stay as quiet as possible while giving you exactly what you needed.

“is this what you wanted?” he breathed against your ear, voice strained. “you feel so fucking good…”

you could only moan helplessly against his hand, completely lost in how full you felt and how deep he was hitting inside you.

“is this what you wanted?” he whispered, voice low and rough, lips brushing your ear. “when you were touching yourself at home… thinking about me… is this what you imagined?”

you moaned against his palm, nodding frantically.

“oh yes, steve…” you whimpered, the words muffled against his hand.he fucked you a little harder, deep and slow, making sure you felt every inch.

“you were fucking yourself thinking about my cock, weren’t you?” he breathed, voice soft but filthy. “touching that pretty pussy and wishing it was me stretching you open like this…”

you whimpered louder, pushing back against him.

“yes… yes, steve… i wanted you so bad,” you gasped against his fingers.

steve groaned quietly, pressing deeper, grinding against you.

“good girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck while still covering your mouth. “you feel even better than i imagined… so fucking tight and wet for me.”

he kept a steady rhythm, rolling his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. his hand stayed firm over your mouth, muffling your moans as you trembled beneath him.

“that’s it, baby… take it,” he whispered hotly. “this is what you needed, isn’t it? my cock deep inside you while you’re bent over my desk…”

you nodded desperately, tears of pleasure in your eyes.

“yes, steve… oh god, yes…” you moaned against his hand, voice broken and needy.

steve kissed your neck again, sucking softly on your skin as he fucked you deeper, slower, making sure you felt every single inch.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he praised gently, voice full of lust and care at the same time. “such a good girl… letting me fuck you like this…”

“that’s it, baby,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough. “cum for me. let go.”

your orgasm hit you hard. your whole body tensed, thighs shaking as you came around his cock with a muffled cry against his palm. 

your pussy clenched tightly around him, pulsing again and again.

steve groaned quietly, burying himself deep as he followed right after you. his hips stuttered and he came hard inside you, filling you with warm pulses while pressing his face into your neck to stay quiet.

for a few seconds you both stayed like that, breathing heavily. 

then reality seemed to hit him. steve pulled out slowly and grabbed the box of tissues from his desk. he cleaned you gently first, wiping between your legs with care, then cleaned himself.

you both dressed quickly in silence. he helped you button your jeans. once you were both fully dressed, steve sat on the edge of the desk and pulled you to stand between his legs.

he looked at you softly.

“how do you feel?” he asked quietly, genuine concern in his eyes. “be honest with me.”

you took a deep breath, still a little shaky.

“i didn’t feel blocked,” you whispered. “i didn’t overthink everything like i usually do. i just… felt good. really good. safe.”

steve’s expression softened. a small, relieved smile appeared on his lips.

“that’s really good,” he murmured, sounding genuinely happy. “i’m glad you felt that way. that’s important.”

“and… is this what all your patients get?” you asked softly, half-joking but clearly a little nervous.

steve’s eyes widened. he let out a surprised little laugh and shook his head immediately.

“ohhh no, no, no,” he said quickly, almost embarrassed. “you’ve been the exception. completely. i usually stay very professional… i’ve never crossed this line before. not even close.”

he cupped your face with both hands, looking straight into your eyes, sincere.

“this has never happened with anyone else. you’re the only one.”

you bit your lip, feeling a strange mix of relief and warmth in your chest.

steve leaned in and kissed your forehead gently, then rested his forehead against yours.

“this is new for me too,” he whispered. “and probably really stupid… but i couldn’t stop myself with you.”

it was absolutely risky, but god, you would lie if you said that you didn’t like the thrill.

and steve seemed to like it as well—at least it looked like that when you pulled him through the door, lips moving against his and finding him already hard in his pants.

“you know… it wouldn’t be so hard for me to hold myself back if you’d just loose that damn uniform… because stevie, this is absolutely sexy,” you murmured, giving the tip of his cock a kitten lick.

his hips bucked upwards instinctively, a low groan rumbling through his chest while one hand flew to the back of your head, clenching in the strands.

“jesus christ…” he whispered, pupils dark with lust, “it’s my work outfit. you know i can’t just ‘lose it’.”

that earned him a gentle suck on the head, and you felt him twitching greedily in your hand.

it all started when you came to him about two weeks ago, right after your date dumped you.

he was clearly convinced that an inexperienced girl like you wasn’t good in bed, that’s why he wanted to find someone else—someone with more experience.

shortly, not a virgin.

and so you came to your best friend, since you where twelve years old, asking him to help you get some of that experience.

since then, you made out almost every day.

and god, steve was a mess. he always was.

his eyes were pressed shut, biting down on those plump and pink lips, looking like some sex god who just jumped right out of your dreams.

the only difference: he was your best friend and all of this happened because you only needed him to teach you in things like blowjobs.

but lord, it was the best thing that ever happened to you.

“fuck! you’re…” steve grunted, more precum spilling out and coating your lips. “you’re learning so fast, princess.”

you decided to go further then. by now, you knew what drove him crazy.

so you took him slowly, swallowing on the way down until his head hit the back of your throat, making you gag.

steve’s hand gripped the arm of the chair he was sitting on, knuckles turning white while he other hand stayed in your hair, guiding you gently.

“oh shit, baby. just like that,” he choked out, his hips thrusting up, further into the heat but you stopped him by wrapping your hand around his base—the only part you couldn’t take.

the squeeze made him twitch against your tongue and you hummed, eyes beginning to water from the intensity of holding back more gags.

“you’re taking it so well…” you hear the praise and it made you press your thighs together. “such a good girl.”

then, his control snapped.

he bucked his hips upwards again, hitting the back of your throat again and you gagged, one single tear dropping down as your fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his hairy thighs.

“just like that… good girl…” he chanted out, his hips setting a steady rhythm, fucking up into your mouth.

you took steady breaths through your nose, relaxing your jaw, giving him the space he needed to get off.

he made you choke on him, tears streaming down your face and saliva dripping from your chin, making everything messy.

after a while, you swallowed again, his cock pulsing, signaling you he was close.

now it was you, starting to bob your head. up and down, letting him slip out, suckling on the tip before taking him all the way in again.

