ur mom jokes are still funny

It's 1995 and you haven't seen Steve since your graduation ten years prior. You were both athletes in high school, you on the swim team all four years, while he changed to basketball for a change of pace (you suspected that his hair was too important to his image and the chlorine wouldn't be conducive to that).

You'd had a casual thing back in junior and senior year—kind of dating, mostly hooking up in the locker room after school because he had a car and you didn't have to take the late bus if Steve drove you home after you showered together after practice. Showered together and then some.

It's 1995 and what you remember of him is his swim-team-slender-hips-basketball-player-slutty-short-shorts physique.

After graduation, you moved for school on the east coast, but you had his phone number scrawled in your yearbook like a promise, one you never really kept. You called him a few times after you'd moved, mostly to give him your new phone numbers (home, which was permanent, and school, which was not) and to see if phone sex interested either of you (it didn't, but you did it anyway, because you had the privacy of a dorm room and he had his parents' house that they never spent time in).

It's 1995, and you're returning to Hawkins for your 10 year high school reunion, mostly because Steve had found your parents' number scrawled on some piece of paper he'd found tucked away in his desk, left a message on the answering machine about it, and your mother had called you in a tizzy about how you should absolutely go back and see that cute Harrington boy again.

Steve was cute, and he'd been a decent lay when you were both 17 and inexperienced, but you'd grown up a lot since high school. You could still see him in your mind: Athletic, thin build, mile-high hair, that absent yet pointed expression he always wore. Cute, but something you'd left in the past. You were a woman now. Interested in bigger, better men.

It's 1995 and you're back in Hawkins High's gym, staring down Steve Harrington like he's your next goddamn meal. Because he is most certainly a bigger, better man.

You couldn't have been more wrong if you'd tried to be. Not only was he no longer a scrawny 17-year-old (which, if you'd thought about it for more than 10 seconds, you'd have realized was obviously going to happen), but he had filled out since high school. He looked much broader, he looked good. Solid. Like he could actually pick you up and fuck you in the shower stall in the locker room like you both used to joke about, because he wasn't strong enough to try it so you had to make it into a humorous fantasy.

&&

He spotted you from by the refreshment table and did a double-take. You hadn't really spoken in years—he'd left that message on your parents' machine and you didn't call him back, though you were wondering if maybe you should have because he was staring blankly at you while Robin Buckley had her arm looped through his on one side and Nancy Wheeler's on the other. Steve tried to pull his arm out of Robin's hold, but she just tightened it on him. He tugged at her arm again and said something this time; and then Robin and Nancy were looking at you too, and Robin immediately dropped his arm, stepping closer to Nancy, who smiled at you apologetically.

Steve said something else to them—it was impossible to know what in the din of the gymnasium, and Robin opened her mouth to reply, but Nancy was quicker. She said something, nodded, and then reached across Robin to touch Steve's arm, nudging him a little.

You watched as he dodged a group of your old classmates walking past, then sidled up to you with an utterly calm demeanor, like he hadn't (according to your mom) expressed how desperately he was hoping to see you at the reunion.

“Hey,” he said, raising his voice a little over the loud music playing the songs of your youth, top hits from the 70s and 80s, blaring through the speakers like you were at prom.

“Hi,” you said, looking up at him. Then, because you couldn't resist teasing him at least a little, you said, “My mom gave me your message.”

He laughed, but did look just a little embarrassed. “Would you believe me if I said the Class of '85 Student Body Council asked me to call all the out-of-towners?” He sipped his drink.

You considered it. “No.”

He smiled, self-deprecating. “Smart girl.” He looked you over, or started to, letting his eyes drop to about your collarbones, exposed in your low-cut blouse, before returning his eyes to your face. “Always were.”

“You say that like academics were either of our strong suit,” you said.

“Hey, you got into college, and I teach sex ed here now,” Steve said, leaning a little closer to you, ignoring your look of bemusement. “But no. I meant because you were smart enough to be my girl in high school.”

That was the Steve Harrington you remembered, cocky and self-assured. “I wasn't your girl. I think we went on two real dates,” you said.

“Sex in my car counts,” Steve said. “We used to go get milkshakes after. My treat.”

“You did buy me a lot of milkshakes,” you conceded. You looked him over—this close, you could see he was just as handsome as he always had been; the years had been pretty good to him. You decided to try and press your luck. “You buying them for anyone else these days?”

He laughed. “Not really,” he said. You cocked your head to the side, giving him, rather obviously, the up and the down, lips parting a little. When your eyes met his again, he was smirking. “You still like a late-night milkshake?”

“I mean, if you're offering,” you replied, and he laughed, jerking his head to the side to indicate you should follow him.

You didn’t quite make it out of the school before you had a better idea than ice cream. Your escape route took you right past the door to the locker rooms, and you grabbed Steve’s arm to pull him back.

“Wait,” you said.

“What?” he asked, tucking himself closer to you like this was a covert op—which maybe at this point it was.

“Forget the milkshakes,” you said. “Let’s go swimming.” You could already smell the pool from where you stood, the sour-sweet scent of chlorine permeating the locker room doors.

He grinned at you, but then it fell from his face. “I don’t have a suit.”

“And I do?” you countered. “Come on, before someone catches us.” You grabbed his blazer by the lapel and steered him into the locker room, giggling the whole time as you bumped the door open and navigated through the rows of lockers, heels clicking on the linoleum floor until you reached the door marked POOL, pushing it open.

You stepped through and reached for Steve, your hand curling into the jacket he wore and pulling him into the room, pulling him closer to you. You had intended to kiss him, lips parted but still smirking a little, coy, like you'd always wanted to be in high school and were probably always a little too overt and excited to pull off, but stopped yourself just short of actually doing it, not wanting it to happen just outside locker room, not yet.

Steve huffed a laugh, looking away for a moment at the calm waters of the pool before turning back to you. His hazel eyes met yours, sparkling a little even in the wan lighting of the setting sun through the high windows, and it was like you were students again, two kids sneaking around to be with each other, because as much fun as you had with each other's bodies, you still lived for the after, the laughing, the stupid milkshakes he would buy you just because you said you wanted one once and then it became your thing. Maybe you were his girl and you just never realized it.

You stepped back from him, stepped toward the pool. The overhead lights that were normally on for swim practice were off, the only illumination coming from the windows, and that was fading as the sun dipped closer to the horizon.

“Wow,” you said. “Looks way different in the dark.”

Steve stepped up beside you, shrugging off his jacket and revealing his actual silhouette, his button-down shirt tucked into his pants. “Scared?”

“Of what? I have lifeguard Steve Harrington here with me.”

“I’m not certified anymore,” he said, loosening his tie now.

You kicked off your heels. “It’s like riding a bike,” you said, unzipping your skirt down the side of your hip but leaving it on. “You don’t forget.”

“Not quite the same,” he said, dropping his tie on top of his jacket, beginning to unbutton his shirt. “But close enough, I guess.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, taking in the way he was watching you, too. His gaze hit you now like it always had back then, heavy and settling deep in you. The anticipation. He’d peeled off his collared shirt now, leaving a white tank top underneath, the neckline revealing just a smattering of chest hair that you didn’t quite remember from high school—swimmer and all that, younger years. Your eyes drifted lower, taking in the slight tummy he had now, and you couldn’t help but smile at it, at Steve. He had been hot back in school—but damn if he wasn’t even hotter now.

You kept your back to him, sure he was still looking at you as you stripped down to your underwear. Your blouse and skirt landed unceremoniously in a pile on top of your shoes, stockings next—you’d not even bother trying to get those back on after swimming—and once you were in just your bra and panties you turned fully to face him.

He was in just his underwear also, a pair of black boxer-briefs that amused you—you’d both opted for dark undergarments, though yours featured a decent amount of lace which left little to the imagination. Steve had crossed his arms in front of him, the slight pooch above the waistband of his briefs earning him another smile from you.

“You look incredible,” Steve said, keeping his eyes on yours for the most part, though you did catch him giving you a once over.

“You should talk,” you said, stepping closer to him, tugging his arms away from his soft body, letting your hands trace over his chest to his shoulders. “You were cute in school, but…”

“But?” Steve asked, leading you, and part of you knew why he was asking, the same part of you that felt insecure and wanted some self-assurance every now and then.

“But what, really? Are you kidding me?” you said, leaning in to him, letting your front press against him as your hands slid down his arms, lacing your fingers through his, wrists twisting together.

“I'm not 17 anymore,” Steve said, holding onto your hands.

“Yeah, thank god,” you joked, tipping your face up to look at him. “You were all scrawny back then.”

His mouth opened in indignance. “I was not!”

You released his hands and placed yours on his chest again, letting them slide down his front to blatantly feel him up, accidentally tickling him a little as you did. “So you agree, you look better now.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but ultimately decided to let it go—you were clearly into his 10-year-older self. “I guess so,” he said, rolling his eyes.

You let your hands settle on his hips, lifting your face to his again; he leaned down, the tip of his nose just brushing yours before you whispered “Race ya,” and then you were gone.

You had a head start, but his legs were a bit longer than yours—still, you managed to cannonball before he did, water splashing onto the concrete deck of the pool, with even more surging over the side as Steve leaped in after you, a loud “Woohoo!” echoing through the still air.

“What, do you want us to get caught?” you shouted upon surfacing, because it didn't really matter anymore, if he was hooting and hollering for anyone to hear.

“Who doesn't love a pool party?” Steve asked, swimming over to you. He swiped his hand back over his hair, water dripping down his temples as he grinned at you. “I mean, come on. This was your idea.”

You treaded water, looking at him. “Yeah, for us, not the entire class.” But you were smiling, trying in vain to keep yourself from laughing, and when his hands found you, pulling you in closer to him, you couldn't hold it back. You laughed at the sheer giddiness of it, of being back in Hawkins, fucking around with Steve the way you always used to, just grown now, more mature, not held back by parents or curfews or inhibitions.

“I was only looking forward to seeing you anyway,” Steve divulged, and you turned in his arms to face him fully, water swirling between you, up onto his chest, your shoulders.

“What about Nancy and—Robin?” He had been linking arms with her.

Steve just chuckled. “I see them enough,” he said. “I worked with Robin for years in different places... Scoops, Family Video, the Squawk.”

You were ready to tease him about getting a job at Scoops Ahoy because of the ice cream connection, but you focused on the Squawk instead. “You worked at the radio station?” you asked. “I can't imagine you as a disc jockey.”

“That was Robin's gig,” Steve said, lowering his hands to your waist, then your hips. “I was, like, her sidekick.”

“Impressive,” you said. “But you have too good a face for radio. Like, it's actually offensive to me.”

“My face offends you?” Steve repeated, and you nodded. “However can I fix this?”

You hummed. “Maybe get so close I can't really see it anymore. That could help.”

“Your lines haven't improved in ten years,” Steve said, and you scoffed.

“That wasn't a line,” you said, curling your ankle around his, pulling him flush against you, the water cradling your bodies together. “It was a request. For my favorite radio personality.”

He held your gaze and leaned in a little closer; you could still see the smirk curving his lips even as he slid out of focus. “How's this?”

“Better,” you said, your hand moving to the nape of his neck.

He pressed in even closer, water sloshing between you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, and decided to stop fucking around, leaning in to kiss him, lips meeting for the first time in ten years. He broke it almost immediately to huff a short laugh against your cheek, like he couldn't believe you were doing this again after so long either, but then delved back into your mouth, kissing you deeply.

God, he still kissed like he did back then, but it was better somehow, softer and sweeter and focused on you. He kept his hands on your hips, the pinky finger of his left hand slipping into the lace waistband of your panties, but otherwise he didn't try to touch you further. Your hands tangled into his wet hair, holding yourself closer to him as you relived your weekly pool rendezvous after swim practice, this time as adults. It still thrilled you just as much as it did back then.

You had to admit that part of you had actually been excited to see Steve at the reunion, not necessarily because you expected anything like this to happen, but now that it was, you were feeling a touch giddy. He'd been the most sought after guy in high school, and now he seemed like he was waiting on the sidelines, like no one realized what a catch he still was. As far as you were concerned, he'd only gotten more appealing, and anyone in a podunk town like Hawkins who couldn't see that, was a fool.

He lifted his hand out of the water to brush your hair behind your ear, off your forehead. “I know the school's not deserted,” he said, kissing you again; you tasted punch and pool water on his lips, “but the locker room should be.”

“Steve,” you said, half-surprised.

“Hey, you brought me down here and then took your clothes off,” he said, the hand still on your hip dipping a bit lower inside your panties, skimming over your ass.

“Oh, right,” you said, the water splashing quietly as you surged forward to kiss him again, nose brushing his cheek after you turned away to continue speaking. “By 'let's go swimming' I totally meant 'let's hook up in the showers like old times.'”

“Yeah, I figured,” Steve replied easily, his lips quirking up at the corner. “So...” he smiled at you, genuine, not lascivious or leading. “What d'you say?”

You laughed a little, moving away from him a little, swirling the water through your hands as you drifted backwards, not breaking the eye contact. You were almost to the ladder when you replied.

“Race ya,” you said again, turning and clambering out of the pool, giving yourself a head start as you made a break for the locker room door.

“Cheater!” Steve shouted; you heard the sound of him swimming and glanced over your shoulder back at the pool. He was already climbing out after you—he'd always been a strong, fast swimmer—and he was already halfway to you when you pulled open the door.

You had to slow down just a little, your wet feet slippery on the linoleum, and he caught up to you, but you were technically still ahead of him. You skidded across the floor of the locker room, neither of you worrying about drying off since you were going straight into the shower—towels hadn’t exactly been a focus when you were sneaking down into the pool anyway. Steve had a hand on your waist as you almost careened into the doorway to the showers, but he kept you from hitting the jamb, gently cradling your side. You were both laughing, feeling like teenagers again for the second time, and you pulled him roughly into one of the shower stalls, moving him in front of you against the wall. You suspected that he'd let you win, but it ultimately didn't matter—you were both going to get the prize.

You were on him again even as you scrabbled for the knobs behind him, and he kissed you easily, letting you take charge. The initial hiss and then spray of the water was still familiar to you even after a decade since you'd been in this building. Back when you’d done this in high school, you had just let him take you from behind, or held your leg up to the side while he fucked into you, your other leg stiff from being on your tiptoes for so long (well—not that long, teenagers that you were). But you were both older now, and as the hot water cascaded down over you, you expected things to be a little different.

His lips moved against yours, and you licked into his mouth, pressing him against the tile before he gripped your slippery waist and flipped you both around, and then you were up against the wall, his solid body tight against you.

You tipped your head back, letting the water rush over you, down between you as Steve sucked your lower lip into his mouth. You made a small noise of contentment in your throat and then his hands were sliding up, tugging at the straps of your bra to pull them down your arms, not bothering to undo the clasp—he just pulled it from your chest to your waist, like he used to do in high school.

“Really, Harrington?” you asked. “Ten years gone by and you still can’t work a bra clasp?”

“The hooks fuck with me,” he mumbled, kissing down to your neck. “You know that.”

“Didn’t you say you teach sex ed?” you asked, but you were more amused than anything else; you reached behind yourself and undid your bra, just for comfort’s sake since your tits were already out and Steve already had his hands on both of them. You hung it by the strap on one of the nozzles jutting from the wall.

“Yeah. That's theory, not practice,” he said, and you barked a laugh, even as he cupped your breasts, thumb skimming over your hard nipples, his lips tracing over the angle of where your neck met your shoulder. Your own hands moved to his waist, then up, over his chest as he took your lips in a searing kiss again, both of you trying to be as close to the other as possible—this was a quickie in the school shower, not sex bordering on lovemaking like in the backseat of his BMW, when you'd take it slow even though you were pushing curfew, toward the end of the summer before you'd went away to college. There had always been potential with Steve, but you'd never considered it more than what it was in the physical sense, never thought of it as anything more.

As he slipped a hand into your panties, finding your clit right away with his middle finger, you thought maybe you'd been missing out after you fell out of touch.

You whimpered his name as he pressed the heel of his hand a little further against you, fingertip sliding back through your folds to tease your slit, curling inside of you without any hesitation. You clung to him as he worked into you slowly, gradually, first the tip of his finger, then to the first knuckle, then the second. Your hands pressed flat against the backs of his shoulders, broader than you remembered, his presence encompassing your senses; you let your hands move down over his chest to his waist, feeling the little bit of weight he'd put on since high school, squeezing his sides tight as he moved into you all the way with just one finger—even with just the one, he had you mewling for him as you pulled him closer, wanting to feel him against you.

“Easy,” Steve said, calm and cool as always, his voice even and a little cocky, but not with the same brand of conceit he used to have. “You know I got you.” He'd half mumbled the words, like he didn't really mean for you to hear them, but they still stuck with you—it wasn't the “I got you” but the implication of him saying “you know,” like it was a given, like he always had and always would.

“Steve,” you sighed, as he pressed against you, his finger searching for your g-spot, massaging you inside until you clenched down on him, arching your back against his front.

You heard more than saw him smile when he said, “There we go” and continued stroking it, slow and firm, your head tipping backward and hitting the wall behind you with a solid-sounding thud.

“Ow,” you said hollowly, and he laughed, moving his hand up from your chest to cradle the back of your head, rubbing it as he leaned in to kiss you again.

“Easy,” he said again, amused this time, and you only felt the urge to retaliate, to make him feel good—you wanted to win. You weren't sure when this became a competition, but it was now. You hooked one of your legs around Steve's, giving him a bit more room to finger you deeply like he was, and then left one hand on his waist, the other dropping to palm him through his briefs. He gasped softly, his forehead pressing against yours as he looked into your eyes, yours defiant and his—desperate, actually. That was a good look on him, you were starting to remember.

Wasting no more time touching him through his underwear, you slid your hand inside of them, the wet fabric clinging to your wrist as you stroked him off, a bit of a quicker pace than he was using on you.

“Fuck,” he said, still leaning his forehead against yours, but his eyes fluttered closed, lips parting as he sighed out your name. You were starting to remember how nice that had sounded, too.

“Mhm,” you intoned. “Like that, Stevie?” you asked, and he nodded against you. You slowly lifted your chin, nose brushing his before your lips met, not quite in a kiss but just moving against each other, something a little more soft and sensual—breathing each other in.

“Yeah,” he said, almost like it was an afterthought, and let his finger slide out of you. You didn't have a chance to miss the feeling of him inside you because he buried two right back in, fucking you with them this time, not teasing. Heat coiled in your gut, the warm water from the shower washing over Steve, over you, and you let go of his dick to shove the elastic of his underwear down around his thighs, glancing down at him. His cock hung heavy between his legs, arching a little, chubbed up from you jerking him off for the brief time you did—you could just see the little curve of his stomach above it and you were stricken with the urge to kiss it, bite at it, show him how absolutely fucking attractive that you found him, that he still was, especially if he, ludicrously, didn't think it of himself.

You reached for his cock again even as he crowded into you, his hand still gently holding the back of your head, not wanting you to hit into the wall again, while he was pumping his fingers in and out of your wet cunt. You kissed him, then reached down with your free hand, still loosely moving the other one over him. You tugged at his wrist, pulling his fingers gingerly out of you, then glanced up at him as you hurriedly rolled the wet panties down and slipped them off, hooking them on the nozzle along with your bra.

“Do you think you could pick me up?” you asked, and he met your eyes for a moment, and then his expression changed from curious, considering, to a mischievous smirk as he recalled exactly why you were asking.

“Absolutely,” he said, “definitely, yes, I could do that.” He wrapped his arms around your waist, hands cupping your ass again as he nuzzled your cheek. “I don't—I don't have anything, though, so...”

You snickered. “That never stopped us before,” you said, and while it was true that in high school you'd definitely employed the pull out method on more than one occasion, you were now both 1) old enough to know better and 2) on the pill. So, really, it would be so fine.

“As the sex ed teacher of Hawkins High, I would be remiss if I didn't tell you how bad of an idea this is,” Steve said, still palming your ass.

“Duly noted,” you said. “Should I sign a waiver? Or maybe refer you to my gynecologist who can confirm my birth control prescription.”

He laughed, kissing you again. “I trust you,” Steve said, “but if anything—you know—happens, I'll—”

You lifted your hand to cover his mouth, the only sound the shower running and the water spooling down the drain. “Yes, you'll continue to be the most upstanding gentleman I've ever met.” You lowered your hand and he was smirking with his mouth, but looking down at you with the softest, most caring eyes you'd ever seen a man look at you with. Steve Harrington was a host unto himself, truly. You had to look away—seeing him look at you like that even after so long, it was a little overwhelming, in a good way. Steve cared, even when you were dumbass teenagers, even now when you were barely acquaintances again.

“C'mere,” Steve said, and he bent a little, slipping his hands down over the curve of your ass to grab at your thighs from behind, and you leaned your back against the wall as he lifted you up—easily, you noticed—and angled your hips toward him. You wrapped your legs around him, shoulders pressing against the tile wall slick with steam, and held onto his arms, as they lifted you up.

“Ok,” you said, eyeing his biceps flexing, the way his shoulders tightened to support your weight, his neck tensing just a little as he flicked his gaze up to yours, the smirk still playing at his lips.

“I'm not 17 anymore,” he said, and your pussy clenched a little at the sound of his voice, the tone he used, the way he said it—he would still be good, like he was still a good kisser, but better now, somehow. You just knew it.

He kept one hand on you, firm on your back, strong—you didn't feel unstable even for a moment—and moved the other between your bodies, hooking two fingers around the underside of his dick and angled it against you, the head nudging your slit. You looked at it for a moment, keeping your face angled down, but raised your eyes to his face. He looked fucked out already, curling his hips forward to put some pressure against your cunt. The head entered you and you squeezed tight around him; he sighed heavily and lifted his eyes to look at you—when he realized you were already looking at him, you saw his chest kick a little, the intimacy of sudden, unexpected eye contact affecting you both as you tightened your hold on his arms too.

“Steve,” you said, your voice tight, your walls clenching down as he thrust into you, slowly, steadily. You hadn't forgotten how thick he was, stretching you so, so deeply as he pushed in, but you'd forgotten how satisfying, how fulfilling it was when he bottomed out, his front flush against you. “God damn it.”

He pressed in even closer to you, stepping toward the wall, crowding into you even as he held you up on his cock. You tightened your legs around him, his front slotting between your thighs, your tits against his chest as he rolled his hips. The warm water from the shower was still cascading down beside you, covering the sounds you were making to anyone outside the room, but you could hear the wet slap of his hips moving against you as he pulled away and fucked back in repeatedly, urgently, your bodies moving together exactly the way they used to. You weren't really close enough to kiss him, lest he fold you in fucking half—something you hadn't thought of when fantasizing about Steve fucking you against the wall like this—and it was the only regret you had about this position. Otherwise, you were in fucking heaven: Steve hoisting you up by your thighs, palms pressing into the meat of your legs as he held you, hips snapping forward into you, fucking you raw and deep and so thoroughly you were only able to hold onto him just to have purchase, just to have some anchor to reality.

“Steve,” you repeated, the volume of your voice echoing a little despite the shower, the empty locker room reflecting the sound back onto you both as you moaned for him, his name and soft sighs, whimpers and gasps. His fingers pressed points into your legs, making sure to keep his grip on you, taking utmost care to hold you steady. Your hands found their way to new places; one at the nape of his neck, holding him there as you looked right at him, eyes locked onto each other's, while the other moved down between your bodies, touching your clit even as he pounded into you, giving you a little extra nudge of pressure against yourself on each instroke.

“Fuck,” Steve groaned, his breath hitching. “When you—touch yourself like that I can—oh, god, I can feel you t-ti—so fucking tight,” he said, stumbling over the words, speaking quickly like he couldn't get it out fast enough.

Your fingers slipped over your swollen clit, slick skin easing the slide, pace quickening as Steve closed his eyes, moaning loudly, biting his lip to try and stifle it. “Don't,” you said, voice thin, your body tensing up, your walls squeezing around Steve's cock, feeling how thick he was, how hard he was inside you. “Wanna hear you, Stevie, come on—”

“Fuck,” he said again, a little louder this time. “Fuck, hold—hold on, I'm—gonna, I'm—” he broke off, taking half a step back from you as he let his cock slip free of your cunt, your slit gaping for just a moment after he did, before you clenched down again on nothing, feeling the emptiness like a loss of part of you; you loosed a short breath, sliding two fingers down to fuck yourself with them, while Steve watched as you curled them inside your own pussy. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, stepping back closer to you, angling himself a little to the side so he could hold you securely with one arm, then wrapped his hand around his cock. It was red at the tip and his whole length was shiny, wet with you, pearly precome beading at the tip as he moved his fist over himself once, twice, barely a third time before he was coming, his spunk landing on the tile floor, some on the side of the shower stall, and you only fingered yourself harder, faster, at the sight, adding a third finger to the two already deep in your cunt, your thumb rubbing erratically over your clit as you wildly moved your arm, looking up from Steve's spent cock to his face; he was watching you, eyes first meeting yours, then dipping down to your lips, and then he was leaning into you, able to reach now, kissing you. You came as soon as his lips touched you, his name loudly moaned into his mouth as you did, not quite kissing him back, just letting his lips move against yours as he held you tight to him, your legs slipping down, losing control of your limbs as your body trembled in his hold. Your head hit the wall again, and you laughed even through your aftershocks.

“Shit,” he said, pulling you away from the wall so he was supporting you bodily, even after your toes touched the floor again and you managed to regain your footing. “Sorry.” He held you, wiping off his front and hand beneath the showerhead.

“So much for you got me,” you said, weakly, your arm still wrapped around him, holding onto him as you willed your legs to start fully working again.

“You're telling me. Upstanding gentleman, I think not.” He looked over at you and gave you a smile, the one that had always made you a little weak in the knees. And just as they were starting to feel like they wouldn't fall out from beneath you, too.

You watched as he held his hand beneath the water, cupping the spray and using it to try and rinse his come off the wall; you tucked your face into his shoulder, laughing, because it was just so stupid and absurd and senior year of you both to have done this, and yet, you didn't think you'd rather have spent the night of your high school reunion any other way.

He cleaned the wall off, then—still holding you close—shut off the shower and held onto you as he walked you back to the locker room. With your undergarments looped around your wrist, he helped you onto a bench—you sat on it with your folded legs beneath you, one hand outstretched to press against a locker so you wouldn't lose your balance—and watched as he hurried, his own drenched underwear clinging to him in all of the best ways, back to the pool to retrieve your clothing.

He bustled back in, the bundle of clothes in his arms, jumbled together. With your help, you managed to extricate his clothes from yours, and then you were zipping yourself back into a skirt that your wet skin wasn't making all that easy, your blouse sticking to your tits and back uncomfortably. Steve appeared to be having the same issues, though he was less vocal about them, and then you were both standing in the locker room of your alma mater, soaking wet and fucked out, looking at each other while laughter threatened to burst from the pair of you, at how fucking dumb and fun what you'd just done was.

“So, hey,” you said, padding closer to him before ducking down to step back into your heels. “You still got your Bimmer?”

He tilted his head to the side, then nodded, understanding where you were going right away. “Revisiting all our old haunts. Smart girl,” he said. “You always were.”

—

The BMW had been a tight squeeze even when you were both shaped like 17-year-old swimmers, but you made it work.

Her face read uneasy, a gentle furrow to her eyebrows as she sheepishly handed over the money for the cone that Steve had just handed her. “You can keep the change, thanks.” She mumbled before spinning quickly on her heel and exiting the store. 

You looked down at the cherries that you were refilling, biting down on your lower lip to stifle a laugh when you saw Steve turn to you out of the corner of your eye. 

“Not one word.” Was all he said to you, holding up his index finger at you as you nodded. Your shoulders betraying you as they shook gently, he scoffed in annoyance and pushed past you to go to the back of the store, feeling sorry for himself. 

Tuesday

“The hat’s mandatory,” Steve said with an easy laugh as he leant over the counter on his elbows. “I promise, I’m usually a lot better looking out of this damn uniform.” 

The girl he was entertaining this time was lapping up his charm, offering him a gentle, flirtatious giggle as her fingertip twirled around the end of her hair. You were busy clearing tables, but you were still in earshot and able to creep looks of Steve maybe, actually sealing the deal. 

“The hat’s kind of cute, actually.” She replied, tilting her head at him which earned the smile that was spread across his lips to grow even further. He straightened himself up, pressing his hands against the counter gently.

“Well, it’s kinda cramping my style I think.” They both laughed at his comment, the girl leaning slightly closer into the conversation. Your eyes catch Robin’s who’s standing behind Steve, the two of you sharing a look before dialing back into the scene before you. 

Steve’s hand fell to his hip with ease, his other one motioning to her as he spoke. “You have pretty hair. You know, I think our kids would have great hair.” 

Both you and Robin paused in that moment, both your eyes struck on Steve and unable to look away as the girl let out an awkward laugh. She pushed her change across the counter and slowly backed away, offering Steve a small wave before practically scurrying out of the store. 

Before either of you could laugh, or say anything, Steve had already bulldozed his way through the saloon doors, cursing to himself loudly which caused a mother with her child on the table next to you to look up at you with an unimpressed look.

Wednesday

“Steve didn’t even try at work today,” Robin told you as the two of you walked up the stairs in the movie theatre, trying to find your row in the dim of the lights. 

Your fingertips were already digging into the popcorn, shoving a few kernels into your mouth as you turned onto your row to find your seat. “I mean, yesterday’s episode was pretty devastating. I don’t think I would’ve tried, either.” 

Robin snorted out a laugh as the two of you settled in your seat, you leant the popcorn in her direction and glanced over at her as she spoke. “It’s been a pretty hard watch, makes good entertainment for us though.”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him recently,” You replied gently, leaning your head back against the plush of the theatre seat. “This whole summer, he’s just crashed and burned.”

“Maybe it’s due to the fact that he likes –” Robin started, leaning into your ear with a slight sing-song tone to her voice. 

You cut her off by throwing a handful of popcorn at her, speaking through gritted teeth “Shut up, movie’s starting.” You turned away quickly and settled into your seat, trying to push the thought of Robin’s insinuations out of your mind. 

Thursday

“So, you’ll call me tonight, right?” You glanced up at him as he spoke from the cash register. This guy was cute, his dark hair curled neatly across his forehead and his navy t-shirt fit him in all the right places. 

You offered him a small nod, your lips in a tight smile as you handed him his pennies of change. “Have a nice day, enjoy your ice cream.” The cash register shut after your words, and the guy on the other side of the counter pushed the small piece of paper with his number on toward you, before flashing you a wink and leaving the store. 

“No way,” Steve laughed out from the partition behind you, startling you. You turned around quickly, holding your chest as you let out a small laugh. “Rob, add one more to the tally.” 

“God, you’re both unbearable.” You grumbled through your smile, crumpling up the small scrap of paper and tossing it in the direction of the trashcan that lived behind the counter. You pushed open the partition door leading to the back room of the store, your arms folded over your chest as you watched Robin add another tally under your name. 

A couple weeks ago, the two of them had mentioned that they’d never seen anyone get so many numbers in one day in their life, so they wanted to keep count. You agreed reluctantly, saying just for one day, but that day soon turned into a week, and now it’s been three that the board has been occupied for.

Steve lifted himself from the chair he was resting on before, he took a few steps closer to you as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I saw you throw away his number.” He pressed gently, his eyebrows furrowed as he spoke.

“So?” You scoffed, looking up to catch his eyes for a moment before shrugging off his gaze and crossing the room to grab a bottle of water from your bag that you’d left on the side.

“So?” He copied your tone and your scoff, causing a small snicker from Robin and a roll of the eyes from you. “He was pretty cute, that was like – the sixth number today you’ve just thrown away!” 

You took a few sips of the bottle, the plastic crunching under your grip before your other hand came up to point at Steve, then in the direction of wherever the boy went off to. “Oh, yeah? Why don’t you go get it out of the trash then, if you think he’s so cute?”

“Oh, whatever.” Steve mumbled over the sound of Robin’s stifling laughter, holding her hand to her face as he straightened up and pushed through the saloon style doors, leaving the two of you in the back room. 

As you catch her eye, the two of you have to look away from each other to hold back your laughter. Robin took a seat on a spare chair opposite you as you twist the cap back on your bottle as she turns her attention to you. “Dingus was kinda right though, you have been throwing a lot away. And he was cute.”

You shrug your shoulders gently as you look over at her, “He was.. But I’m not really interested in any of that right now.” 

A small, quiet secret that you’d kept to yourself in the last few months was that you had a small, sort of, kind of crush on Steve. Through high school, you didn’t take much notice of him, just another jock with pretty hair. But now, that slightly desperate version of him who is always catching a look at you for a minute too long is suddenly all consuming and with each shift passing, you want him even more.

Admittedly, you were getting a lot of numbers this summer. You just put it down to the fact that you were giving people ice cream in the blazing heat, and you were wearing a stupid uniform, maybe they were taking pity on you? Or maybe so thankful for your service, they wanted to take you out for dinner. 

So when Robin and Steve began noticing and begged you to let them keep count, you thought it to be harmless, a bit of fun to pass the day. And when it lasted a little longer than a week, you weren’t bothered either. 

You didn’t notice how the number going up and up each day made Steve’s right eye twitch, how he’d somehow always be standing close by and watching when a guy comes into the shop, always over your shoulder trying to intimidate him whilst he flirted with you – but one look at Steve in that sailor hat, and they couldn’t be less intimidated.

Steve was always flirting with every girl that came into Scoops, even more so when the whiteboard with your name on started. You and Robin had joked it was hurting his ego, and he was quick to deny it, that he couldn’t deny the ladies of Hawkins all of that Harrington goodness.

“Alright, as much as I’d love to sit and watch you get hit on all afternoon, I’m heading off. I’ll see you tomorrow, you’re working, right?” Robin questioned as she grabbed her bag, you nodded softly with a small laugh, offering her a wave as she left the back room. 

You could hear Steve’s voice through the wall, so you quietly made your way over to the partition. You climbed up onto the chair in front of it and pushed it aside gently, peeking out to see Steve talking to a girl. 