“baby, baby, i’m gonna—fuuuck—i’m gonna cum. you need to—“

you knew what he wanted to say. he always did. but you never pulled away.

thick ropes of his cum shot out, spilling down your throat and all over your lips and face when you pulled away.

it was messy, but god, it was absolutely perfect.

steve’s head lolled to the side, his cock still twitching as he came down from that intense high, his gaze on you without daring to look away.

you licked your lips clean from his semen, grinning when he let out a gasp. “you just… did it again,” he murmured, reaching out, his thumb brushing some drops of his cum away from your chin.

“licking my cum like it’s some kind of candy. my dirty little slut, hm?” he teased, but you knew better.

he meant every single word.

2026 whispersoflost

"Ha ha." He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees. "No, seriously. I was thinkin' about us. About how we do all this couple stuff." He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "But we ain't got the lingo down just yet."

You sighed, marking your page and looking at him. "What lingo?"

"Names," he said simply. "Ain't that what couples do? Give each other cringe-ass nicknames that make everyone else wanna gag?"

You stared at him. "You wanna give me a nickname?"

"I think it’s required." He stood up, cracking his neck. "Yeah. Gotta figure it out. The right one."

"You can just call me by my name, Gator."

"Nah. That’s borin’. That’s for strangers. Not someone who’s already seen you naked." He started pacing the small living room area. "I gotta find one that sticks. Somethin’ that fits you."

You rolled your eyes and went back to your book, deciding to ignore him. It was usually the best strategy with Gator when he got like this - wired and looking for entertainment. If you didn't engage beyond an occasional nod, he’d eventually get bored and sit back down.

But he didn't.

You felt him walk behind the couch, leaning over your shoulder. His breath was hot against your ear, smelling of gum and the faint, lingering scent of leather and gun oil from work

"Hey, baby," he whispered. The word was low, gravelly at the edges.

You stiffened slightly, turning the page even though you hadn't read a word of it. "Stop it."

"Sure thing, little lady," he tried again, moving to the other side of the couch so he was leaning over the arm rest to whisper into your other ear. "Kinda sounds like you should be on a horse or somethin’, huh?"

"Gator, knock it off," you said, swatting a hand out to push him away. He dodged it easily, laughing as you stood and retreated to the arm chair.

"What about… Princess?” He murmured, ignoring your hand. "Think you’re a princess? Certainly got the attitude for it, goddamn.”

He moved towards you with a restless, buzzing energy radiating off of him. It was like he was hunting something. If you knew one thing about Gator Tillman, it was that he was like a damn dog with a bone. Once he latched onto something, there was almost nothing you could do to get him to let it go.

"Sugar'," Gator whispered, kneeling down next to the chair, his fingers trailing over the back of your neck. A shiver went down your spine that you tried to suppress. “Ooh, you like that?”

“Shut up.”

"Okay, sweetheart." He was in front of you now, crouching down so his face was level with yours, invading your personal space. "That one's real classic. My old man uses it.”

You looked at him, exasperated. "Are you done yet?"

"Nope." He grinned, showing teeth. "None of 'em feel right yet. I need data."

"Data?" You almost laughed out loud at how seriously he was taking this.

"Yeah. Physical evidence." He stood up abruptly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you out of the chair. You stumbled, dropping your book onto the floor.

"Hey! What the fu-“

Gator didn't let go, steering you backward with surprising strength until your back hit the living room wall with a dull thud. He boxed you in, one hand by your head, the other resting on your hip, his body pressing close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Gator," you warned, though your voice lacked the bite you wanted it to have. Your heart was pounding a little harder now, adrenaline spiking.

"Pay attention," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. They were dark, pupils blown wide. "Need to see which one works."

"Works for what?"

"Which one gets you goin'." Gator’s expression was devious at his hand slid from your hip, fingers hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants.

You inhaled sharply, grabbing his wrist to stop him, but he didn't pause. He just pushed his hand down, rough and demanding, sliding past the fabric of your panties until his fingers were pressed against you, right where you were already starting to warm up under his scrutiny and touch.

"Fucking Christ," you breathed, your grip on his wrist tightening, but you didn't pull him away. Not really.

"Relax," he teased, his voice dropping an octave. "Just testing a hypothesis."

“Pretty big word for a guy like you.”

“Think I’m stupid?”

“Just thought you mostly did monosyllables.”

His fingers moved, dragging through your folds, and he hummed in satisfaction when he felt how slick you were. "Well, well. Wouldja look at that. All ‘a this is doin’ somethin’ for you. "

You flushed, your face heating up. "Shut up."

"No, no, this is good." He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against your cheek. "Let's try again."

Gator slid a finger inside you, curling it just enough to make your breath hitch in your throat. He watched your face intently.

"Baby girl," he whispered, the words slow and deliberate. He pumped his finger once, twice, watching your eyelids flutter. "Yeah? You like that one?"

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but your body betrayed you. Your hips tilted toward his hand instinctively, seeking more friction.

"M’kay. That’s a maybe," he continued, his voice a rough rasp against your ear.

“It’s not anything.”

"Quit lyin’," Gator withdrew his hand slightly, circling your clit with a maddening lightness that made your knees weak. "My sweet girl knows better than to lie to me, right?"

You let out a shaky breath, your head falling back against the wall. "Gator..."

"Say it," he demanded, pressing his thumb harder against you. "Which one?"

"I don't know," you gasped, your resolve crumbling under the steady rhythm of his hand.

"Liars get punished," he said, though there was no true malice in it, just a dark, playfulness. He added a second finger, stretching you, the sudden fullness drawing a low moan from your throat. "Come on. What one made you all like this for me? Or do you just like bein’ told what to do?”

You looked up at him, seeing the smug satisfaction written all over his face. He knew he had you. You felt exposed, pinned against the wall by his hips and his hand, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying part was that you liked it.

"I think," you managed to get out, your voice breathless, "I think you're enjoying this way too much."

"Damn right I am," Gator grinned, leaning in to bite gently at your pulse point. "Now hold still. If you ain’t gonna tell me, I’m gonna find out.”

He didn't give you a chance to recover, his wrist twisting so his palm cupped you possessively, grinding against you in a way that made your vision blur at the edges. The friction was electric, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine that made your knees threaten to buckle.