She was pretty, she had big brunette curls and a smile that probably would’ve gotten you to give her a free cone, let alone Steve. She was standing at the counter with two of her friends giggling behind her as they witnessed Steve tumbling over his words. 

“You look like a strawberry girl, d’you like strawberry?” He asked casually, although you knew he was being anything but, he leant down on one of his elbows against the counter as the other pushed through his hair gently. 

“Actually, I’m allergic to strawberries.” She told Steve with a solemn look, the two girls behind her unable to hold their laughter as they turned themselves away, unable to watch the car crash in front of them. 

“Oh, right. Definitely no strawberry then, you’re not missing out on much. ‘S too sweet, I think. What – What about our rocky road? It’s pretty popular–” Steve stuttered, you swore you could see the tips of his ears redden from behind. His feet were awkwardly shuffling behind the counter, like he’d forgotten how to stand naturally.

“I’ll just take vanilla, thanks.” She was quick to cut him off with a warm smile, he simply nodded and got to work with fixing up her cone. He generously scooped the vanilla ice cream onto the cone, even finishing it off with a few red, white and blue sprinkles the store had for the Fourth of July. 

He handed it across the counter, and as she fished some cash out of the small of her purse, Steve was quick to shake his head, the mop of his hair dancing around his features. “D–Don’t worry about it, ‘s on me. Pretty girls shouldn’t have to pay for ice cream.” 

His words made your stomach twist, and the way her smile brightened made it twist even further. She reached out for the cone, taking it from him with a quiet thank you before flashing him a quick wave and spinning on her heel, following her friends through the length of the store. 

You watched Steve watch her leave, and heard the way he quietly swore under his breath. He rounded the counter, calling out for her attention as he chased after her. You leant your head slightly forward so you could hear, all that you were able to make out was – 

I’m sorry, I have a boyfriend. Thanks for the ice cream, though.

As you watched Steve watch her walk away and then turn to come back to the counter, you quickly pushed it shut and pushed yourself away from the partition like you were never listening in the first place. 

You perched yourself up on one of the counters, the heels of your feet leant across and resting on the table in front of you. The store was only open for another half an hour or so now, the food court emptying out by this time so you could get away with sitting in the back of the store and watching the minutes pass. 

Steve pushed through the doors, his eyes quick to catch yours before he looked away and huffed out a sigh of frustration. He pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the room and sank into it, leaning over until his forehead hit the table that sat in the middle of the room. 

“That was a tough watch, Steve.” You mumbled, pulling the stupid hat from your head and tossing it onto the table in front of you. He looked up quickly at your words, his face scrunched up like you’d scorned him.

“Wh– Do you always have to–” His eyes met yours for a moment, before he let out a short sigh with a small shrug of his shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

You quickly noticed how he shrank into his shoulders, how the expression on his face was reading tired and helpless. You lowered your feet gently, placing your hands beside you as you leant forward slightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“I mean, we can’t all float around here, looking all perfect and get a like.. A hundred numbers without even trying.” He laughed at himself, his elbow hitting the table as his forehead hit the palm of his hand, the other hitting the table gently. 

You pushed yourself off of the counter and took a few steps closer to him, sitting on the table right in front of him. Your legs swung gently as you spoke, your tone sounding as supportive as you could. “Look, you can’t take your insecurities out on me, Steve. If you want some help–” 

“Insecurities?” His head jerked up to look up at you, “Wh– No, no, I’m not even trying. If I turned the charm on, you’d have to buy another whiteboard to keep up with me.” He rested both of his hands on the edge of the table now, pushing himself up from his seat and looking down at you with narrowed eyes.

“Oh yeah?” Your voice left as a gentle whisper, your head tilting back to catch his eyes as he towered over you. You hadn’t seen this side of Steve before, this competitive, jealous, desperate side. But your body was telling you, you needed to see more.

In the tense of the moment, you swore he leant in ever so slightly before speaking. “Yeah.” His breath hitched in his throat slightly as you watched his eyes roam your face, how they lingered on your lips and reluctantly pulled back up to look you in the eye. 

You leant yourself back on your hands slightly, pulling yourself away from him but purposely lifting your foot to rest on the chair next to the table causing your knee to fold. The hem of your uniform fell slightly, revealing the flesh of your thigh to Steve as the other ever so slightly drifted in the other direction. You were playing a dangerous game, spreading your legs for Steve in the workplace, you were just hoping he wanted to play.

“Alright then, care to put a bet on it?” You hummed, lulling your head back as you watched his eyes trail across the skin of your neck, down your body until they landed at the spread of your thighs. 

You watched the way his throat bobbed under your gaze, the small smirk against your lips growing – Yes, he definitely wanted to play.

There was a silence between you for a moment, you watched as his tongue ran across his lower lip before he reluctantly pulled his attention to look back up at you. “I’d love to.”

Steve pulls away from the table and spins on his feet, crossing the room to grab a pen and piece of paper. He returns to the table and settles the sheet behind you. You hear the scribble of the pen against the paper, so you hop off the table and turn to peek over his shoulder.

“We’re both closing tomorrow night. So, whoever gets the most numbers from tomorrow morning until we clock out, wins. Eight o’clock.” He speaks whilst messily scribbling on the paper, you lean down slightly to read the contract he’s written up and you can’t help the smile that blooms across your lips. He signs his name at the bottom, before straightening and holding the pen out to you. 

Your eyes didn’t miss the way his large fingers wrapped around the pen, you lifted your hand up and pulled it from his grip with a small smirk. “Sounds easy enough.”

You bent down over the table, cautious of the way you angled your hips in his direction as you signed your own name next to his. As you go to pull yourself up, you feel the weight of him behind you. He places his hand next to the paper, and when you turn to look up at him he’s already bent next to you, looking down into your eyes. 

He’s so close to you that you can feel the heat of his breath on the skin of your neck. You swallow your thoughts quietly as you speak, “So, what does the winner get? A free sundae?”

A breathy laugh left his lips as his eyes wandered your face again, he took the piece of paper and pushed himself back up. He glanced over the sheet before his eyes openly wandered your position, as you straightened up and looked up at him with anticipation, his eyes settled on the gloss of your lips before he caught your eyes again. “I think, the winner has to do anything the loser wants.’

You quietly swallow the lump in your throat that’s formed from standing only a handful of centimetres away from him, his sudden burst of confidence in comparison to his desperation only moments ago was enough to make you concerned for what you might be in for. 

“Anything?” You couldn’t help the gentle smirk that grew across your lips as he looked down at you. He nodded down at you before looking over your shoulder and walking to the whiteboard behind you. 

You turned to watch him as he used his arm to wipe out your name and many, many tallies. He holds the lid of the whiteboard pen in his mouth as he clicks it open, writing both of your names in a chart before capping the pen and tossing it over to you. 

He walks past you, then pauses for a moment. He turned to look at you over his shoulder, taking a short breath before he took a few steps toward you and lifted his hands to straighten the stupid red bow that sat against your collar bone. He leant his head down slightly, his voice no more than a whisper. “You’d better hope that you win. Otherwise, I think I’ll finally be putting that pretty mouth to good use.”

Your lips parted in surprise, all of the words you’d spent your whole life learning suddenly wiped out of your mind as he pulled his hands away from you. He made a swift exit for his car keys that lived up on the shelf, offering you a small wave before making his way out of the store entirely. 

You stood there for a moment to catch your breath you didn’t realise had become uneven in your chest, to think about everything that had just happened in the last ten minutes. 

Then you realised, that asshole had just left you to close the store on your own. Oh, you were definitely ready to play.

You spent that night washing your hair until your fingers hurt, scrubbing your skin in your favourite scrubs, body wash and oils until your nose became immune to the smell, curling your hair in your biggest, bounciest rollers until your arms hurt from holding them over your head for too long. 

You struggled to fall asleep that night, your mind too busy thinking about all of the things you were going to make Steve Harrington do when you won the bet. Maybe you’d make him be your personal chauffeur for the rest of the summer, or make him bring you the biggest, sweetest coffee that you’ll only have three sips of every morning. 

As your eyes drifted shut, your mind wandered to what Steve said he’d do if he won. He’d put your mouth to good use. If you won, maybe you’d put his stupid mouth to good use, push your fingers through his stupid hair and use his face like a toy. Maybe you’d pull on his stupid hair as you ride his stupid, meaty thigh that you totally don’t stare at in those shorts he wears for work. Maybe you’d finally get to know what it feels like to feel those stupidly gorgeously plump lips against yours, on your neck, wrapped around your hardened nipple, sucking on your pulsing clit. 

It’s safe to say, you drifted off to sleep pretty quickly after weighing up your options. You made sure you took a long, very cold shower when you woke up, though. 

Friday

Getting ready for work that day, you felt like Cinderella when she had all her little helpers to assist her. Everything was going perfect. Your curls fell out beautifully, giving Farrah Fawcett a run for her money. The scent of vanilla you’d scrubbed into your skin last night still prevalent, the perfume you’d spritzed across your skin a perfect addition. 

You practically skipped into Scoops, unable to hide your bright smile as you entered the back room with a bright smile. Robin and Steve sat in the backroom, Robin sat with her feet up on the table as she took a bite of her apple. 

She glanced over at the door as it opened, her smile widening once you sauntered in. “Hey, look at you, nice hair.” She pointed her apple at you before taking another big bite, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. 

You let out a small laugh, brushing the end of it gently before hanging your bag up on one of the hooks that lined the back wall. As you turned to reply, Steve was looking at you with his arms crossed and his eyebrows furrowed gently. 

“Are we sure this isn’t against the rules? Like, doing your hair and stuff, that should be cheating.” He huffed, his hand motioning over to you as he pushed himself up from the chair he was sitting in. 

“Doing my hair? Steve, don’t even try that shit. If I can’t do anything with my hair, then you can’t do anything with yours.” You narrowed at him, your hands wrapping the white apron around your waist and tying it behind your back in a neat bow.

He let out a small gasp as he parted his lips to argue back before falling short. He huffed out a breath, mumbling incoherent whispers as he pushed past you to go and actually start work. 

You glanced at the clock before pulling out a chair and taking a seat next to Robin, leaning over to read the page of the magazine she had open. She glanced over at the partition that was closed, before turning her attention to you. “Are you sure this is a good idea, this bet?”

“It’s just a bit of fun, why would it be a bad idea?” You questioned, leaning back in your seat as your elbows folded over your chest.

An obvious laugh fell past her lips, her face contorting in a sarcastic confusion as she thought aloud. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s because of Steve’s big fat crush on you.”

“Robin–” You gasped, quickly turning to look at the partition she’d just checked was closed, before turning back to her with widened eyes. “You need to stop with this, seriously. We’re just–”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re just friends, whatever. He’s totally got a crush on you, why do you think he’s trying to get so many numbers? Either he thinks that shit will impress you, or he’s trying to find someone to distract himself from you.” She stood up and flipped her magazine closed, pushing her chair in gently as she looked down at you.

“That’s ridiculous.” You mumbled, your arms crossing over your chest in frustration as you avoided her eyes. There’s no way that she was right, Steve was your friend. You’d definitely know if he liked you like that, surely. 

“Whatever, I’ll take my told you so in the form of movie tickets when the time comes.” She calls out as she leaves, the doors swinging shut behind her.

A few hours later, you were actually getting on with your work. You’d scored about eight numbers already, and you were bringing home the ninth with the taller man standing in front of you. 

“Oh, you work at the hat kiosk? That’s so cool, I love hats.” You giggled at him as you leant forward over the counter slightly with your chin resting against your palm. Your hips swaying slightly with each word, knowing Steve was restocking the cups underneath the counter behind you. If you bent over a little more, maybe he’d get a perfect view of your –

“You do? Well, if I give you my number, maybe I can set you up with a couple?” He awkwardly said, his fingers already digging around in his pocket for a pen. 

You heard Steve drop the stack of cups he’d been trying to work with, and when you glanced over to look down at him he was already quickly looking away from your ass.

“Oh, yes! Thanks, honey.” You smiled down at the scrapped paper as he handed it to you before you straightened to begin scooping the ice cream he’d ordered. Steve straightened up and leant his back against the counter next to you, watching you with tight eyebrows. 

You went to hand the ice cream over to the kiosk man, before noticing a small drip of his ice cream had fallen down your fingers. “O–Oh, I’m so sorry. Just a second..” 

You dipped your tongue past your lips as you brought your hand up to your face, dragging it up your finger and collecting the sweet ice cream on your tongue before handing it back out to him. “Have a lovely day, enjoy your ice cream.”

You smiled at him sweetly, innocently as he took the cone from you hesitantly. He stifled a smile, nodding his head at you before turning and making his way out of the store, quick to look back over his shoulder at you where you gave him a small wave. You turned your attention over to Steve, who shook his head with a small laugh. 

“You’re unbelievable. I think that just broke like, three health violations.” The corner of his mouth quipped into a small smirk as you shrugged your shoulder, looking down at your hand. 

“A win is a win, Harrington.” You noticed that you’d missed a drop, your eyes met his as you lifted your hand back up to your mouth and swiped your tongue across your finger with a small hum. 

Steve’s eyes widen slightly as he watches you, his nose twitching as his body inches toward you slightly before the two of you are shot back to reality by a group of girls on the other side of the counter. 

Steve flashes you a tight smirk, nodding at you to step aside as he cleared his throat gently. With a quick toss of his hair, he flashed the group a bright smile as his loud voice cut through the entirety of the store. “Ahoy, ladies! Didn't see you there. Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me? I'll be your captain,” He paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes at them slightly. “I'm Steve Harrington.”

You watched in amusement as the girls stood there in surprise, two of them at the back sharing a look before the one at the front clears her throat before speaking. “Uh – Hi, yeah. We’ll just have two chocolate cones, please.” 

You were quick to remove yourself from the equation, unable to watch the rest of the conversation. 

As the parlour cleared out, you glanced up to the clock, 7:45. You began your simple closing tasks and noticed how after his last interaction, Steve was doing his best to avoid you. You’d wiped all the tables and restocked everything needed for the Saturday rush tomorrow, so now all that was left to do was mop the floors. 

Steve had taken that job, starting at the front of the store and making his way closer to you as you sat perched on the counter with your legs dangling against the sign below you. You hummed to yourself gently, mentally counting aloud all the numbers you’d scored today. 

“You know, I think the first thing that I’m gonna make you do is get you to clean the toilets on Sunday. No way am I doing that. Ooh, I also want to see the new Rambo movie, but Robin doesn’t want to, so you can come with me to that. Maybe you can–”

“You know what? I don’t think I can do this.. Forget it, the bet’s off.” He grumbled as he pushed the mop around carelessly. Your eyebrows furrowed gently as you tutted.

“Wh– Steve, come on, don’t be a sore loser. This was your idea.” You laughed gently, tilting your head at him as you watched him swirl dirty water around the same area underneath the table.

“I’m not a sore loser,” He stubbornly looked up at you as he spoke, you could tell by his expression that this was the end of the conversation. “It was a fucking stupid idea anyway.”

You let out a soft sigh as you jumped down from the counter, your fingers brushing one of your curls that had dropped behind your ear. “Steve, no. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable–”

“Do you know why I’ve been trying so hard to pick up girls?” He asked, placing the mop in the bucket. He tried his hardest to look at you, slowly pulling his body to face you. “Because I can’t get you off of my mind, I need to distract myself. I can’t spend the next however long at your beck and call, spending eight hours a day with you is enough.”

Oh. Robin was right. You felt your demeanor soften as you took a few steps closer to him, taking precaution to miss the spots where he’d already mopped. “Steve..”

“No, just.. Be quiet for a moment.” He held his hand up at you, causing you to stop in your tracks, blinking up at him as you waited for him to continue. 

“You’re always talking, you know? You always have something to say, your attitude stinks, always teasing and messing with my head in those tiny little shorts. But my God, when I hear you coming from 50 feet away just from your laugh I swear, I could explode. Or when you’re on the early and I’m on the late shift, your perfume lingers for hours and I can’t focus. Whenever those guys come in here and ask for your number, I just wanna rip my hair out. And when you look at me, like that–” 

His finger points at you, then drops to his side hopelessly, a low sigh leaving his lips as his voice leaves a soft murmur. “I just.. can’t fucking focus. You’re just.. you’re so beautiful.”

His words caused every thought to flee your mind, you couldn’t find anything to say as he stood in front of you in his adorable uniform with his adorably sad face. You didn’t realise how long you were stood there for, just staring at him with widened eyes until he let out a short, pained laugh.

“Oh God, I’m sorry. You know what, the bet’s off, I don’t care about the goddamn bet. Let’s just forget about it, all of this. I’m just gonna go home, okay? I’ll see you on Sunday.” He grabbed the mop and shoved it into the bucket, avoiding your eye contact as he made his way past you to the doors to the back room. 

You leapt forward, grabbing his hand with yours. He jerked under your touch slightly, turning his head to look down at his hand being engulfed by both of yours. His eyes trailed up your uniform until his eyes met yours, and you took in a sharp breath. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” You mumbled gently as you took another step closer to him, grabbing ahold of his collar and pulling him down to you. 

His lips found yours in a frenzy, his hand quick to drop yours and find the back of your head to steady his lips against you as the other grabbed your back, holding your body close to his. Your fingers slipped from his collar to snake around his neck, your other arm quick to follow as you lifted yourself up on your toes. 

You’d thought about this moment hundreds of times, but you’d never expected his lips to be so soft, or for his mouth to move so perfectly against yours. His tongue swiped along your lower lip, silently begging you for access as his tongue began exploring yours. His arms around you tightened as you pressed yourself against him, desperate to feel him on every inch of your body. 

His lips pulled back from yours suddenly, bringing his hand up to run his thumb across your lower lip and take a moment to look down into your eyes. Your chest heaved slightly as his fingernails dragged through the hair on the nape of your neck, you lifted yourself up to kiss him again and his hands all of a sudden found the backs of your thighs. 

He lifted you up with ease, your legs instantaneously wrapping around his hips as he walked the two of you into the back room. You sucked on his lower lip happily as his feet kicked chairs out of his way until his thighs hit the table, slowly setting you down on the edge of it. 

Reluctantly, he pulled back from your lips again to take another look at you. His hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs rubbing softly against your cheeks as he leant his forehead against yours. “You’re sure about this?”

You were quick to nod, your hands wrapping around his waist to untie the apron that was proving too many layers between you. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” You tilted your chin up to press a kiss to his lips again as you pulled the material off of him, pulling back to glance down at the prominent bulge that had appeared in his pants. 

His breath hitched slightly as he noticed you notice, his hand moving to hold your jaw as he captured your upper lip between his. Slowly savouring the taste of your lips as your hands settled at his waist, the tips of your fingers slowly brushing beneath the band and making their way round to the front. 

“Will you let me take care of you, baby?” You murmured against his lips. You felt him pause against you and slowly pull away, watching as he let out a hot breath against your skin. He nodded gently, before clearing his throat. 

“I mean, you technically won the bet,” He started, pulling his lips away from yours to nose against your jaw. His lips dragging against the sensitive skin beneath your ear as he sloppily pressed kisses to your skin. “Shouldn’t I be taking care of you?”

You let out a breathy laugh as you lulled your head back, swallowing shallowly before pulling back from him completely. You kept your hands on his waistband as you stood up in front of him, lifting to press a soft kiss to his lips before whispering. “Sucking your cock would’ve been first on my list, baby.” 

He let out a choked sound at that, nodding softly as he watched you sink to your knees. You silently revelled in the sight before you, him becoming putty in your hands. As your knees hit the cold floor, your hand pushed up the hem of his shirt to reveal the small curve of his stomach. 

You leant forward, pushing your fingers through the happy trail of hair that disappeared into his shorts. The sound of wet, sloppy kisses filling the room around you as you mouthed at his skin. You pushed his shirt up further, looking up at him before he quickly took the hint and pulled it up over his head. 

The fingers around his waistband paused as you looked up at the sight before you, the beauty of the freckles and moles that kissed his skin and the swell of hair across his chest causing you to push your thighs together in an attempt to dull the throb between your legs. 

“You’re so beautiful, Steve.” You whispered softly as he looked down at you, you caught the way his chest hitched at that. His fingers pushed through your hair and you leant into the touch as you slowly pushed down his shorts, your own breath hitching as you’re faced with the obscenely large bulge in his boxers. 

Your palm reached out to press against it, rubbing it back and forth slowly as you watched his reaction. You felt his grip in your hair tighten as he let out a low groan, you slowly leant forward as you pulled down the boxers to grab his cock as it sprung out of his boxers. 

“Fuck.” He grunted as your hand wrapped around his length. Your mouth went dry as your eyes took in the size of him, his throbbing cock felt heavy in your hand as your thumb smeared the precum around the tip gently. Your tongue followed suit shortly, moaning against him at the taste of him. 

Your tongue found the base of his cock, and you slowly trailed it up the vein that was prominent along him before your lips wrapped around his tip. His other hand wrapped in your hair as you slowly began bobbing your head around him, your hand taking care of the rest of him. 

His eyes were intently watching you as you pulled back from him, your hand picking up the pace before you pooled salvia in your mouth and drooled it against his tip. You took him in your mouth this time, more determined. You inhaled out of your nose as you sank down further, trying to take as much of him as you could. 

The bob of your head picked up as he began guiding your head gently, a low string of his moans hitting your ears, spurring you. Your nose nestled against the hair around the base of him as he hit the back of your throat, your eyes watering slightly before you pulled yourself away. You watched as your hand pumped him, drops of his precum dripping over onto your hand. 

You took him in your mouth again, your eyes not leaving his as he swore your name under his breath. “I’m gonna come if you do that again, seriously.” 

You feel an ache in your jaw as you take him back in your mouth again, the feeling of him pulsing in your mouth is almost addictive. A mixture of your spit and his spend is pooling at the corners of your mouth as your lips meet his base again, your eyes fluttering shut as your nose nestles against the hair. You pull back slightly to use your hand to finish him off, your eyes finding his as his hips jerk against you. 

“Fuck, baby–” You felt him deposit into your mouth, the warmth spilling down your throat as his hands hold your head you steady. You moan around him, which only riles him up even more, his hips bucking into you slowly as you pull your mouth off of him with a small pop. 

You rise off your knees steadily, looking down as you watch your hand pump his length slowly as you coax him down from his orgasm. His chest is heaving as he looks down at you, his hand holding the back of your neck as he pulls you back in again, catching his lips with yours. 

Your spare hand presses against his chest as his tongue licks into your mouth, his gentle moans spilling into your mouth as you feel his hips rutting against you. You feel the warmth of his hand at your lower back as you slowly pull your lips away, your eyes glancing between your bodies to watch as he fucks your hand. 

“You got another one for me, baby?” You mumble, your mouth watering at the sight before you look back up at him to catch his eyes. He offers a small nod as you lean forward to drag your lips to the first inch of his skin you can find, your fingernails scratching at his chest as you speak against his neck. “Go on, honey. Fuck my hand, use me. Please, baby.”

He nods as his hand slips to your waist, holding onto you as you suck on the sensitive skin on his neck. It didn’t take long for him to throw his head back with pleasure, detaching your lips from him giving you a moment to watch as you continue to milk his cock. 

“I’m so close, baby, please.” He grunts as his hips pick up pace, you hum softly as your wrist  begins matching the pace of his hips. You take your lower lip between your teeth, not knowing whether to watch his cock in your hand or watch his face as he comes for a second time in a five minute window.

“Let go, baby. I got you.” Your hand grabs the back of his neck to pull his face to yours, lifting  yourself up on your toes to take your lips against his. His firm hands hold your waist in place as he releases over your hand, his moans being swallowed by your lips as you coax him from his high. 

You pull your hand off of him slowly as you take a step back, lifting your hand to your lips where your finger slips between them. Steve thinks back to earlier when you licked the ice cream off of your fingers, and he thought you looked beautiful then. Somehow, you look even more beautiful now. He leans his arm down to pull up his shorts that were pooled around his knees, settling them at his lower hips.

The two of you stand there for a moment, taking in each other's wiped out demeanor. His chest heaves as a smirk grows across his lips, taking a step closer to you to grab you by your waist and pick you up, placing you promptly on the table. 

“Although I love this uniform on you,” His voice hoarsely spoke, his chest glistening with sweat as it heaved. His fingers splay from your waist and nimbly untie your apron, pulling it off your body and tossing it to the floor. His fingers then wrap around the hem of your uniform, and slowly pull it over your head. “Fuck.”

A smirk drags across your lips as you lift your arms for him, leaning back on your hands to push your chest out to him. You tilt your head slightly as you lift your hand to slowly pull down the straps of your bra, “You okay, Steve?”

He was quick to nod, not being able to take his eyes off of you for a second before they slowly pulled up to yours. He leant forward, placing his hands on either side of your body as he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. Then the corner of your mouth, your cheek, his lips sloppily trailing along your jaw before taking the lobe of your ear between his teeth. 

“I just need you, so fucking bad.” He growled against you, his hands lifting from the table to unclasp your bra. You lifted each of your hands so he could manoeuvre it off of you, and pulled himself back to get a better look at your breasts.

You could swear you heard him whimper as his arm slips around your back, pulling you against him to kiss your shoulder as he softly lays you down against the cool table. Your head lulls beneath you as he slots himself between your thighs, his lips dragging from your shoulder and across your chest, before promptly wrapping around your peaked nipple.

His hand slips from your back to cup the other as he puts his tongue to work. Messily twirling  around the hardened bud before taking it between his teeth, glancing up at you as you gasp before latching his lips around it again to soothe the pleasurable ache. His lips are quick to drag across your chest to the other to repeat his actions, his fingers rubbing the soaked nub between his fingers as your back arches into him. 

“God, Steve. That feels so good,” You sigh, lifting your head slightly to watch as he sloppily mouths at your tits. “You make me feel so good, baby.” Your fingers push the curls out of his face to get a better look at him, and you can’t help but smile down at him when his eyes catch yours. 

His lips press to your sternum, slowly making their way down your body until they reach the waistband of your uniformed shorts. He glances up at you, to which you quickly nod and lift your hips so he can tug them down. 

“You’re so eager, baby.” He mumbles to you as he stands up to pull them off of your legs. His hands are quick to fall to your knees, stopping them from attempting to meet. You scoot further back on the table to make room for him as he lowers himself back between your legs, a small whistle leaving his lips as his hands splay at your inner thigh.

“Holy shit. You’ve soaked right through your panties, honey.” He speaks as he glances up at you, he reaches a finger out to the light fabric of your underwear that have stuck to the swell of your lips. A small sigh passes his lips as he watches you twitch from the smallest of touch, leaning himself closer to press his face against the soaked cotton. “You smell so fucking good, baby. Like heaven.” 

You’ve propped yourself up on your elbows so you can watch the way he’s taking you in. Practically rubbing his face against your pussy, your hips buck up to his touch gently. “You’re so desperate, Steve, huh? You can’t get enough.”

He nodded softly as he pulled his head away, wrapping his fingers around the waistband and pulling them down your legs with ease. “I could come again, right now. Just from looking at you.” He let out a short laugh, but you knew he wasn’t joking.

Once your panties were discarded and you were all laid out for him, you’re certain that you heard him whimper again. He pressed both of his thumbs against your glistening slit, slowly pulling your lips apart to look at you. You heard him swear under his breath as you felt his thumbs slowly press at your entrance. 

Your body was feeling so weak that you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, you let yourself lay back on the table to let Steve have his way with you. His finger dipped inside of you, gathering your slick on the pad of his finger as he slowly trailed it up to your clit. He watched as your body reacted to the touch, a small smirk across his lips. “You’re so responsive, baby. Look at her, she’s so beautiful.” 

Before you could say anything else, his mouth was on you. His tongue dipping inside of you to collect more of your wetness and work it through your folds, sucking on each inch of you before wrapping his lips around your clit. One of his hands grabbed the back of your thigh, pulling you closer into him as he slipped his tongue back inside of you, eager to taste every part of you as his nose brushed your most sensitive spot. 

“Oh my fucking God, Steve.” You cried out, your fingers grabbing at his hair and holding him against you as your hips jerked off the table. He pulled his mouth off of you with a pop, looking up at you with a smirk you’ve never seen before. 

His index and middle finger circled at your clit gently, causing your breath to hitch. His fingers travelled through every curve of your pussy until he slowly pushed the tips inside, a small gasp falling from his lips. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” He pulled himself back slightly to watch the sight before him, how your cunt wrapped around his fingers. “You’re so fucking tight, ‘m gonna have to work you open if I’m gonna fit inside there.”

You whined at his words, your eyes fluttering shut as your back arched off the table as you felt him push his fingers deeper into you. You felt them curl inside of you, pressing against the spongy wall inside of you that made you gasp in pleasure. When you opened your eyes, Steve’s face was inches in front of yours. 

Your hands grabbed the back of his neck as your hips rolled against the movement of his fingers, sweat beading at your hairline as he looked down into your eyes. “That’s it, baby. Take what you need from me, fuck your pretty little pussy on my fingers.” He nodded softly before capturing your upper lips against his, your moans muffled by his lips.

As his fingers fucked into you, his other hand angled on the top of your pussy so his thumb could catch your clit. As you felt him against you, you pulled your lips back so you could cry out his name in pleasure, unable to hold it back anymore. 

He pulled his two fingers out of you to push a third one in, the pressure of his thumb circling against your pussy coiling in your stomach as his fingers curl inside of you. His lips attach to your neck, sucking at your skin as the sound of his fingers fucking into you fills up the room.

You feel your cunt tightening around him as your hand grabs at his wrist, holding him in place but somehow pushing him deeper as your hips push off the table. “I’m gonna come, baby, fuck – I’m so close.” You whined, his fingers somehow curling even deeper inside of you.

“Come for me, baby. Please, I wanna see that pretty little cunt come all over my hands. Be a good girl and come for me, hm?” He hummed against your skin, and all of a sudden the words you were about to reply dissolve against your tongue as his fingers hit you just right. 

You feel a rush of heat between your legs, and before you can stop it, you’re spilling all over his hands and soaking the table beneath you. His lips against your neck pause but his fingers don’t stop, he continues fucking your orgasm out of you and his thumb at your clit only quickens as he hums against your neck. “Did you just– Holy shit.”

Your legs tremble beneath you as your climax comes to an end, but Steve doesn’t let up. His head is between your legs again, sucking desperately at your clit as his fingers shallowly fuck your hole. He mumbles against you, “One more for me, baby, please. Come for me one more time before I stuff this tight little pussy with my cock.”

His words are enough to finish you off once more, but him relentlessly sucking at your clit seemingly does the job. Your hands tug at his hair as you feel it building inside of you, your chest heaving as he makes out with your pussy. His tongue devouring every inch that you’re offering him, and he holds you to him as close as he can when you finally come undone again. 

“Fuck, Steve – Oh my, fuck.” You cry out as your hips jerk against his face again, your orgasm almost stronger than the first as his fingers work you through it. 

Eventually, he pulls his fingers out from you and in no time is sucking on them like a popsicle. You catch his devilish smirk as he stands upright, his other hand rubbing your thigh softly as lay bare for him, struggling to catch your breath. 

He releases his fingers with a small pop, before climbing up onto the table and hovering over you. You’re still breathless as his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, his arms bracketing either side of your head as he looks down at you. “You’re so beautiful.” 

You bite down on your lower lip gently as you lift your shaky hand up to his cheek, pulling him down to your lips again before you mumble against him. “Don’t get too comfortable now. Give me one minute, and I’ll be ready.” 

He nodded against your lips, letting his body settle on top of you as he parted your lips with his tongue. You could taste yourself on his mouth, and as your arms snaked around his neck, he kissed you deeper. He kissed you like he was a soldier coming home to his wife from the war, it was sweet and loving compared to what he just did to you. 

His warm hand held your hip as he eagerly licked into your mouth, the kiss soon turning sloppy as your leg lifted to wrap around his waist and he could feel the heat from your pussy against his cock through the layer of his shorts. 

As you felt him throb against you, you pulled your lips back from his slightly. “Okay, it’s been a minute.” Your grip around his neck tightened as you took his lips against yours again, an eager huff pressing against your lips as you felt him shuffle out of his shorts. 

He manoeuvred himself out of them and pulled his lips away from yours to dip his hand between your bodies. His fingers dragged through your pussy to gather your wetness across his hand, earning a small gasp from you. He wrapped his hand around his cock and pumped it slowly as he looked up at you, “You sure?”

You nodded quickly, eagerly spreading your legs further open for him as you nibbled on your lower lip in anticipation. He dipped his forehead against yours to steady himself, his other arm next to you holding him up as he pressed the tip of his cock to your entrance and slowly dragged it up your slit. 

A string of moans fell from your lips as you watched, his tip glistening with your juices before he repeated this action over, and over. You felt yourself clenching around nothing, readying yourself each time he dipped to your entrance but huffing in frustration when he missed on purpose. 

“Hey,” He lifted his head to look down at you, rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit as he spoke. “Just getting you ready for me, honey.” 

“But I’m ready, Steve, come on. Just fuck me–” Your words were cut off with a cry as he pushed his cock into you, your head falling back as you felt him inside of you. Every vein and inch that pushed into you filling you up with pain and pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” His head dropped to the curve of your shoulder as he dragged his hips backwards before slamming his hips back into you. Your nails clawed at the skin on his back as you fluttered around his cock. “This pussy was made for me, you’re taking me so well, baby.”

You nodded at his words, moans spilling from you both with each thrust of his hips. “You’re so big, Steve. Holy fuck – Fuck.” You whined, tightening your leg around his waist. You felt him lift his head from your shoulder, catching your lips with his as he drilled his hips into you. 

“I wanna hear you, baby,” He spoke against your lips before pulling himself up from your body. He straightened himself and settled his hands at your hips, lifting you slightly to hit a deeper angle. The sound of your moans and the squelch of Steve filling up your pussy danced through the room, “You hear that? Your pussy is so loud, baby. Look at her, swallowing me whole.”

His hand slipped from your hip to your lower stomach, rubbing your skin softly before his thumb found your clit again. Your back arched off of the table as you cried out in pleasure, the familiar coiling in your lower stomach returning as your hand grabbed at Steve’s arm. 