"You're trembling," he observed, his voice dropping to that low, insinuating rasp he used when he was about to do something reckless. He leaned his weight into you, pinning you harder against the plaster so you couldn't escape the rhythm of his hand. "Means it's working. But which one did it, huh? Was it sweet girl? Or are you just a slut for being manhandled?"

You opened your mouth to snap at him, tell him to get off his fucking high horse, but all that came out was a broken, pathetic moan when he curled his fingers just right, hitting a spot that made your toes curl in your socks. His grin widened, sharp and predatory, like a wolf that had cornered its prey and realized it didn't even need to chase.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he taunted, pressing his forehead against yours, forcing you to hold his gaze. You could see the calculation in his eyes, the way he was cataloging every gasp and flutter. He didn’t even seem like he was looking for a pet name anymore. "Look at you. Tryin’ to act all tough and independent. Then the second I get my hands on you, you turn into a fuckin’ puddle. It's cute. Or pathetic. Dunno, haven’t decided yet."

"Fuck you, Gator," you gasped, trying to find purchase to push him away, but your hands lacked conviction. Instead of shoving him, you were clinging to his flannel shirt, grounding yourself as he worked you over with ruthless efficiency.

"Language," he chided, though his tone was anything but disapproving. He pulled his fingers back, teasing you with the loss of fullness before sliding them back in, deeper this time, harder. "Think you can talk to me like that when I'm fuckin’ wrist-deep in you? Doesn't seem like you're in a position to negotiate, does it, babydoll?"

He punctuated the question with a rough thrust of his hand, the wet, obscene sound of his movements filling the small apartment. You felt heat flood your face, a mix of embarrassment and arousal that was dizzying. He was right, and you hated it. You were completely at his mercy, pinned to the wall by your own traitorous body.

"Wanna try another one?” Gator murmured, ignoring your frustrated glare. He moved his mouth to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point, nipping just hard enough to sting.

“No -“

"Darlin'," he drawled out the nickname, letting it hang in the air, thick with mockery. "Sounds real southern. Real gentlemanly. Does it make you feel special? What about honey? Nah, never mind. I don’t like that one.”

Gator didn't wait for a coherent response. He shifted his angle, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with agonizing slowness. Your breath hitched, your head falling back against the wall with a thud as you squeezed your eyes shut. The pleasure was building rapidly, a tight coil in your stomach that was winding tighter with every pass of his fingers.

"Open your damn eyes," he commanded sharply.

You forced your eyes open, vision swimming. He was watching you with an intensity that was almost frightening, like he was dissecting you.

"There she is," he said softly, though the smugness in his voice remained. "Damn, are you actually gonna let me get you off just by talkin’ to you?" He laughed, a breathy sound against your neck. "That’s fuckin' hilarious."

"Shut up," you whimpered, hips bucking involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of that friction, more of that pressure that was threatening to send you over the edge. You didn't care about his taunts anymore; you just needed him to keep going.

"Make me," he challenged, pulling his hand away slightly, denying you what you most wanted.

You let out a frustrated cry, hand flying out to grab his wrist, trying to force him back, but he was too strong. He held his ground, his fingers hovering at a cruel, teasing distance.

"Ask nicely," he said, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"No."

"Guess we're done here." He started to pull his hand out of your pants, the loss of warmth making you shiver.

"Wait," you blurted out, hating yourself for giving in. He stopped, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting.

"Go on," he prompted, his fingers twitching against your skin.

"Please," you gritted out, the word tasting like defeat.

"Please what?" He leaned in closer, his breath hot on your ear. "Please touch you? Please make you come? Or please call you my little princess?"

Gator emphasized the last word, his tone dripping with sarcasm, but as he said it, his hand was already effortlessly back into place and resuming that devastating pace. You groaned, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder, unable to hold yourself up anymore as the pleasure washed over you.

"Yeah, that's it," he crooned, his voice almost gentle now, though the undercurrent of mockery was still there. "Take it. Doin’ so good for me."

Gator’s free hand came up to grip your jaw, tilting your head back so he could look at you again. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded with his own arousal, but the triumph in them was unmistakable. He owned you in this moment, and he knew it.

"You're so desperate," he whispered, his gaze dropping to watch his hand moving inside your sweats. "You really are my sweet girl, aren'tcha? So fuckin’ needy for me."

The combination of his voice in your ear, the grip on your jaw, and the relentless movement of his fingers was too much. The coil in your stomach snapped, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. You cried out, your body arching off the wall. Gator worked you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking, your breath ragged. When you finally slumped against him, spent, he didn't pull away immediately. He kept his hand where it was, feeling the aftershocks rippling through you, a smug satisfaction radiating off him.

"Well," he said, pulling his hand out slowly a few minutes later, the movement deliberate and lingering. He held your gaze as he brought his fingers up to his mouth, tasting you. "Think we found a winner."

You stared at him, your chest heaving and face burning. "You're an asshole, Gator."

"Yeah," he agreed, wiping his hand on his jeans with a casual disregard that made your flush deepen. "But I'm your asshole. And you know you loved it."

He leaned in, pressing a quick, hard kiss to your lips, stealing your breath before you could formulate a retort.

"So, sweet girl it is?" Gator asked, backing away with a grin that said he already knew the answer.

"Go to hell," you muttered, sliding down the wall until your ass hit the floor, your legs feeling like jelly.

"Awe, boo-hoo. I'll pick you up later," he winked, stepping over your discarded book and heading back to the couch like nothing had happened. "We ain't done watching the show."

You sat on the floor for a minute, letting your heart rate settle while Gator reclaimed his spot, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He kicked his legs up on the coffee table once more, exuding a cocky confidence that made your blood boil - in the best way, but still. He thought he’d won. He thought he was the one in control here.

Pushing yourself off the floor, you smoothed down your sweatpants, wincing slightly at the lingering sensitivity. You walked over to the couch and stood right in front of the TV, blocking his view.

"Move it," he complained. "You make a better door than a window."

You ignored him, straddling his lap before he could react. He grunted in surprise, his hands automatically coming to rest on your hips, but you caught his wrists, wrenching them away from your body and pinning them against the back of the couch.

"Whoa there,” he laughed, looking up at you with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. "What's this? Round two?"

"Something like that," you murmured, leaning down so your face was only an inch or two from his. "You played your game, Gator. Now we're playing mine."

"Oh?" He challenged, though you felt his muscles tense under your grip. He wasn't used to being on this side of the pin. "What’dya want?"

"Remember how you said couples need nicknames?" You traced the line of his jaw with one hand, your touch light and teasing. "I think we need to find one for you, too."

Gator scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I ain't the sweetheart type."

"Didn't think you were," you agreed. You shifted your hips, grinding down against him experimentally as you released his writers. His breath hitched, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But everyone has a button, Gator. And I’m gonna find yours."

"Yeah, good luck with that," he smirked, trying to regain his composure, though you could feel him twitching beneath you. "I'm a simple man."

"We'll see." You leaned in, brushing your lips against his neck, right over the rapid pulse point. "How about... Cowboy?" You whispered, letting the word hang in the air.

He groaned, but it was a sound of annoyance rather than pleasure. "Don't start that shit. My old man called me that as a kid. Kills the mood."

"Noted." You moved lower, nipping at his collarbone. "How about... Handsome?"

"What am I, goin’ to my first communion? Are you my grandma?”

"Okay big guy?" You felt his stomach muscles contract as you laughed softly against his skin. "Tough guy?"

"You're runnin’ out of steam, sweetheart," he taunted, though his grip on your hips tightened, pulling you closer. "Just admit it, you can't fluster me."

You pulled back to look him in the eye, a slow smile spreading across your face. You could see the challenge in his brown eyes, the arrogance that made you want to wipe that smug look right off his face. You leaned in close, your lips ghosting over his ear, taking your time. You felt him tense up, waiting for the strike.

"Bad boy?"

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into your waist. "That's a given. Try harder."

You shifted again, deliberately rolling your hips against the growing hardness in his jeans. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his head falling back against the couch cushion. You had him now; you just had to find the right key.

"Daddy?" you suggested, dragging the word out.

"Absolutely not," he choked out, his eyes flying open. "Christ. Don't ever fuckin' say that again. Weirds me out."

"Okay, okay," you soothed, secretly relieved because you didn’t want to have to call him that.

You ran your hands down his chest, feeling the way his heart was beating against his ribs. He was affected, more than he wanted to admit. He liked the chase, but he wasn't used to being the prey.

Then, a thought struck you. All the times you'd seen him with his dad, the way he sought approval, the way he bristled at authority but secretly craved some direction. You thought about the way he looked at you sometimes, like he wanted you to tell him what to do. He talked a big game, but you knew he’d secretly do anything to see a trace of happiness from you.

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to think. "You try so hard, don't you? Always acting out, always making noise." You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. "But I know what you really are."

"Yeah?" he rasped, his voice rough and husky. "And what's that?"

You moved your mouth to his other ear, tugging at his earlobe lightly with your teeth before your voice dropped to a whisper that was barely audible.

"My good boy."

The reaction was instantaneous. Gator froze, his entire body going rigid beneath you. A sound tore from his throat - half-groan, half-whimper - and his eyes squeezed shut as if he’d been struck with dizziness. You felt him twitch violently against your core, his hardness pressing up against you, undeniable and sudden.

"Awe, you alright there, Gator?" You pulled back to see his face. He was flushed - lips parted and chest heaving. When he opened his eyes, the pupils were blown so wide the chocolatey color was just a thin rim. He looked utterly wrecked, and it delighted you.

"Say it again," he breathed, voice cracking.

You whispered the words once more, watching him shiver.

"Fuck," he hissed, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he pressed several kisses against you.

"Oh, you like that?" you teased, though you were secretly thrilled by how easily he’d crumbled. You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching his nails lightly against his scalp, and he practically purred. "You like being my good boy?"

"Y-yeah," he admitted, the word muffled against your neck. He was practically nuzzling into you, seeking friction, completely abandoning his earlier bravado. "I like it."

"That's because you are, aren't you?" you cooed, tightening your grip in his hair and pulling his head back so he had to look at you. "Deep down. All that attitude. Your gun and badge... But you just want to be told you're doing good, dontcha?”

He stared up at you, his eyes wide and glassy, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a desperate, pleading need that made your stomach flip. The power rush was intoxicating. You’d never seen him like this - pliable, eager, submissive. It was like finding a secret weapon.

"I am," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm good. I'll be so good for you."

His hands scrambled for purchase on your hips, his grip bruising as he tried to pull you down harder, but you held back, keeping the pace maddeningly slow.

"Please," he whimpered, actually whimpered. The sound went straight to your core. "Please let me..."

"Let you what?" You asked, enjoying the way he was squirming beneath you.

"Touch you," he gasped. "Fuck you. Don’t care. Anythin’. Just... Say it again."

You leaned down, kissing him deeply, swallowing his moan. When you pulled back, you brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

"Good boy," you whispered.

It shows in ways no one else seems to notice. In the way his eyes find the rearview mirror more often than they need to, in the split-second pauses where his attention lingers just a fraction too long when you’re talking or laughing or simply being before snapping back to the road. 

In the small, quiet adjustments: turning the music down when you start talking, remembering things you said hours ago when no one else was listening, asking if you’re okay like it’s second nature.

No one else sees it—or if they do, they don’t understand it.

To them, it’s just Steve—driving, talking, half-laughing at whatever chaos fills the van, slipping easily into the caretaker role he’s known for so well.

To you—

it’s something else entirely.

Because you see it from the only place that matters.

The rearview mirror.

You've just endured yet another failed crawl, another round of your brother and Steve at each other’s throats over something stupid, another stretch of hours spent pretending—carefully, convincingly—that there’s nothing between you.

Like you don’t go home to him.

Like you don’t spend your nights tangled up in each other. 

You’re not really part of the conversation anymore. Not fully.

You watch the mirror.

It’s an easy thing to do, subtle enough to pass as nothing. Everyone looks forward when they talk, glances toward the driver without thinking. It doesn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t.

Steve’s eyes flick up as he checks the road, quick, automatic. They pass over everything like they always do—windshield, side mirror—rearview.

You.

It’s nothing. Over as soon as it happens, his attention already back where it should be—hands steady on the wheel, one thumb tapping lightly to the music. 

You look away anyway.

The van lurches slightly as he makes a sharp left, and Eddie groans from somewhere behind you about reckless endangerment, immediately followed by Dustin arguing that he could drive better, which is objectively untrue and loudly proven so. The noise fills the space easily, naturally, giving you something to hide inside.