“You gonna come for me again, already? You’re so greedy, baby.” He smirked down at you as he thrust into you, his eyes trailing down your body to watch where the two of you met. “My cock is so wet, baby. You gonna come all over it again? Gonna let me fill you up?” 

“Fuck, yes. Come inside me, Steve, please.” You babbled as you felt your walls tighten around him, his own breath hitching as his head rolled back on his shoulders. He was quick to snap back to watching you writhe under him in pleasure, watching your hands paw at your breast and watching the way your pussy happily sucked him back in. 

“I’m gonna– Fuck, you gonna come for me, honey?” You quickly nodded, your eyes screwing shut as he picked up the pace of his hips. Again, before you could stop it, you were showering him with your release all over again. He groaned at the sight, at the sensation, and a few seconds later you could feel his come spilling out inside of you. 

His hips faltered slightly, his body dropping back over yours as he held himself up by his arm. His lips found yours again as his cock dragged in and out of you slowly, easing you both down from your high as you panted into each other's mouths. He fucked his come deeper inside you, slowly. He swallowed each of your moans as his hand rubbed at your waist lovingly. 

Your hands held his shoulders as you felt him slowly pull out of you, but he was quick to pull his lips from yours to straighten up again to watch the aftermath between your legs. 

His hand steadied around his cock as he pulled out of you, watching his come dripping from your hole. He let out a stifled groan as he pushed it back into you once more, a heavy groan leaving your lips at the feeling. He pulled himself out of you and was quick to drop between your legs again, his tongue reaching out to catch what had fallen out of you before dragging it up your pussy, and leaving one last kiss against your swollen clit. 

You watched him with parted lips, frankly quite shocked that the boy who couldn’t score one phone number had just fucked you like that. You lifted yourself up slightly to grab onto his arm and pull him back up to you, a shy smile across his lips as he climbed on the table next to you. He laid on his side, leaning on his elbow and resting his head on the palm of his hand. 

“You’re really something else, Harrington.” You managed breathlessly, nibbling on your lower lip gently as his hand softly dragged across your sternum. He looked down at you with a gentle smile, warmth creeping up to his cheeks as his chest heaved beside you. 

“I could say the same about you.” He laughed softly, his hand slipping to your waist as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You smiled into it, your hand lifting into his hair before turning your body slightly to face him. 

“You know,” You mumbled against his lips before pulling back to look at him. “For my winnings, I think I’m going to request what we just did. Everyday.” Your voice was a hoarse whisper, but the smile that broke out across his face at your words was prize enough. 

“Oh yeah? Everyday?” He pecked a gentle kiss against your lips before pulling you closer to him slightly, your arm snaked around his neck to hold him in place as you sighed softly into the kiss. 

“And for my other winnings,” You mumbled against his lips which earned a laugh from him, pulling back from you to roll his head back with a sigh. He looked down at you with a raised eyebrow as his hand dragged up and down your side, settling at your thigh. “I’m going to request, no more numbers. You don’t ask, I won’t accept.”

His hand paused in motion, his smile creeping wider against his lips before he nodded down at you. He kissed you once, twice, three times as he slowly crept over you again, the feeling of his cock hardening against you again earning a breathy laugh against his lips, his hand wrapping your leg around his waist again as he mumbled against your lips. 

You storm inside first, leaving him in the dust as you bolt for the coffeemaker. He lumbers in after, scowl on his face, hair wrecked by the humidity.

It's easy enough to avoid each other before the broadcast, but once you're forced into the booth together, you drop into the swivel chair without a word. Your body angled away from him toward the console.

Robin lasts until lunch before she finally says something.

"Okay! So I'm gonna go." She stands, shooting a look between the two of you. "Whatever this is, please fix it. Or at least… try not to stare each other to death while I'm gone."

When neither of you respond, she just backs out slowly, nearly tripping over her own feet before the door creaks shut behind her.

The booth is deathly quiet when she leaves. Which is ironic, because you're pretty sure you've been in actual morgues with more noise than this vacuum that's formed between the two of you. But you don't look up. Not when you hear him let out a dramatic sigh, or when he snaps a cassette case louder than necessary.

No. You let him pout, giving him nothing while keeping your eyes glued to the playlist sheet on the desk. Crossing your legs and bobbing your ankle up and down. Letting your pleated skirt hike just a little bit higher up your thigh.

You aren't the least bit surprised when you hear the tapes stop clattering.

There's another beat of quiet before his foot nudges the leg of your chair. You don't move. So he does it again.

Finally, you turn—slow—and give him a look.

His mouth quirks. "You gonna ignore me all day?"

You frown, ignoring him while you flip a page.

"Wow," he scoffs. "You know, I was gonna apologize, but with this attitude—"

"Apologize, then," you interrupt. Calling his bluff.

He sits back and crosses his arms. "Well, look at that. She speaks."

"Look at that," you echo, turning back to the console. "He listens. For once."

You hear movement, then his hand is on the back of your chair before you even realize he's gotten up. The room blurs as he spins you back, planting both hands on the armrests once you're facing him again.

You stare stubbornly at the wall over his shoulder. Arms folded over your chest. Steve sighs and takes a seat in front of you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"I was saving it for the recycling, okay?"

You huff. "Then why was it in the middle of the counter?"

"I told you, I didn't want to forget!"

You shake your head, still refusing to meet his gaze.

"…Fine," he mumbles. "I'm sorry… alright?"

You arch a brow. "For?"

"For being a dick," he mutters, sliding a hand over his neck. "And…"

He leaves the sentence hanging half-finished. You tilt your head, waiting, but Steve doesn't look up. His gaze is stuck below your waist, where the hem of your skirt has ridden up even higher, fanning in a pretty arc across your legs. He swallows audibly and leans in closer.

It happens slow, his hand wedging between your thighs to grip the base of your seat. Your breath stutters as he tugs you forward, the stool skidding across the floor.

You finally look at him. No other choice really, with your faces inches apart like this. But where you expect to find him smiling or smug at having flustered you, instead his gaze is just… dark. His eyes heavy and locked with yours. Beneath the light, you catch the faintest sheen of sweat across his cheeks, fresh and dewy on his skin.

Warmth pulses between your legs in a way that's practically Pavlovian at this point. Because you know what it means when he gets this look. Where it always leads. You swallow a little as the woodsy scent of his aftershave reaches your nose, your fury fading fast into a different kind of heat that sits warm and low in your stomach.

Steve shifts then, your knees bumping together. He slides one of his forward between your thighs, slotting you two together and pulling you close.

"You wore this on purpose," he breathes low into your ear. You shiver as he brushes your hair back over your shoulder, his knuckles grazing the soft skin just beneath the hem of your skirt.

You exhale slowly. You did wear it on purpose. Something takes over him every time you wear this fucking thing, which is why you'd put it on in the first place this morning, a flirty little tilt to your hips. Five hours ago, you figured you two could sneak into the closet, or out to his car on your lunch break, maybe tease him with it until you had a chance to be properly alone.

But then you'd gotten into that fight, and you kept it on out of spite. You knew it would drive him crazy, having to see you in it and be forced to keep his hands to himself.

Only his hands were already disappearing beneath it.

"Steve," you breathe against his neck, barely pretending. "We're at work."

He noses the soft spot beneath your ear. "No one's here."

"The walls are glass."

"We'll be quick," he promises.

You're about to argue, but the gentle, warm press of his tongue over your pulse rips the protest from your lips. You melt, your eyes closing with a quiet sigh of surrender, and he groans into your skin at the salty taste of you, one hand snaking up into your hair to hold you in place while the other coaxes your knees apart.

"What if Rob comes back?" you whisper, already short of breath.

"She won't. She literally just left." His lips graze your forehead. "Now c'mere… let me apologize."

He curls a hand under your knee, tugging you toward him those last few inches. You let him guide you to the edge of the seat, until your chin's hooked over his shoulder and you lose sight of what his other hand's doing. You sigh into his hair when you feel his palm finally disappear between your legs.

He gives a testing little press against you, smiling to himself at the quiet noise you make for him.

"Yeah, baby. That's it," he whispers, his breath hot against your temple while he cups you more firmly. You gasp and clutch onto his sleeve, the contact making the damp spot on your panties bloom out even further at the edges.

"Oh, honey," he soothes, his free hand still cupping the back of your head. "Look at you. All worked up already."

You huff over his shoulder, even as your hips curl forward on their own, seeking the heel of his palm.

"I'm still mad at you," you mumble into his neck.

He hums, thumbing your panties to the side in a slow arc. "Yeah? You gonna let me fix it?"

Without waiting for your answer, he parts you gently down the middle. Your gasp is sharp against his shoulder, and he hushes you softly, groaning at the way you're already coating his fingers as he traces your slit.

"Fuck, baby," he breathes, his voice rough now.

He slides right through you, nice and easy. His thumb brushes through your curls before dipping down to circle you where you're softest. You muffle a whimper into his shirt and feel his grip tighten on the back of your neck.

"There?" he whispers, mouth pressed to your hair.

You nod breathlessly, panting now and barely able to hear him. He sucks softly beneath your ear and starts working that sweet spot, pulling more broken sounds out of you as you spiral quickly toward the edge.

Your hips shift forward again, thighs weak and shaking. You're nearly there, whining and clenching around nothing, when you thrust too far and start to slip off the edge of the seat.

"Shit—" you gasp.

Steve catches you before you can fall. His arm hooks around your waist, lifting you up like it's nothing. Your hands automatically find his shoulders as he hikes you up onto his thigh, your skirt settling even higher around your hips while you straddle him. He wets his lips when your bare skin presses against his jeans, the heat between your legs making his pants go tight around his hardening cock.

"Easy," he murmurs, sliding a hand up your back to steady you. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little embarrassed. A pretty flush warms your cheeks as he brushes back a curtain of hair that's fallen in your face. He gives you a big, breathy smile that makes your heart burst wide open.

"Okay," he pants, glancing around to check that the station's still empty. With no sign of Robin, he plants a soft peck on your cheek and lets his hand drop to your hip. "Ready?"

You nod, your thighs squeezing around him as he rocks you forward, guiding you to grind against his leg. Your head tips back with a moan just from the friction of it.

"Steve—"

"I know," he mumbles, dipping down to suck at your collarbone as you writhe on him. "Use me, baby. It's okay."

You bite your lip, rolling your hips shamelessly now as you chase the pressure. The orgasm you lost starts building again. You feel it coiling deep in your belly, but it's not nearly enough to get you off just riding him like this.

He tries to help, tugging one of the buttons free on your shirt and mouthing gently at the swell of your breast. You moan, fingers sinking into his hair and keeping him there while your knee lifts high enough to brush at the bulge between his legs. Steve buries a groan between your tits, his hips bucking up before he can stop himself.

"Fuck," he grits out, forehead dropping to your chest. "That's not fair."

You smile into his hair and do it again, dragging your thigh slow and careful just beneath the heft of his balls. His head snaps back, tendons straining in his neck as a strangled moan rips from his throat.

"Babe, fuck—" he chokes out. "I'm serious. I'm gonna come in my fucking pants if you keep doing that."

Your hand drops between your bodies, finding his belt buckle by feel as you hold his gaze.

"Need you," you pant against his cheek, unlatching him. His head falls back against the chair as you work the button open next, then the zipper. He's rock hard by the time you're peeling the denim apart, a damp patch already darkening the fabric of his boxers.

Steve watches you with glazed eyes.

"Here?" he rasps, like he wasn't the one that started this.

Your answer is a hard kiss while your hand slips inside his boxers. He shudders out a moan into your mouth the second your fingers wrap around him. He's hot and thick in your palm, the head slick where he's already leaking. You hum softly against his lips while you give him a slow, gentle stroke.

"Jesus," he breathes, hips jerking up into your fist. You swallow the next filthy sound he makes, licking into his mouth while you twist your wrist on the upstroke.

"Wait, baby, wait—" He catches your hand. "Wanna be inside you."

You heave out a sigh of relief. Finally.

You release him and shift forward on his lap, lifting your hips while he shoves your panties to the side blind, your skirt covering both of you from the waist down. He grips himself at the base, dragging his tip through the dripping seam of you a few times to get himself nice and slick. Then your foreheads are pressing together, both panting as he eases toward your opening.

"Look at me," he whispers, his free hand reaching up to hold your face.

You look. His brown eyes are blown almost black, lashes dark and damp. Your hands find his face—a face you're wondering how you could've ever been mad at over a Coke can—and sweep your thumbs gently across his cheeks.

He pushes into you soft and slow.

Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Only a thin, shaking breath that he swallows with a kiss as he fills you. His hand drops down to cradle the curve of your ass, guiding you as you sink down onto him.

The stretch pulls a broken sound from somewhere low in your chest. Steve catches that against his lips too, kissing you deep and filthy while your bodies slowly connect, the front of your skirt bunching up between you.

"There you go," he groans when you finally take all of him. He wraps his arms around your waist and sighs into your neck, low and rough. "Fuck, you feel good."

You whine into his hair, unable to speak as you adjust to him. No matter how many times you've done this, he always splits you open at first, as careful as he is. His hands rub over your back in wide soothing circles as he presses kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your neck. All the little spots he knows makes you soft.

You sigh appreciatively, braving a slow, tentative roll of your hips when you're relaxed enough. The sensation drags a low groan out of you both. His fingers dig into the soft dough at your waist, guiding your rhythm until you find it on your own.

Your pace doesn't stay slow for long. The chair creaks beneath you as you ride him harder, his breath puffing soft and fast against your throat.

"Fuck, that's it," he growls. "Don't stop."

You don't stop. Not when you already feel the tension starting in your abs again. Your weight shifts as you try to deepen the angle to take more of him, and you gasp when you lean too far back.

His arm locks around you in an instant, hauling you flush against his chest without breaking the rhythm you've set.

"Here, baby," he pants, nose brushing yours. "Hold onto me. I got you."

Your arm loops around his shoulders and stays there, fingers twisting in his hair while he fucks up into you. Wet, slapping sounds fill the booth, but you can barely hear them while you're gasping his name. Your walls start to tighten around him, squeezing and clenching with each pump of his hips.

"Steve," you beg.

"I know, I know," he grits through his teeth. His hand snakes between you again. "Come on, honey. Give it to me."

He circles twice, and that's all it takes. Your spine locks, the orgasm tearing through you silently at first, mouth open with no sound, before you choke out a broken cry against his throat.

"Oh fuck—" His voice cracks as you clamp around his cock in helpless pulses. Steve locks his arms around you and pulls you down, burying himself deep before you feel the first hot spill of him inside you.

You gasp, still coming by the time he starts. Your chest heaves against his while he fills you up, stars swirling in your eyes with every twitch of his cock inside you. Steve crushes his face into your neck, muffling a low groan as he rides out the last waves, hips circling lazily while he empties himself into your soft, pretty pussy.

He holds you there as you both come down, your body limp and sated in his grasp. Slowly, your breathing evens out against his neck, his hand combing gently through the hair spilling down your back while he softens inside you.

You lift your head finally, just enough to look at him. His hair is even more of a wreck than it was before, half of it sticking out in every direction and the other half plastered to his forehead. You brush it back with a fond little laugh at how ruined he looks.

"You okay?" you murmur with a tilt of your head.

Steve blinks up at you, dazed. His lashes flutter like he's forgotten where he is for a second, and then a dopey grin spreads across his face.

"Mhm," he hums. "You?"

You nod, tucking a damp strand behind his ear. His eyes close at the touch, and you let your smile stretch a little wider.

"So," you say. "Are we done fighting?"

He cracks an eye open. "We were fighting?"

You flick his shoulder. He yelps and grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before you can do it again.

"Yes. Done fighting. I'll clean the whole apartment. Scrub the floors. Bleach the—"

"Just throw away your cans, Steve."

"I will throw away every can. Every single can. I'll throw away cans that aren't even mine."

Your eyes roll. "Steve."

"Neighbors' cans, too."

You snort, dropping your forehead against his. He catches your chin between his fingers and pulls you in for a lazy, salty kiss that sends a fresh lick of heat down your neck.

"Careful," you warn against his lips. "Or I might just—"

Down the hall, you both hear a door open.

"Is that—" he starts, eyes wide.

"Shit," you hiss, shifting in his lap and stopping when you feel the mess between your thighs. "How is she back already? We need… napkins. Or something."

Steve glances around the booth. His eyes land on Robin's stack of handwritten song request cards. He lifts one eyebrow.

You poke his chest. "No."

"She'd never know."

"Steve."

The doorknob rattles. You both freeze and look over slowly.

The man’s wet, ocean eyes flit between your face and the food in your lap. A rogue brown curl fell over his forehead as he nodded down towards you. “What’s, uh… What’s that?”

“My mortal enemy,” you answered gravelly, before turning away. “It’s a Pear Mille-Feuille… I thought maybe I could finally get it right before we closed…”

Carmy blinked owlishly at your profile. “…Well, did you?”

“Nope…” you answered through a heavy sigh, popping your lips together. “The pastry’s too soft. But somehow the pears are still overdone, so… I can’t win.”

Carmy looked it over with an inquisitive eye — the thin gold layers of puff pastry, all stacked neatly atop one another; pears poached to the perfect amber color; thick cream piped with a near impossible precision. It looked like something straight out of a magazine. And, if Carmy had to guess by how hard you were on yourself about the whole thing, it’s entirely likely you’d been published in one before.