When you glance back up, it’s just the mirror again.

Just Steve, driving.

Just the road behind you.

It stays like that for a while. Nothing sticks. His eyes flick up every so often, brief, functional, never lingering long enough to call attention to it.

Except once.

It’s small. Easy to miss if you’re not already looking.

And this time, when his gaze catches yours in the mirror, it holds for a fraction longer than it should. Just long enough for something in your chest to tighten before you can stop it.

You drop your gaze.

“Oi, you even listening?” Dustin nudges your shoulder from beside you, halfway through some explanation you definitely missed.

“Yeah,” you say, because it’s easier than asking him to repeat it and having to hear him complain about you not listening the first time. He accepts it immediately, because why wouldn’t he? You're his sister you wouldn’t lie to him… would you? 

You don’t look at the mirror again for a few minutes after that. You tell yourself you won’t, that it doesn’t matter. It would be easier if you could believe that.

When you do look again, it’s not by accident. The van idles at a red light, everything briefly stilled.

His eyes are already there. Not waiting, he’s not that obvious, but not surprised either. Like he expected it, like he knew you would eventually look back.

Something settles between you—quiet, thin, sharp as a pulled thread.

It’s not accidental anymore.

The moment stretches, too long, too quiet before Steve blinks and glances back at the road after the light turns green. His fingers flex around the wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly before relaxing again. 

The next few times, you feel it before you see it—the way his posture shifts, the almost-imperceptible pause before his gaze lifts. You start catching it as it happens, like you’ve both fallen into the same rhythm. 

Eddie leans forward between the front seats, oblivious as always, cutting off your line of sight. “Okay, but if we’re dropping off Dustin first, does that mean we’re swinging back toward the video store after? Because I told Gareth I’d—”

Steve cuts him off with a sharp click of his tongue. "No, we are not swinging back toward the video store. Drop-off order is Henderson, then Robin, then you—" His fingers tighten on the wheel again, briefly. "Then home." 

Dustin groans, flopping back against the seat hard enough to make a loud thud. "That’s literally the opposite of efficient," he mutters, but Eddie just laughs, kicking his feet up onto the centre console. 

You turn your head toward the window, watching the streetlights smear past in long, soft streaks.

The third time your eyes catch in the mirror, it’s different. There’s not an inch of pretence left—just the raw, aching want that’s been building for days, simmering beneath every careful glance and casual touch. 

Steve’s grip tightens on the wheel, his jaw ticking. You bite your lip, pressing your thighs together under Eddie’s discarded jacket. The van suddenly feels too small. The air thick with something unspoken.

The way the last week has stretched too long, crowded out by work and obligations and too many people in too many rooms—every almost-moment cut short.

Not just in the quiet, passing way but in the kind that sits low and constant, a dull ache that flares sharp every time he looks at you like this.

When you glance up and catch him already looking at you, his expression softening in a way that makes you blush, you know he’s thinking the same thing you are—God, I miss you. 

But it has to stay like this. Contained to stolen glances and half-seconds no one else notices.

Not now—not when Hawkins is closed off to the outside world, when Max lies in a hospital bed with machines doing the breathing she can’t, not when your brother and Steve can barely be in the same room without something snapping tight between them.

And still—you look anyway.

Robin’s voice cuts through your inner spiral. “Uh, hello? Earth to Steve?” She snaps her fingers in front of his face, and he jerks his attention back to the road with a muttered curse.

“You just missed Henderson’s street,” she points out, rolling her eyes. “Jesus, what’s with you tonight?”

Steve exhales through his nose before flashing Robin a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Sorry, Buckley. Too busy admiring you." 

Robin groans, kicking the back of his seat. "Gross. Try that line on someone who hasn’t seen you eat an entire bag of Cheetos in one go.”

Your eyes flick up before you can stop them, catching his in the mirror. There’s the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth, something quieter, softer than the grin he just gave her.

Because you have.

And it still worked.

And it would again. Without a doubt and without shame. 

Dustin makes a show of gathering his backpack, deliberately slow, like he’s hoping someone will argue for him to stay.

The van idles outside your house, the engine a low, impatient rumble beneath Steve’s tapping fingers. "You know," Dustin starts, shifting in his seat to face Steve, "if you just—" 

"Nope," Steve cuts him off, popping the p with a finality that brooks no argument. "Out."

Dustin squints at him, then suspiciously glances over at you. “Wait—aren’t you getting out?”

You don’t hesitate. “No. I’m staying at my boyfriend’s tonight.”

“Oooh,” Robin leans forward immediately, interest sparked. “The mystery boyfriend.”

“Still haven’t met this guy,” Eddie adds, dragging the words out, grinning. “Starting to think he’s made up.”

Dustin looks at you, completely clueless. “Yeah, seriously. Who even is—”

Your eyes flick up automatically—to the mirror.

Steve’s hand drags across his mouth like he’s trying to hide it— but it doesn’t quite work. The hint of a smirk still there, still tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shoot him a quick glare.

He clears his throat, the smirk disappearing just as quickly as it came, his expression snapping back into something neutral— a little too neutral—but luckily Eddie and Robin are too busy arguing and Dustin is too busy sulking.

“Door, Henderson.” He jerks his head toward it, already reaching to unlock it, tone a little too sharp to be casual.

Dustin huffs but climbs out anyway, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Fine, fine, but—” he mutters, but the door shuts in his face.

Not even half a second later—

Steve’s pulling away.

Dustin’s muttering fades behind you, swallowed up by the hum of the engine and the quiet stretch of road ahead. For a second, no one fills it.

Then—

“Okay,” Robin says, twisting in her seat to look at you properly now, eyes narrowing with interest. “We’re circling back to that. You can’t keep just casually dropping boyfriend like that and expect me to let it go.”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah, no, I’m with Buckley on this one. You’ve been holding out on us.”

You shrug, aiming for nonchalant, even as your gaze flicks—just briefly—to the mirror again. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Steve doesn’t look up this time. His fingers tap once against the wheel. Then again—restless, giving him away if either of them bothered to look.

But they don’t.

They’re too busy dissecting you; every micro-expression under a microscope.

“Maybe he’s shy,” Eddie offers, to which Robin hums deep in thought. “Or imaginary. I’m still leaning imaginary.”

You huff out something that might pass for a laugh, shaking your head. “You guys are so dramatic.”

“Name,” Robin presses. “At least give me a name.”

There’s a pause.

You could say anything. Instead, you glance up again.

This time, Steve’s already looking.

It’s quick, barely there, but it lands all the same, something sharp and knowing passing between you before he looks back to the road like nothing happened, though you can tell by his fingers tapping against the wheel that he’s nervous.

Your stomach flips.

“Not happening,” you say, a little too quickly.

Robin groans, dropping back into her seat. “You’re the worst.”

“Agreed,” Eddie adds easily. “Absolutely no respect for your audience.”

The van slows as you turn onto Robin’s street, the familiar line of houses coming into view. Steve pulls up to the curb, shifting the van into park, but leaves the engine running.

Robin unbuckles, still eyeing you. “This isn’t over,” she points, narrowing her eyes like she means it. “I will find out.”

You smile, all innocence. “Good luck.”

She huffs, grabbing her bag and sliding the door open. “Night, losers.”

“Night, Buckley,” Steve calls, easy again, matching her salute.  

The door shuts and Steve doesn’t wait a second. The van lurches forward as he pulls away, a little too quick, tires crunching against the curb before he straightens out onto the road.

Eddie leans forward immediately, filling the space she leaves behind. “Alright, so...new theory. Secret boyfriend is either—”

“Munson,” Steve cuts in, sharper this time, not looking back. “You’re next.”

Eddie pauses, then grins slowly. “Touchy tonight, Harrington.”

Steve’s jaw tenses; just a fraction, barely noticeable unless you’ve spent months memorising his face. Which you have. 

Eddie catches it too, because of course he does. His gaze slides from Steve to you, eyebrows lifting in a slow, exaggerated arc that screams get a load of this guy.

You press your lips together, forcing a small, careful smile—just enough to play along. Eddie just grins wider, completely oblivious to the tightness in your smile, like he’s won something.

Your eyes flick up to the mirror before you can stop yourself—just in time to catch Steve’s gaze already fixed there, his expression tight with something halfway between frustration and exhaustion. You press your lips together in a silent apology, tilting your head slightly.

The effect is immediate: his shoulders drop an inch, the tension around his eyes softening as he exhales through his nose. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—small, private, just for you—and you bite your cheek to keep from grinning back like an idiot. 

“—which, by the way,” Eddie cuts back in, louder, still oblivious, “if he is imaginary, that raises a much bigger question... where the hell are you going every night?”

He leans forward further, fully invested now. “Because I’m thinking... option one, you’ve got some secret hideout. Like, full spy setup. Code names. Rendezvous points.”

“Option two,” he continues, ticking it off on his fingers, “you’re actually sneaking off to join some underground fight club we don’t know about.”

“Option three—” he squints at you, grin widening, while holding up four fingers instead of three, “you’re a vampire. Which, honestly, would explain the mystery, the nighttime disappearances—”

“Fight club,” Steve cuts in casually, like he’s barely listening, eyes fixed on the road. “That one tracks.”

You blink. “What?”

Eddie lights up. “See! Thank you!”

You turn toward Steve fully now, incredulous. “You think I’m sneaking off to fight people?”

Steve glances up, catching your eye in the mirror. There’s a hint of a smirk there, soft around the edges, his gaze warmer than anything he’s letting on out loud.

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t rule it out.”

You stare at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

That only makes it worse. The smirk lingers, quieter now, softer—something just for you. Something that makes heat curl low in your stomach.

Eddie groans dramatically, flopping backwards. “Oh my god, you two are the worst. I’m trying to solve a mystery here.”

Steve shifts gears, turning onto Eddie’s street. The van slows, rolling to a stop outside the familiar trailer. Eddie doesn’t move.

Steve sighs, drumming his fingers against the wheel. “Munson.”

Eddie huffs. “Fine, fine but this conversation isn’t over.” He grabs his bag, swinging the door open, pointing at you just like Robin did earlier. “I will crack this case.”

“Uh huh,” Steve deadpans. “Good luck with that.”

The door shuts, finally, and Eddie’s silhouette disappears into the dim porch light. The van idles for a second longer, the hum of the engine the only sound left in the sudden quiet.

Steve pulls away, quick, turning the corner before slowing again. Just out of sight.

Then—he stops. 

Steve exhales like he’s been holding it in all night, before reaching forward and turning the key. The engine cuts off abruptly, plunging you into silence.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then—he turns.

Not to the mirror. 

Fully.

His hand comes out first, finding your waist like it’s instinct, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. His voice is lower, stripped of everything he’s been holding in.

“Come here.”

You don’t hesitate. You never do—not with him.

You scramble over the centre console, your elbow hitting the horn with a sharp honk. Steve swears under his breath and grabs your waist, hauling you fully into his lap.

His hands press into your sides and squeeze. You exhale shakily, forehead dropping to his, fingers twisting into his shirt.

“Missed you,” his words rough against your lips, barely audible.

You huff a soft laugh, breath catching. "You've been with me all day."

Steve exhales against your neck, the warmth sending a shiver down your spine, his lips brushing just below your ear—not quite a kiss, just the ghost of one—before he murmurs, “not like this,” and you smile, fingers curling tighter in his hair.

"Haven’t been able to hold you. Kiss you." His thumb brushes the bare strip of skin where your shirt’s ridden up. 

You sigh, letting the week settle between you. His hair is soft between your fingers, longer than he usually keeps it, falling just past his ears in messy waves. You push it back gently, curling a few strands behind his ear, your thumb brushing the sharp line of his jaw.

He leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly before flickering back open, dark and intent. 

“Missed you too,” you murmur, a small, soft smile pulling at your mouth.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice rough. "Every time I looked in that damn mirror—"

He exhales, shaking his head once. “—couldn’t think about anything else.”

His mouth crashes into yours. Your breath catches as your fingers tighten in his hair and he pulls you closer. His tongue brushes against your lower lip, and you part for him instinctively, letting him deepen the kiss until you’re breathless, until the world narrows to the heat of his mouth and the scrape of his faint stubble against your chin.

“Wanted to just stop the car—jump over the damn console,” Steve murmurs against your lips, hands dragging down to grip your thighs. 