“Well, it looks good, at least.”

“That’s only ‘cause you’re standing six feet away.”

Carmy scoffed a quiet laugh and found his breath coming more easily to him. “Here,” he offered, shoes scraping the worn pavement as he approached you. “Let me try it.”

Your head snapped in his direction. Your wide eyes raised to follow his form as he loomed suddenly over you, black blazer rippling in the cool, late-summer breeze. The night air filled suddenly with the scent of him — deep cologne, cigarette smoke, and nicotine gum.

“Wh…What?” you stammered.

“Sometimes you just need a fresh perspective, is all. Like, uh… A new pallet, you know?”

Carmy reached a tattooed hand in your direction, leaving little room for argument. You got the feeling that he must run a restaurant of his own as you passed him the ceramic plate, fingers trembling. You watched anxiously as he took the fork in his large hand and cut himself a slice of the pastry.

He shoveled it into his mouth — an explosion of butter, vanilla, pear, and caramel — the near-perfect balance of elegant and comforting. Just refined enough not to impose too much on itself. 

His cheek jut softly out as he chewed. He nodded to himself until the words caught up to him. “Yeah, this is… incredible, Chef,” he said through the mouthful, laughing slightly through his nose. The sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

You didn’t believe him, not entirely, but the line in your taut shoulders relaxed slightly at his praise anyway. Sometimes, feeding others felt like a leap of faith. Sometimes, feeding someone felt like handing over a piece of yourself to them, and hoping they found something worth keeping.

—

Months later, Carmy realizes that there are only two kinds of things a person holds onto in this world — things they can’t bear to lose, and things they never meant to keep.

Mikey belongs perpetually in the first category. And, ever since you started working here, he’s begun to realize that you belong in the second. Maybe that’s why he felt himself on the verge of a panic attack for the third time today, ‘cause he was spending his evening excavating his brother’s office like an archeological dig, and found himself surrounded by both at once.

This office had belonged to Mikey, and would be the last thing that ever truly did.

Carmy thinks, knows, that’s why he put off cleaning it out for so long — like keeping it exactly the way his brother left it would preserve his ghost there in some way. This place was practically his tomb, made of four concrete walls faded to the color of old dishwater, an ancient desk so cluttered you can barely see its surface, and a bunch of dented filing cabinets that haven’t been organized in at least three presidential administrations.

They’re all half empty now, organized in boxes with Mikey’s frantic scrawl left on every crumpled receipt, invoice, and payroll record. Soon this office would match the rest of the place — clean, sleek, erased — and what’s left of his brother would be gone.

Carmy slouches against the cool brick with his arms propped on his bent knees, holding the last of Mikey’s things in a tattooed hand. A prescription pill bottle with the label scratched off, which he found while grave-digging through the cabinet drawers. He clutches it tight in his fist, holding the remnants of addiction as if it were his brother’s hand.

The grey, mildew-and-coffee-scented abyss of his grief is abated only by the sound of your laughter, which bounces off the concrete walls and finds him like the rays of milky-orange sunlight filtering through the stained window above his head, which turns his wild curls a more golden shade of brown.

His heavy ocean eyes lift and find you instantly — the way they always seemed to do — and his features flood with horror when he finds you with his sketchbook in your hands.

“What’s all this?” you wonder with a quiet laugh, beneath the subtle thwipping of the pages as you flick through them with your thumb.

Inside are random lists, phone numbers, and mock-ups for the restaurant, all in Carmy’s scrawled handwriting. Then you stumble upon a series of sloppy portraits — some of them of the others in the kitchen; most of them of you, like he was trying to capture you just right.

They feel like memories in some way, moments stolen when no one else was looking. They’re slightly messy, as if drawn by a loose and absentminded hand. It’s quite strange, looking at yourself from another person’s perspective. But even still, you don’t think you’ve ever looked so pretty, so alive, than on these pages of smudged ink.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

Carmy shrugs lazily with his pink mouth softly jutted, feigning an air of indifference despite the red tint speckling across his cheeks.

“I can’t,” he mumbles through a huff as he stands to full height again, bracing himself on the cleared-out desk beside him. He tucks the pill bottle into the front pocket of his slacks and clears his throat when he feels his pulse skipping there. “N-Not really.”

“Well, I beg to differ,” you scoff and turn another page.

Another scribbled portrait of you sits in the center, drawn in blue ink this time. You’ve got the eraser end of a pencil in your mouth and another sitting behind your ear, concentrating on coming up with a new dessert menu. You were captured quite beautifully, even in your subtle frustration. “I didn’t think I was capable of looking this good until now.”

“You look good all the time,” he dismisses quietly, curls swaying when he shakes his head at you.

He grimaces at himself right after the words spill from his lips, face flaring hotter when the expression on your face shifts slightly in response to them. He lacks the courage to meet your eyes as he looms before you, smelling of stale cologne and sweat from days of renovation.

“What do you, uh— What do you usually draw?” you stammer and pass the sketchbook back to him.

“I don’t know…” Carmy mutters. “Whatever’s, you know, on my mind, I guess—”

Your heart lurches in your chest, both at his words and at the office door slamming suddenly open across the room. Your heads snap to the side in tandem to find Richie towering in the narrow doorway. “Cousin, I swear to god, I’m about to fuckin’ lose it, man—”

“You’re so dramatic, Richie, jeez…” Sydney sighs as she walks past him and further into the newly renovated kitchen, to busy herself with actual work.

Carmy hangs his head and closes his eyes, digging his thumb and forefinger into the sockets in a quiet frustration. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come to me with any problems while I was in here—”

“I know that,” Richie shrugs. “It’s not a problem.

“—I don’t have time for this shit right now, Rich.”

“Well, it’s not a fuckin’ problem, Carm! What do you want me to say?” the older man repeats, louder now.

“It’s literally a problem,” Syd monotones from somewhere further inside the kitchen.

“Well, Ms. Know-It-All over here wants less tables in the dining room— says it’ll fuckin’… make it more systematic or whatever, I don’t know,” Richie rambles, gesturing wildly with his hands. “But I told her we’re opening a restaurant here. Not a library. More seats means more customers, which means more money— Which we’re slowly running out of, might I add!”

He turns over his shoulder to yell into the kitchen. You wince when his voice bounces off the bare concrete walls.

“Yeah, Syd’s right,” Carmy nods.

“Thank you!” the girl calls distantly.

Richie blinks slowly in offense. “…What?”

“Syd’s right—”

“No, I heard you—”

“Then why’d you say what—?”

“‘Cause you’re fucking with me,” Richie scoffs an emotionless, half-delirious laugh.

“I’m trying to be efficient here, Rich—”

“You’re all fucking with me—”

“We can turn over tables quicker if there’s less of them,” Carmy explains, much more calmly in response, though there’s a sudden bite behind his words that you don’t miss. He keeps one hand propped on his waist while his other gestures with the sketchbook between his fingers. “Which means more customers, which means more money, which… we are running out of…”

Richie laughs like it’s funny. “Well, that’s real funny, Carm, ‘cause I bet if I brought Claire-Bear in here, and she agreed with me — which she would, by the way — you’d change your mind like that—”

Carmy flinches when the man lifts his hand to snap in his face. He swats him away with a little more aggression than probably necessary. “Get your hand out of my face— What are you twelve?”

“Yeah, you’re mad ‘cause you know I’m right.”

Your head tilts to the side like an intrigued puppy at the foreign name, which you haven’t yet become acquainted with in your weeks working here. Your wide eyes dart between the two men in front of you. Your smile trembles slightly at the edges.

“Who’s… Who’s Claire-Bear?”

Carmy’s head snaps in your direction. His mouth parts, but nothing comes out for an embarrassing fraction of a second, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. Bringing her up in front of you feels wrong in a way he can’t explain.

“She’s uh… She’s— She’s no one,” Carmy stammers.

“Oh, please,” Richie scoffs, dark blue eyes flitting in your direction. “She’s his girlfriend.”

Your stomach sinks, even despite Carmy’s arguing.

“For the last time, she’s not my fucking girlfriend. Richie—”

“Well, not for lack of tryin’, cousin—”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Carmy repeats, this time only to you. There’s a solemn look in his light eyes, like he’s trying to make sure you really hear him. “She’s, you know, an old friend. A family friend. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Richie laughs. “I bet Claire-Bear would love to hear that.”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Carmy spits.

“Oh, there you are.” A softer, deeper, more foreign voice breaks through the boyish bickering in an instant. Luca appears in the doorway behind Richie — golden locks pushed over his forehead, physically built beneath his white undershirt, looking a lot less plagued by the chaos of the kitchen than the rest of them. His pink lips quirk into a smile at the sight of you. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you— I need an expert opinion on this lemon-blueberry trifle I’m trying out.”

“Yeah, put this girl out of her misery. Please,” Richie scoffs drily, then turns back to you with a warm, sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “I apologize for my cousin, Sunshine. I did warn you he could be a bit of an asshole—”

“Richie.”

“It’s… okay,” you murmur with a sheepish laugh, before glancing over at Carmy beneath your lashes in a sheepish look. “Are you… okay in here?”

Carmy’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s about to say the exact opposite of what he really means. He feels his chest stinging with a pinch of misplaced jealousy — because he knows you spent time in Copenhagen with Luca some years back, and the idea of someone knowing parts of you that he doesn’t feels a little like a punch to the stomach.

“Yeah,” he nods anyway, slightly strangled, like his body’s trying to keep him from saying the words. “Yeah, I got the rest of it. Go ahead.”

You flash the boy a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes as you go. Carmy watches you trail behind Luca out of the office and back towards the dessert station. Richie watches Carmy watch you.

“So about the tables—”

“Enough about the fucking tables, Richie!”

II. ORANGE BLOSSOM HONEY.

There were only two times in your entire life that you swore you’d never bake again: first, when you got your first scathing review that sent you on a downward spiral for longer than you’d like to admit, and second, when Ever closed down for good.

There was still joy in it, somewhere deep down, you just couldn’t find it anymore. Honestly, you had trouble finding it most days in most anything. Which is probably why Luca told you to give The Bear a shot in the first place.

“I’ll tell him you’re stopping by, alright?” he’d told you over the phone that evening. “Just talk to Carmy. See the place out. And if you hate it, I will personally fly myself across the Atlantic so you can say ‘I told you so’ to my face.”

“That sounds very expensive, Lu.”

“Well, it’d be worth every penny.”

So there you were, weaving through a restaurant that seemed more abandoned than not — as though someone had taken a perfectly good kitchen and detonated a small explosive in the center of it. Walls had been torn down. Floors were covered in sawdust. Extension cords snaked across the room like vines. The smell of drywall and fresh paint grew stronger the further you went.

For a moment, you worried that no one was inside waiting for you, and that you had accidentally committed a breaking and entering — until you spotted a curly-haired stranger hunched over a metal counter in the not-quite kitchen, scribbling at a notepad with his pen.

He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, dark curls hanging over his eyes. A mixture of surprise and confusion flashed in his gaze, brows raising and lowering again.

You lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “Hi…”

“Hey…”

“I’m sorry. I let myself in— I… I tried to knock, but I guess you couldn’t… hear me…” You trailed off with a wavering smile, scratching anxiously at the back of your neck. “Uh, Luca was supposed to call you, I think...”

Realization flooded the sharp edges of Carmy’s face.

“Oh. Right,” he nodded. “Yeah, for the, uh...”

“Yeah…”

Carmy swallowed hard, tapping his pen along his palm, no more anxious than you are now. “Well, uh, I— I hope he warned you that we don’t have much of a kitchen yet...”

“Yeah…” you answered with a breathless laugh, eyes wandering across the spray-painted tarps hanging as makeshift walls as you strolled further inside. “I just… I thought he was exaggerating a little bit.”

A short laugh escaped him then as he rounded the counter in front of him. “Yeah, this is— basically a construction zone more than a kitchen at this point, so… Sorry in advance.”

“Well, if we’re sharing apologies, I’m sorry for not bringing a résumé,” you confessed sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s gaze when he stood before you. The scent of paint and sawdust clung heavily to his navy sweatshirt. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want me working here.”

“C’mon. I know your résumé,” Carmy scoffed. “I’ve actually eaten your food before, remember?”

“The desert I was crying over at Ever, you mean?”

His lip twitched into a soft smile before he turned away, too shy to say this to your face:“Well, in my opinion, something that perfect is worth crying over.”

You grinned at the back of him, wider than you realized. “You’re still sparing my feelings after all this time…”

Carmy planted himself on the right wing end of the soon-to-be kitchen and turned to face you again. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but… This is gonna be our dessert station. Hopefully. If this entire place doesn’t cave in—”

‘Ours,’ he said, as if it were already yours in some way, too.

“—That’s a joke. Sorta,” he said, scratching at the back of his wild curls. He glanced up at you once more. “Have you tried making it again since we met?” he wondered suddenly. “You know that… pear… mill-fill thing?”

A giggle sputtered from your lips before you could stop it. Your hand flew to your mouth, as if you were trying to put it inside.

Carmy grinned shyly at having earned the pretty sound, despite his mild embarrassment. He fidgeted with the pen in his tattooed hands and gave you a sheepish look in response. “Help me out here…”

“It’s French,” you told him. “It’s mee-fwee.”

His brows lowered with a visible hesitation. “Mee… foy…”

“Close enough,” you laughed with a shake of your head. “And, to answer your question, no. I haven’t made it again. And I probably never will— I’m too fragile for another defeat.”

The grin that tugged at the corner of Carmy’s mouth then was brief, but no less genuine. “You will,” he said, like some kind of an oath, with so much conviction you couldn’t help but believe him.

—

“You seem happier here.”

Luca’s observation comes suddenly. His English-deep voice cuts through the soft quiet of the empty restaurant, renovated to near completion now. The two of you lie supine on the cool hardwood, the tops of your heads nearly brushing, as you put together Carmy’s newest splurge — which his uncle called “expensive, ergonomic, fuckin’ hippie tables.” You screw each bolt in by hand. You can feel your fingers threatening to cramp around the screwdriver clutched between them.

“Happier than Copenhagen, I mean,” he continues.

You scoff. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure any version of me is happier than I was in Copenhagen…”

“Oh, c’mon…” Luca lilts lowly. “I wasn’t that bad company, was I?”

“You know it wasn’t about you…” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know…”

It was the fault of that goddamn critic, and the devastating review he left that seemed to compliment everything but your work alone.“The pear mille-feuille reads less like a dessert and more like a young chef begging for validation,” the publication read. “For all its technical accomplishment, the pastry never once feels human. It is difficult to imagine, dear reader, a pastry with so much insecurity baked into each of its layers.”

Your world seemed to shrink after that. The singular paragraph of disapproval lodged itself somewhere deep within your psyche, along with all the cynicism and sorrow that built a home inside you, too. Every other failed recipe somehow led back to it, and every success thereafter felt purely accidental — until, eventually, baking stopped being fun and started being the one thing most capable of hurting you.

It hollowed you from the inside out. You worked the kitchen like a ghost returning to its haunt. You wanted to quit, in virtually every sense of the word, and it was Chef Andrea who convinced you to stay — by sending you four thousand miles away to Copenhagen, that is, to remember a world without critics and service and non-stop perfection; to remember what it felt like to exist without constantly needing to prove yourself.

It was there that you met Luca, who taught you what it meant to approach food with curiosity again. And it was here now, in the bones of The Bear, that reminded you how to love the work again — the simple joy of making something with your bare hands and sharing it with the people who mattered most.

“I’m just glad you didn’t stop cooking…” Luca continues with a quiet grunt in the back of his throat as he slides out from under the table. “And I’m glad Chef Andrea sent you over to my neck of the woods.”

“Let me?” you scoff, tilting your head back against the floor to look at the boy upside down. “She practically forced me on that plane.”

“Best thing she ever did,” the boy croons with an air of sarcasm to mask his sincerity. He rises to full height and dusts his palms off on his slacks. “I’m headed out for the night… Need a ride?”

“I think I’m gonna stay here for a while…” you sigh.

“Suit yourself,” he huffs and walks away. “Just don’t overdo it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I will be very upset with you,” he deadpans with faux-solemnity.

“Oh, the horror!” you call to his disappearing figure, right before the door shuts behind him.

Silence returns when he’s gone. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh, a held breath you didn’t know you were keeping, as you return to your work — twisting the screwdriver in your fist and reveling in the burn in your wrist, the only thing keeping you from thinking.

About that critic. About Copenhagen. About Carmy’s sketchbook, about Carmy and the girl called Claire-Bear.

You rise onto your elbows with a huff when you’re done, stretching out the aching tendons in your neck. You vaguely hear the kitchen door swishing open and shut again before a sudden voice calls out. “Oh, hey—”

The sound of Carmy’s voice startles you for a reason you can’t name. You sit further up on instinct and slam your head against the table with a whack that jostles one of the screws.

“Ow...” you whimper.

“Shit—” Carmy rushes to your side, catching the wooden top when it wavers. His long, tattooed fingers curl around the edge of it to keep its weight from falling back on you. He ducks his head to look at you, features twisting with a sympathetic grimace as you rub at your aching forehead. “Sorry… Didn’t mean to scare you…”

“You didn’t scare me…” you assure him weakly.

His mouth lifts into an amused half-smile. “No?”

You shrug, lips jutted in feigned apathy despite the newfound pounding in your skull. “Not even a little bit...”

Carmy’s grin widens, but he makes no further argument. He just crouches down in front of you and keeps the tabletop steady while you lie back to realign its leg. You spend the next minute or so screwing the loose bolts back into the blanched oak, hands going clammy around the screwdriver at the proximity between you now. The air grows considerably warmer accordingly, filled with the familiar scent of him — of cologne, garlic, and cigarette smoke. You have to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

“You, uh— You never told me,” Carmy starts suddenly, as if he’d been sitting on the words for some time and only now got the courage to say them. He swipes at his nose with the back of his free hand and mumbles shyly behind his fingers.“About, you know, why you almost didn’t come here… Why you went to Copenhagen...”

Your breath hitches faintly in throat. You hope he doesn’t notice. The screw twisting itself back into the pale wood above you becomes the most interesting thing in the room. “It never came up…” you answer quietly. “It was stupid anyway…”

“No, what the asshole critic said was stupid.”

You turn your head against the floor to flash him a playful look, hiding behind the veil of your sarcasm. “There you go again…”

“There I go again?” he echoes.

“Sparing my feelings.”

“No, I— I’m serious.” Carmy stammers with a breathless laugh. “And I know I’m right because I’ve had your stuff before.”

“Yeah,” you scoff and turn away again. “That stupid fucking pear dish that I still can’t get right.”

“No, it was, uh…” Carmy trails off and shakes his head, going distant with recollection. He rests the elbow of his free arm on his bent knee and drops his wild head into his palm. He digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as he struggles to recall the name. “It was, uh… It was the— the Bordeaux, I think?”

He lifts his head to glance down at you once more. Your arms fall to your lap, eyes narrowing in confusion as your lip twitches into a shock half-smile. “The Canalé de Bordeaux?” you repeat with much more ease.

“Yeah,” Carmy nods, brown curls swaying. “It was right before I took over here— when I was, you know, eating everywhere I could, trying to learn as much as I could, and I…” His mouth lifts into a distant smile; his eyes glaze over at the memory. “I didn’t even place it until you made it for the kitchen the other day… Don’t think I would’ve noticed otherwise…”

“That was… God, that was forever ago,” you say with a laugh of disbelief, rising back up onto your eblows. “I’m surprised you remember it now.”

“I remember everything,” Carmy shrugs.

“That sounds… terrifying,” you scoff.

“It is. Sometimes,” he jokes with a breathy chuckle. “But, I don’t know… Now I’m starting to think it’s not so bad…”

His light eyes lock with yours. You lose your breath almost instantly, chest aching as your lungs struggle to find it again. You feel like the distance between you has vanished in a blink; each of your breaths feels like inhaling him in some way. You feel like you can taste him, almost, and your mouth waters at the thought alone, parting for his on instinct.

With your heavy eyes settled on his glassy ones, you catch the soft blue of his irises flick down to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You want so desperately for him to kiss you. And you hate how badly you need it.

“I-I don’t think this is a good idea,” you hear yourself blurt.

Carmy’s brows lower in confusion as you scramble suddenly out from under the table. You rise to full height on shaky legs and place several feet of distance between the two of you, crossing your arms over your chest in a feeble attempt to soothe your racing heart.

Carmy rises slowly from his crouched position, blinking the lingering haze from his eyes. “Wha… What are you talking about?” he stammers with his hands splayed in front of him, approaching you again the way someone would a stray puppy.

“Because of, you know… Because of… Claire.” You whisper the name like it’s a curse of some kind.

The confusion etched on his features only deepens further. “Claire?” he echoes, face screwed. “Wh—What does Claire have to do with this? Claire is— Claire is nobody—”

“Does she know that?” you press, brows raised.

“Yes!” he answers without missing a beat. “Because nothing ever happened between us! Because nothing will ever happen between us! Because I— I’m not into her that way!”

“That… way?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, tattooed biceps straining against the sleeves of his undershirt as he rests his hands on his hips. “You know, the— The way I’m into…”

He trails off when he catches himself. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His unwavering stare bores into yours as he weighs the words in his head, wondering briefly if he should say them aloud. His wild curls sway as he shakes his head to himself. “You know what. Fuck it. The way I’m— The way I’m into you.”

Your chest warms at his words. So furiously, it feels someone has taken a white-hot blade and pierced your sternum with it. You can feel the heart flaring in your face, too, as your mouth curls into a wide, slightly apprehensive smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carmy nods firmly, though something in his gaze seems distantly surprised by his own forwardness. He scratches at the back of his curls and looks down at the table just beside you. “Are you, uh— Are we you good here?”

You nod rapidly until the words to speak catch up to you. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” he hums. “Do you… Do you need a ride, or…?”

You hesitate on instinct, nose scrunching sheepishly. “If it’s not too far out of your way…”

Carmy scoffs like it’s funny. “You’re never too far out of my way,” he says and turns on the heel of his sneaker to walk away, as if he hadn’t just taken all the breath from your lungs right with him.

III. ALMOND PRALINE.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pressed your back hard into the rough brick behind you, letting it snag against your chef whites in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. You tipped your head back for further assistance, and fought every instinct that told you to beat your skull against the concrete as your heart thrummed wildly in your throat — as though it were trying to burst through the delicate tendon there altogether.

Adrenaline soared through your veins. The starry night air refused to pierce through your burning skin, face burning red-hot while your fingers turned to ice.

You had survived a million dinner services much harder than this one, The Bear’s very first. You had survived Carmy’s anger, Richie’s shouting, and the entire kitchen learning how to operate itself. But it was the food critic that nearly killed you — the man who came in older than you remembered, greyer, and a little skinnier than you recall.

It took you a long moment to remember to breathe as you watched Fak seat him through the kitchen window. “I need you back at your station, Chef,” you heard Carmy telling you from the expo, though his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “Back at your station, Chef! Now!”

You listened, but your body seemed to work on autopilot. You broke out the baking sheet, the jelly roll pan, and the perforated pastry tray without thinking. You patted out the puff pastry and fired the pears like it was muscle memory to you. You had Richie deliver it to the man, on the house, and tried to expel the rest of it from your mind.

You forgot how to be human thereafter, hardly more useful than a fumbling ball of panic. Carmy told you to get out of the kitchen when you dropped a bowl of sourdough starter you’d been tending to for nearly two months. And now there you were, post-shift, with all the anxiety of a prey animal being hunted for sport.

And the worst part was, you couldn’t tell if you were terrified or exhilarated. Or both.

The heavy metal door beside you squeaked slowly open. A familiar voice broke through the memory. “There you are…” Carmy hummed as he walked out, chef coat hanging open, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tattooed arms.

His wild curls were still damp from sweat and steam, glowing a more golden shade beneath the amber streetlights. The exhaustion of the shift seemed to carve into all the chiseled edges of his face. But his eyes were heavy with relief at finally being alone with you all the same.

You grew sheepish as he stood before you, struggling to meet his gaze like a scolded child. “I’m sorry, by the way. For… all that.”

Carmy shrugged and cupped his palm around the cigarette he pinched into his mouth. His lighter clicked a few times before it lit, basking his features in a flicker orange hue. “It happens,” he mumbled before inhaling the nicotine into his lungs. The grey smoke left through his nostrils a few seconds later as he flashed you a sterner look. “Just don’t let it happen again, Chef.”

You nodded once. “Heard, Chef…”

Carmy flicked the orange filter with his thumb. His eyes fell to your lap, where you wrung your hands together in a feeble attempt to keep them from trembling. Concern surged through his chest instantly.

“Jeez,” he mumbled.

Your eyes followed his form as he crouched to set the newly-lit cig to the sidewalk, leaving it burning there as he rose to full height again.

“What?”

“Your hands… You’re shaking…” He closed the brief distance between you and took your hands in his warmer, larger ones. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. You’re still getting used to touching him so freely. “God, you’re ice cold.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Because my nervous system is shot.”

Carmy began to rub the warmth back into your fingertips. His palms felt like velvet, calloused from years of burns and knives and hard labor. The gesture was so gentle that it made you feel the crying. Again.

“He liked it, you know,” he told you. “The critic, I mean.”

Your stomach fell as anxiety flooded your veins once more. “I appreciate the sentiment, Carm, but… You can’t know that…”

“No, he said it. Cousin cornered him on the way out— asked him about it,” Carmy confessed. “And after he answered, Richie defended you. Said the guy was an asshole, and that he was a pretty shit critic if he didn’t know what good food tasted like.”

Another startled laugh sputtered from your lips. “That means we’re definitely getting a bad review outta him, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But it’ll be worth it.”

Quiet settled between you. The city grew louder on either side of you in its wake — wind whipping warmly down the alley, cars passing distantly, a train rattling against the tracks somewhere further away. Carmy still hadn’t let go of your hands; he just kept holding you there as his eyes flicked down to your mouth.

He spent a long moment just staring, as if silently trying to will some courage into his body.

Your lips curled slowly into a sheepish smile. “You gonna kiss me, Bear?” you wondered lowly, almost inaudibly.

He nodded for a moment, then pinched his brows to ask. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I always want you to kiss me,” you laughed.

His mouth twitched shyly. “Then get over here then.”

Your chest swelled when he urged you forward with a gentle tug at your hands. You pressed yourself to his chest as his mouth ducked down to yours, tasting of nicotine and garlic and boy. You moaned at the feeling of him against you, fingers twisting in his silky brown curls. His larger, tattooed hands splayed along your waist, a little less confident in comparison.

The metal door shrieked open once more with little warning. The droning of ten different conversations filled the air as the rest of the kitchen staff spilled out all at once. You and Carmy sprang apart quickly, losing any and all ability to play it off.

The conversation quietened in an instant. You turned away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and refusing to meet their eyes. The three or more seconds of silence that went by felt like a lifetime, until—

“Pay up, assholes!” Richie shouted, fist pumping triumphantly in the air. He continued gloating through the chorus of laughter and groans of failure. “I knew you idiots were dating, and everyone acted like I was losing my mind! But the house always wins, baby!”

—

Carmy sat along the top of the booth with a plate of Canalé de Bordeaux in his lap. Family was your turn tonight, and you’d opted to make the first dish of yours that Carmy had ever tried for the rest of the kitchen. No one knows just how much tenderness is cooked into the caramelized crust and soft custard. No one, perhaps, other than Carmy.

His sneakers dig into the smooth pleather booth below as he props his back against the wall behind him. The rum-vanilla dish melts in his mouth as he surveys the bustling dining area, filled with his family and friends, some of whom were halfway strangers to him a few years ago. His eyes fall to you without trying as you deliver an alcohol-free dessert to a heavily pregnant Sugar. A distant smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your lips move with a conversation he can’t hear from here.

The soul music playing on the radio drowns out your conversation, but not the sound of Richie’s voice as he slides into the booth next to Carmy. His long, graceless limbs bump against the table as he goes, trying to cut a bite of dessert to shovel into his mouth at the same time.

Annoyance twists in the younger boy’s features on instinct. “I’m not cleaning that up if you spill it—”

“I’m not gonna spill it!” Richie argues boyishly, with his mouth full of food, as he settles into the booth a few inches from Carmy’s sneakers. He nudges the boy’s leg with his elbow. “And get your feet off my booth, you fuckin’ animal... Jeez, I don’t know what that girl sees in you…”

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole…”

“No, I’m serious!” the older man laughs with amusement glittering in his dark blue eyes. He shovels another too-big bite into his cheek and talks through the yellow custard clinging to the sides of his mouth. “I don’t know how you managed to pull that off, cousin— There’s no way you even know what to do with all that.”

Richie turns away, still laughing through his nose at his own stupid joke. He cuts himself another bite, already calculating a retort to Carmy’s inevitable argument on the matter — only one never comes.

The younger boy just stabs absentmindedly at his plate, distracting himself from the topic under the guise of forming the perfect bite.

Richie pauses with his own fork to his mouth. He turns slowly over his shoulder, brows raising to his hairline until four wrinkles line his forehead. “Oh, shit,” he scoffs after a few moments. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Shut up…” Carmy murmurs under his breath, taking another aggressive bite.

“Oh, c’mon! Don’t tell me you’re not gettin’ your dick wet, Carm—”

“Keep your voice down, fuck-o!” he spits through his mouthful, eyes darting anxiously to make sure no one else had heard him — that you hadn’t somehow heard him, from your spot all the way across the room, laughing with Sugar and Tina. Carmy turns away with a lazy shrug. “We’re just… We’re taking things slow. Not that it concerns you, FYI.”

“Well, FYI, you guys have been dating for months—”

“Oh, thanks for keeping track. I had no idea.”

“—And if she isn’t getting it with you, she’s gotta be getting it from someone else,” Richie rambles absentmindedly as he turns back to his plate. “I mean, I don’t even swing this way, obviously, but if I were a chick, I’d be all over that Luca guy—”

Carmy’s chest stings with a misplaced jealousy. He shouldn’t listen to Richie; he trusts you far too much for any of that. But maybe it’s his own lingering insecurity coming through — the cynicism that always lingers in the back of his head like a shadow, telling him that he’s unworthy of touching you, and then berating him for not being man enough to try.

He huffs. “Well, this is making me feel a whole lot better, cousin. Thank you.”

“I’m just sayin’!” Richie says, muffled through the dessert wadded in his cheek. “She’s obviously crazy about you, man— She looks at you like you hung the fuckin’ moon! I’m just sayin’, you know, trust your instincts. That’s all.”

“…Trust my instincts?” Carmy monotones.

“Yeah,” the older man shrugs. “You’re a chef. Isn’t that supposed to be, like, your whole thing?”

Carmy just blinks at him. “Your point?”

“My point is… She likes you. And you like her— I’m pretty sure half of Chicago knows that by now. So just… Stop getting in your own damn way before you ruin somethin’ good, alright? She picked you, cousin—”

Carmy leans back when Richie gestures too closely with his fork.

“So if you can’t trust your own judgment, at least trust hers.”

Richie’s words pierce him almost physically, giving him that surge of courage he’d been lacking these past few months with you. It makes him want to stop dissecting each of his feelings, for once, until they’re just lying there ahead of him, dead and useless.

Carmy’s light eyes narrow suspiciously. “You know… You’ve gotten, like, really good at giving advice since becoming house manager. You know that?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s freaking me out, too,” Richie deadpans, stabbing at his plate. “Sometimes I hear myself talk and I’m like, who the fuck said that?”

IV. PUFF PASTRY.

The first time you spent the night at his place, Carmy had a panic attack.

It started as a dream, or a nightmare, or maybe a memory. It played through static like an old film — Christmas Eve at the Berzatto house, beneath glowing Christmas lights and smoke from his mother’s cigarettes and something she burnt on the stove. He could smell the nicotine hanging in the hair, and the thick smell of tomato sauce, and Cicero’s expensive nose-stinging cologne.

Carmy was sitting at the head of the table, unable to move from his chair. The rest around him were empty, save for the one at the opposite end. Mikey’s seat. The ghost of his brother was laughing one moment, then screaming at him, then crying the next. Carmy was terrified — the kind of terrified he got as a kid when his mother got in another one of her moods — but he was comforted, at the very least, that his brother was here.

Alive.

Then the lights went out, for only a fraction of a second. And the Christmas lights were glowing again, but his brother’s seat was empty. And the silence was worse than the screaming.

Carmy woke with a sharp breath to a bedroom filled with a navy blue darkness. He rose to his elbows, chest aching as he waited, for a fleeting moment, for the Christmas lights to come back on. Then he realized that he was back in his bedroom, and his brother’s still dead; but you were beside him now, and that was enough.

As his eyes adjusted, he found you lying beside him, bathed in the dim glow of the muted streetlamp outside his window. You’d kicked off the sheets, revealing the expanse of your bare legs and the softness of your stomach from where your shirt had ridden up — one of his, which you wore with a plain pair of cotton underwear. Your mouth was softly parted; your breathing was even and slow.

He tried to match each of your exhales, but the panic dug deeper into his chest. His lungs refused to fill properly. His skin felt too tight. The air was too hot, but his teeth were still chattering. He couldn’t ask you for help if he tried.

The walls spun around him as he rushed immediately to the kitchen. He bent over the sink, gripping the counter hard enough to blanch his knuckles with one hand, while his other scooped handfuls of freezing water into his mouth. He was not sure how much it was helping.

The muscles in his back tensed when a warm hand settled suddenly between his shoulder blades. Carmy didn’t realize you’d followed him out until then; until he heard your voice in his ear, cutting through the wild pounding of his heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Just keep breathing. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

His breath came easier to him after that. The kitchen soon filled with the sound of his trembling pants and the loud hissing of the kitchen sink. Carmy’s shoulders loosened slowly under your hand.

“Do you need me to do something?” you wondered quietly.

He shook his head, curls hanging over his eyes from where he was still hunched over. “No, I— I got it— I’m… I’m good now.”