"Don’t think Dustin would’ve appreciated that,” you murmur, struggling not to smile against Steve’s lips, breathless, fingers still tangled in his hair.

Steve huffs—a sharp, impatient sound—and pulls back just enough to fix you with a look. Equal parts exasperation and fondness.

"Don’t talk about Henderson when—" He drags you forward until you’re straddling him properly, and you chuckle, arching into him as his lips find the curve of your neck.

"Say more," you murmur, tipping your head back to give him better access, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. "Tell me what you would’ve done, baby." 

Steve exhales against your pulse; he loves baby, or really any nickname as long as it's from you. "Would’ve pushed you into the backseat where no one could fucking see—" His grip tightens. "Told you to keep quiet while I got my mouth on you."

You pull in a sharp breath when his palm presses firm between your legs, the friction sudden through the thin fabric of your jeans. His grin is wicked against your throat, all sharp edges and barely contained frustration.

"Wouldn’t have been gentle," he adds, nipping at your jaw. "Not after all of this time of you making me wait.”

Heat curls low in your stomach as his hand presses harder, fingers just enough to make your breath hitch and then he’s kissing you again, deep and messy, his teeth catching your lower lip when you gasp.

His other hand fists in the back of your shirt, dragging you closer, until you’re grinding down against him, the friction unbearable and perfect all at once. 

"What’s stopping you?" you murmur against his jaw, pulling back just enough to smirk at him: a challenge, a dare, the kind that’s been simmering between you for days. 

One he takes immediately. You barely have time to blink before he’s moving you off his lap, one arm looping around your waist to steady you as you scramble to move over the centre console.

Your knee catches the gearshift and he swears under his breath—not at you, never at you—just frustration as he steadies you.

The van’s rear bench creaks as Steve guides you back onto it, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs.

The mirror rattles faintly with the movement, still angled from before; no longer catching your eyes, just the shape of you, close enough to blur together. 

You laugh—a breathless, giddy sound—as he follows you, pulling you with him until you're on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, his back pressed into the seat. The impact knocks the air from his lungs in a quiet huff, but he doesn't let go, fingers digging into your waist like he's afraid you'll vanish if he loosens his grip for even a second.

"Watch the—ah, shit—" Steve grunts when your elbow jabs into his ribs, but he's grinning, all sharp teeth and boyish delight. His laugh is warm against your neck as you shift your weight, grinding down just to feel his hips jerk under you.

"Christ—"

His hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he pulls you into another kiss, slower this time. You feel his tongue drag against yours, unhurried, fingers tangling in your hair as he tugs—pulling a soft whimper from you, your back arching into him.

Something digs into your calf and you break away with a grimace, twisting to glare at the culprit: a half-crushed soda can wedged between the seat cushions. Steve follows your gaze, blinking dazedly for a second before snorting.

"Classy," he mutters, swiping it up one-handed and chucking it toward the front without looking. His attention snaps back to you, hands sliding down to grip your hips as he pulls you flush against him.

The space is too cramped, but that doesn't matter when he finds the curve of your collarbone, teeth scraping lightly before his tongue smooths it over.

“Time to swap places, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, hands already guiding you back—not asking, just moving you.

You go willingly, letting him shift you down onto your back against the bench, his body following until he’s settled between your legs, braced over you.

His hands don’t stop. Fingers quick at your jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. You arch off the seat when he hooks his thumbs into the waistband, dragging them down your hips along with your panties in one smooth motion. The fabric catches at your ankles, and Steve huffs out a frustrated sound before kicking them aside.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his gaze dragging over you before he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh.

“Missed this,” he adds, voice low, before dipping his head again.

When his kisses move higher, your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging lightly in warning. Steve chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat through you, but he slows instead. Pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh; his breath hot, his stubble scraping just enough to make you bite your lip.

Steve notices anyway. His grip tightens on your hips, pinning you in place as he finally presses a kiss where you need him most. 

You pull in a sharp breath, arching off the seat but he holds you down, his tongue flicking against you once, twice—before settling into a rhythm that has your toes curling.

His fingers dig into your hips as he works, keeping you right where he wants you. His free hand slides up your waist, fingers spreading over your ribs before moving higher, thumb brushing over your chest in a slow pass.

The next stroke pulls a sharp breath from you, your fingers twisting in his hair hard enough to make him groan. “Jesus—” The word punches out, half-broken. 

The moment his hands slide under your shirt, tugging at the fabric like it’s personally offended him, you know this isn’t going to be slow.

His fingers skim the bare skin of your waist, sending a shiver up your spine, and then he’s pushing the material up, up, until you have to lift your arms to let him peel it off completely. 

The van’s windows are fogged, the street outside quiet, but the risk—the possibility of being heard, of someone passing by—only sharpens everything, coiling tighter in your stomach.

Steve’s grip tightens, pressing into your skin as he drags his tongue over you again, slower, savoring it. You feel his smirk when your hips jerk.

“Like that?” he murmurs, breath hot, voice rough with satisfaction. 

You don’t get a chance to answer before he’s back on you. Your thighs tremble around him, heels digging into the seat as you try, and fail, to keep still. Steve hums low, as his fingers slide down and press inside, curling oh so right.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, lips brushing with every word. His free hand slides up your stomach, skimming over your ribs to palm your breast, thumb brushing your nipple in slow, lazy circles.

The moment you feel it building—that coiled, inevitable pressure low in your stomach—you know he knows. His tongue flattens against you, dragging over your clit before circling it with just the right amount of pressure. 

Your breath snaps in, your back arching off the seat, fingers twisting in his hair hard enough to make him groan but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, lips sealing around you as his fingers curl just right inside you. 

Your thighs clamp around his head, heels digging into the seat as you tip over the edge with a muffled cry, fingers tugging at his hair. Steve doesn’t let up, working you through it with steady strokes of his tongue until you’re squirming, breathless.

You drag him up by his hair—gentle but insistent—his lips parting against yours before he’s even fully pulled away from your thighs. He goes willingly, letting you guide him, his mouth warm and slick as it meets yours, the taste of yourself faint on his tongue.

His hands slide up your sides, steadying himself against the wobble of the van’s bench seat, but you don’t let him linger there. You catch his wrists, pushing them down as you lean up to nip at his lower lip. 

Steve exhales sharply through his nose, letting you manhandle him, his pulse jumping under your fingers as you trail them down his arms. His shirt is wrinkled from the drive, the fabric sticking to his skin in places where the summer heat clung to him all day.

You hook a finger into the collar, dragging him closer as your other hand finds the hem, pushing it up over his stomach—slow, teasing, your nails scraping lightly along his skin.

Steve shivers when you tug the fabric over his head, breath catching as you toss it aside. You lean back just enough to smirk at him, watching his throat bob. 

"Still overdressed," you murmur, fingers skating down his chest to the button of his jeans.

Steve exhales sharply when your fingers finally undo his jeans, the button popping open. His breath hitches when you drag the zipper down slowly, the sound unbearably loud in the quiet of the van. He leans in, chasing your mouth again, but you tilt your head back—denying him with a grin.

His hands tighten on your hips, fingers pressing into skin still humming from his touch, and you finally take pity on him. Leaning up to catch his lower lip between your teeth, tugging lightly before soothing it with a slow kiss.

The moment Steve presses you back against the seat, his weight settling between your thighs, something shifts. The frenetic energy between you softening into something deeper.

His hips slot against yours with a familiarity that steals your breath, skin warm and damp where your chests press together as he braces on one forearm, the other hand sliding up to cradle your jaw—thumb brushing your cheekbone, soft against the force of his kiss.

"You ready, honey?" Steve murmurs against your temple, his voice ragged with restraint as his fingers trace idle patterns down your bare thigh. 

You nod. The van's bench seat creaks under your shifting weight, the leather warm against your back. Steve hesitates, his palm hovering over your hip, giving you one last chance to change your mind. One you’d never take.

You arch up into his touch, your fingers finding the familiar notch at the base of his spine, pulling him down until there's no space left between you. 

The first slow press of his hips draws a ragged exhale from both of you. Steve's forehead dropping to yours with a quiet thump, his breath hitching when you tilt your hips up to meet him. 

"Christ," he breathes, voice wrecked already, fingers tightening on your waist as he sinks deeper.

The stretch burns in the best way, familiar and perfect, and you dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, urging him closer. Steve groans in your ear, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he catches himself, forcing himself to slow back down.

His lips find yours again—softer this time, lingering—as he begins to move in earnest, each rolling thrust punctuated by the quiet catch of his breath against your mouth.

You can feel every shift of muscle beneath his skin, every tremor he tries to suppress when your nails scrape down his back. The rhythm builds between you, steady and sure, until the only sounds left are the creak of the seat and your breaths catching between kisses.

"Sweetheart," he breathes against your mouth, the endearment frayed at the edges, his hips rolling in a slow, maddening rhythm that has your fingers digging into his shoulders. "You feel that? How good you take me?"

His voice drops to something lower, rougher, as he drags his lips along your jaw. "How fucking perfect you are?" 

You drag your nails down his back, arching into him and that’s all it takes for his restraint to snap. His pace turning frantic as his hands slide up to cradle your face, kissing you messy and uncoordinated. 

"Love you," he whispers between kisses, the words muffled but unmistakable, each syllable pressed into your skin like a prayer. 

"Love you so mu—" His hips jerk forward once, twice, his whole body shuddering as he comes with a quiet, broken sound against your lips.

You follow him over the edge not even a second later: his thumb brushing your clit just right, his hips still rolling against yours in slow, uneven circles as he draws it out. The pleasure crests sharp and sudden, stealing your breath, your fingers twisting in his hair as you bury your face against his shoulder to muffle the cry that punches out of you.

Steve stays there for a second, his forehead pressed to your shoulder—your fingers still tangled in his hair, softer now, absent-minded, grounding instead of grasping. The van is quiet again.

No voices. No chaos. 

Just the two of you.

Steve exhales before finally shifting, easing himself out of you like even that feels like too much distance. His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing idly against your skin.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

You hum in response, eyes still half-lidded, not quite ready to move.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder—then your collarbone, your chin, your nose—soft, lingering, one after the other until a quiet laugh slips out of you. 

And for a second—

he just looks at you.

And you at him—eyes free now, unhurried, able to take each other in without interruption, without your noisy friends, without your too-smart-for-his-own-good brother hovering somewhere between you. Just this—clear, open, yours. 

Your hand drifts from his hair to his cheek, thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. “You okay?” you murmur.

A quiet huff of a laugh leaves him, softer than usual. “Yeah,” he says. Then, quieter—“I’m okay, Honey. You?”

You smile, nodding once and he mirrors it without thinking.

Neither of you rush to move.

Eventually, Steve shifts again, easing off you so he can reach blindly toward the front seat, fumbling for something—his jacket, a discarded shirt, anything within reach.

He comes back with his jacket a second later, draping it over you without a word. Then he settles beside you, close—so close he barely leaves any space at all.

You follow without thinking, tucking into his chest, your hand slipping to idly play with the soft hair there.

He huffs out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh, his chin tipping down toward you, something warm and easy settling into his expression.

“So…” he starts, a little smug. “Round two?”

You glance up at him, catching the look on his face—all cheeky, self-satisfied, like he already knows the answer and just wants to hear you say it anyway.

You flick his chin lightly.

“Shut up.”

In the same breath you add—“I love you.”

His arm tightens around you, pulling you in properly this time, his cheek brushing against your hair as you settle into him. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, softer now. You nod against his chest. 

And then, after a beat, like he couldn’t possibly not say it back—

“I love you too.”

You settle into him, his arm wrapped warm around you. Conversation drift—slow, easy, about nothing at all—your fingers tracing absent patterns as his thumb moves idly against your arm.

Your gaze lifts without thinking, catching on the rearview mirror where it’s still angled from before.

For a second, you don’t even realise you’re looking at it—just the shape of the van behind you, the dim blur of the street—

and the two of you in it, the glass faintly fogged with heat, softening the edges, close enough to read as one shape instead of two. His arm around you, your head tucked into him.

You don’t say anything.

You just let your eyes drop again, your hand sliding back across his chest as he pulls you a little closer, his fingers sweeping through your hair, his mouth lingering at your forehead like there’s nowhere else he wants to be but right here—with you, in the back of this van.

P.S. Hi 👋🏼... okay bye 👋🏼