He waved you off with a trembling hand. You couldn’t help but notice the way he avoided your gaze; the way he fought every instinct to tense again when you rubbed along his spine. You wondered if you were only making it worse.

“Do you want me to go—?”

“No,” Carmy blurted instantly. His head snapped in your direction. He blinked back at you with wet ocean eyes. “Please. D-Don’t go. I just— I had a bad dream. I’m okay, I swear.”

You didn’t look convinced, and, honestly, neither did he.

“No, you’re not, Bear…” you murmured gently, with a sleepy smile that bordered on sympathetic. But you didn’t ask him to explain the feelings he didn’t have the words for. You just stood beside him and asked if he wanted breakfast.

—

Carmy’s apartment always smelled different when you were in it. Less like an ashtray and more like warm sugar, and your fruit-sweet perfume, and whatever sweet treat you’d spent the service dreaming about. Tonight, it was homemade churros.

Carmy can smell it down the hall when he exits the bathroom. The shower steam mixes with that sweet cinnamon wafting from the kitchen — where he finds you standing at the stove, tapping a socked foot to the synth pop on the radio, and stirring a pot of glossy chocolate syrup with a wooden spoon.

“Only a psychopath spends all night cooking just to come home and cook some more,” he says to announce his presence as he leans against the doorway, replacing his uniform with a sweatshirt and a pair of plaid boxers. “You know that, right?”

“What can I say?” you grin as you glance over your shoulder at him. “You’re rubbing off on me, Bear.”

Carmy exhales a quiet laugh and spends a long moment just watching you, with all the attentiveness of someone who watched sunsets come or go or mapped constellations in the starry sky. You occupied his kitchen as if you’d been there this whole time, in a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to your elbows, big enough to hide the less-than-flattering underwear you’re wearing beneath it. You look like home, in every sense of the word.

“You know…” Carmy starts lowly, swiping at the tip of his nose with his thumb. “For a while there… I kinda thought I was done with all this…”

Your spoon slows as it slides along the bottom of the pan. “…What do you mean?”

“Cooking,” he answers. “There was a stretch where I couldn’t even look at a stove without… hoping it would blow up.”

He laughs at himself, though, admittedly, the words sound slightly more concerning leaving his lips than they did in his head. He swallows hard, grateful when you don’t press him on the matter. You just eye him with a carefulness that makes him shift his weight on his bare feet — uncomfortable at being so foreignly vulnerable.

He crosses his arms over his chest in a childlike attempt to hide, scratching along the expanse of his bicep. “Yeah, I, uh… I just— didn’t enjoy it anymore. I didn’t enjoy anything anymore.”

“What changed?” you press gently.

“You came around,” he confesses. “And I watched you learn to love it again— have fun again, and it made… realize why I loved doing what I do.”

Your mouth lifts in a sheepish half-smile. You turn away, grinning wide at the pot of dark chocolate below as it ripples beneath the spoon.

“Well, I probably wouldn’t have learned to have fun again if I didn’t start working at The Bear…” you tell him. “It’s very likely I would’ve stopped baking altogether. I mean, Copenhagen was great and all, but… you, and Syd, and Richie— watching all of you work… I feel like I could do this forever…”

Carmy’s eyes soften as he watches you. A strange emotion surges warmly through his chest and up into his throat. He feels like he could cry.

“Yeah,” he hums, half-strangled. “Me too…”

Your smile turns shy when you look back at him, nodding your head to beckon him over. “C’mere. Come try this.”

Carmy obeys instantly, as if every muscle and bone in his body was made to be under your command. You twist the spoon to gather the liquid chocolate and hold it out toward him, cupping your free hand beneath it to catch any rogue drizzles. Carmy’s pink mouth parts for a taste — the syrup is warm on his tongue, silky and rich as it coats his mouth.

A low sound of approval sounds in the back of his throat. His damp curls sway as he nods.

Your smile widens instantly, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Hell yeah.”

His smile falters slightly when your free hand reaches suddenly towards him. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, gathering the bit of chocolate lingering on the corner there. You press the pad of it to his lips without thinking, and Carmy drags his tongue against it just the same.

The motion was more instinctive than not. He didn’t realize how charged the moment was until your eyes flickered with it — going glassy and heavy in an instant. Even still, you don’t part from his stare as you bring your hand to your mouth, licking the remnants of chocolate on your thumb that was more of Carmy’s spit than anything.

Carmy’s ocean eyes darken in a flash. The cynical, uncertain thing that lingered in him like a shadow seemed to vanish, as his racing heart lurched with an emotion that bordered on primitive. He decides not to think — to follow his instinct, as it were.

He ducks down to kiss you, hard, with the bridge of his nose smushing against the side of yours and his tongue licking into your mouth.The spoon in your hand clatters hopelessly to the tile floor when he urges you back against the counter with a pair of wide hands splayed along your waist.

Behind you, the chocolate continues to simmer.

V. SPICED PEARS.

The first time Carmy had tasted any part of you was at Ever.

It wasn’t long after Mikey died, and he was making his tour around the city to try new food — seeing what changed and what hadn’t — and trying to take his mind off all the rest. He sat alone at a small square table, finishing up his lemon chicken piccata, when another plate was slid suddenly in front of him.

“Oh, I— I didn’t order this,” he stammered.

Then his eyes lifted to find Chef Terry standing before him, with a smile much gentler than he remembered.

“This one’s on the house,” she’d told him. She did not mention the death of his brother, but Carmy knew that was likely why she came over. “Figured you might appreciate something with a wee bit of alcohol in it. I had our pastry chef whip it up for you—” Her eyes flickered with warmth at the mention of you, who Carmy had not yet met. “I’m quite proud of that one.”

She left him with a pat on the back and nothing more. Carmy eyed the dessert before him, studying it.

The burnished bronze pastry sat on the small plate ahead of him like a tiny piece of architecture. The caramel on the ridged exterior gleamed in the candlelight. The shell cracked audibly beneath his fork, a delicate snap that most chefs spend weeks trying to perfect. The inside yielded immediately — golden custard oozing from its center.

Carmy scooped a bite into his mouth, and his world stopped for a fraction of a moment.

The deeply caramelized sugar hit his palate like a memory; a taste of nostalgia accompanied by a satisfying crunch. The silken custard melted on his tongue, rich with vanilla and warm with dark rum. A brittle shell followed by an impossibly soft heart.

Carmy thought, at the time, that it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

But it wasn’t.

—

You were.

His face burns hot between your thighs, which tremble on either side of his flushed cheeks from your previous orgasm (that he gave you with two of his fingers, a lot quicker than you’re willing to admit to.)

“Can you take another?” he’d asked, right after pulling his hand out of your underwear and licking your cum off his fingers, which glistened down the knuckle. You whined at the sight of it, half-scared at the warmth still lingering in the pit of your stomach. “C’mon. Let me taste it, yeah?”

You lift your head from the pillows to watch the boy slink down your body, still wearing all of his clothes despite you lying half-naked in the center of his unmade bed. He slides your panties to the side with a pair of tattooed fingers and licks a fat stripe up your pussy, from your pulsing hole to your already sensitive clit.

Your whine fills the lamplit bedroom as your hips buck to follow him.

Carmy pulls off wearing a barely-there half-smile. “Good?” he asks, for the hundredth time or so since you started.

“Yes…” you moan, head tipped back.

And then he starts eating you. Like eats you, eats you — with his mouth wide and his broad nose smushed into your clit. He’s led by nothing more than primal emotion and pure instinct as he laps all the honey you leak for him. The lewd wet noises of his mouth are only slightly muffled by your contented sighs and his own moans, as he rocks his hips against the mattress in a feeble attempt to relieve the ache in his boxers.

Your fingers tighten in his wild curls, as though you mean to pull him off of you, though your hips chase his tongue all the same. His lips latch on your clit, sucking the delicate button, and you cum with a drawn-out sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. He pushes your knees to your chest with a pair of wide hands to milk the orgasm from your pulsing confines.

“No— No more,” you whine feebly, watching with a pained sort of look as he continues licking at you. “It’s too much, Carm—”

“Just let me taste it, baby,” he says, half-muffled against you.

He’s wearing your glittering cum down to his chin when he crawls back up your body. It’s a mess of awkward, tangled limbs as you drag his sweatshirt up his torso from the hem while he reaches into his nightstand for a condom (a feat made more difficult by the fact that the box is still wrapped in its plastic). He kneels between your thighs, open and wet, and tucks his heavy balls under the hem of his plaid boxers.

You watch him as he rips the foil open with his teeth and rolls the latex on. Your eyes trail down his tattooed torso — over the sparse brown hair along his sternum and down to where it trails along his stomach in a thin line. His cock is heavy in his fist, glowing crimson with desire at the tip and leaking drops of pearly-white.

You should tell him that it’s been a while for you — long enough that you’re not sure if you can take something so thick — but you don’t want to stop the momentum you have going, not even for a second. You just curl your arms down and over his shoulders, palms splayed along his sweat-slick back, and fall back with him when he leans down over you.

His gold chain brushes your chest as he ducks down to open his mouth against yours. He rolls his hips forward and back, gliding his cock through your velvety folds, before piercing you fully.

There’s a fleeting, burning sensation as your cunt stretches around him — which quickly floods into a warmer, fuller feeling when he’s seated fully inside you, with his tuft of coarse hair pressed mercilessly against your throbbing clit.

“Oh, fuck—”

Carmy’s words sound less pleasured and more terrified.

Your eyes snap open. You catch a mere glimpse of his profile as his lips smudge along your burning cheek. “You okay?” you ask through panted breaths.

“Y-Yeah. I just—” The words come out strangled and half-muffled against your neck. “It’s just… been a while for me. I can’t— I can’t move.”

A delirious grin tugs at your mouth. You rake your nails gently along the expanse of his spine, until he shivers on top of you. “You can move, Carm,” you tell him.

He laughs breathlessly, though it comes out more like a punched-out breath. “I can’t, babe. I— I really can’t.”

“It’s okay if you’re close,” you murmur gently, smearing your lips along his flushed cheek. “You already made me cum— twice. This is about you feeling good, too, you know?”

Carmy makes a strangled noise, as if your words had hit him physically somehow. He lets himself go at your permission to feel good and rolls his hips against you. There is little rhythm or precision to his thrusts. They’re shallow and quick and a little sloppy, never pulling all the way out, as he buries his moans into your neck. The bed creaks below you like it might break.

“Fuck,” he groans like it hurts him, like he’s half-scared of his own orgasm.

“That’s it...” you coo in his ear. “I know you’re close, Carm. It’s okay. Just cum for me—”

“Fuck!” It comes out like more of a whimper this time, because he’s trying to calculate how long it’s been — two minutes, if that — but his brain’s too fogged and his stomach is starting to cramp from how hard he’s tensing to keep the feeling going a little longer.

Carmy doesn’t warn you when he cums. Not that you need him to. His heavy body just tenses on top of you, forearms shaking beside your head. You exhale a contented sigh when you feel him pulsing inside of you. “There it is…” you whisper in his ear. “Give me all of it, bear. C’mon. Doing so good for me…”

As your hands rub soothingly along his spine, you feel his bare shoulders shaking a little harder than before. It’s like he’s laughing to himself, or crying maybe. Then you feel something warm and wet drip along your neck.

“Bear?”

“Fuck—” He clears his throat when his voice breaks, lifting one hand to wipe at the tear running down the bridge of his nose. He laughs wetly at himself. “Fuck, I’m so lame. I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you whisper, as if anything too loud might break him.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he assures you, sniffling as he pulls slightly off of you. “It was just— a lot, you know?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“I wasn’t lying when I said it’s been a while for me.”

“Wow,” you hum sarcastically. “You’re telling me the anxious-avoidant chef who keeps his jeans in his oven isn’t absolutely drowning in ass? In this… very illustrious bachelor pad?”

His laugh is more humorous this time. “Fuck you.”

“You already did,” you remind him with a cheeky grin. “Unless you’re askin’ for round two— which I’m not opposed to.”

His mouth twitches into a more sincere grin. His glassy eyes soften further as they dart across your features, memorizing the wrinkles beside your squinted eyes and how your smile sits a little crooked to the left.

He shakes his head, ocean eyes still a little wet, as he smooths his fingers over your temple to brush away an invisible strand of hair there. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

“Oh, but what a sweet, sweet way to go,” you croon as he ducks down over you again.

But if loving you is a slow death, why does kissing you taste like salvation?

You take a sip of your own drink and continue talking to Robin.

The second time is slightly stranger.

"Can you hold my sunglasses?"

You blink. "They're on your head."

"I know."

"Then why am I holding them?"

Steve removes them anyway and places them into your hand.

"I'll be right back."

Then he leaves. Robin watches him go. Then looks at the sunglasses. Then looks at you.

"Huh."

You frown. "What?"

"Nothing."

The third time, Robin starts paying attention. The fourth time, she starts keeping count. By the fifth, she's actively losing patience, because apparently Steve has developed an entirely new hobby.

Giving you things.

You don't notice it immediately because each individual occurrence seems perfectly reasonable on its own. Hold my drink. Can you grab this? Can you keep these safe for me? Entirely innocent. Entirely explainable. Until approximately an hour into the party when Steve has somehow managed to hand you one drink, a second drink, his keys, his sunglasses, a packet of crisps, two bottle caps, a hoodie, and, for reasons nobody can adequately explain, a folded napkin.

The napkin is where Robin breaks.

"Okay."

You look up to find Robin is staring. Not at you. At Steve, who is currently returning from the drinks table. Again.

"What?"

Robin points. "What was the napkin for?"

Steve blinks. "The napkin?"

"Yes, Steve. The napkin."

His eyes flick briefly towards you, then away. "I needed somewhere to put it."

Robin stares. You stare. Steve stares. The silence stretches.

"Steve."

"What?"

"You handed it to her."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens it. Closes it.

Robin's smile is downright evil.

The thing about Steve Harrington is that physical touch has always been his first language. Not because he's particularly aware of it. Quite the opposite, actually. Steve doesn't notice half the things he does. The hand on somebody's shoulder. The way he leans closer when people are talking. The absent-minded touches. The habit of bumping knees beneath tables. The way affection seems to leak out of him through physical contact whether he intends it to or not.

Which means he doesn't notice the pattern.

At least not consciously.

He doesn't notice that every time he hands you something, his fingers brush yours. Or that his eyes always linger for half a second afterwards. Or that he seems weirdly pleased every single time it happens.

He just knows he likes it.

Likes being near you. Likes talking to you. Likes finding you in crowded rooms. Likes hearing you laugh. Likes the way your entire face changes when you're trying not to smile.

The object itself is almost irrelevant.

The point is you.

Robin knows this. Robin knows this almost immediately. The rest of the party is beginning to suspect it too.

By ten o'clock, Steve has become genuinely ridiculous.

You are standing near the garden fence talking to Nancy when he appears beside you seemingly from nowhere.

"Hold this."

A cup appears in your hand. You stare down at it, then up at Steve.

"Why?"

"I need both hands."

"For what?"

Steve pauses. Looks around. Realises he has no answer.

"I'll think of something."

Then he walks away.

Nancy lowers her drink. "Is he okay?"

You laugh. "I think so."

Nancy watches Steve disappear into the crowd. "He does realise he likes you, right?"

Your laugh dies instantly. "What?"

Nancy blinks. "Oh."

You stare. Nancy stares.

Across the garden, Steve is attempting to open a bag of crisps, completely oblivious.

"Oh my God."

Nancy winces. "You didn't know?"

Suddenly everything becomes very difficult.

Because once somebody points it out, you can't stop noticing it.

The way Steve always seems to appear wherever you are. The way he seeks you out in crowded rooms. The way he remembers tiny things. The way he smiles differently at you than he does at anybody else. The fact that he's handed you approximately fourteen objects over the course of one evening despite having no practical reason to do so.

You find yourself watching him.

Which turns out to be a mistake.

Because Steve is unfairly easy to look at during summer. Shirtless and in swim trunks by the pool. His hair is a mess. The warm evening air has left a faint flush across his cheeks. And every few minutes he glances towards you to check where you are. Not obviously. Just enough. Like somebody making sure they haven't lost sight of something important.

Something in your chest does an unpleasant little somersault.

The final straw arrives close to midnight.

The party is beginning to thin out. People are leaving. The music has softened. The air smells faintly of grass and warm pavement. You are helping tidy up when Steve appears beside you, carrying absolutely nothing.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

Then, "Hold this for me?"

You immediately start laughing.

Steve looks startled. "What?"

"Steve."

"What?"

"You're not holding anything."

His mouth opens. Then closes again.

You watch realisation hit him in real time. Slowly. Painfully. Like watching somebody step on a rake.

"Oh."

Across the garden, Robin physically doubles over. Nancy has abandoned all attempts at subtlety. Even Eddie is laughing.

"Oh my God," Steve mutters.

"Yeah."

"Oh my God."

The tips of his ears turn red.

You smile.

The poor man looks genuinely horrified.

Which would be more convincing if he wasn't smiling too.

For a moment neither of you says anything. The garden continues humming quietly around you. Somebody carries empty bottles towards the recycling. Music drifts softly from the speaker. Somewhere near the house, Robin is still laughing.

Then Steve rubs a hand across the back of his neck. "Okay."

You raise an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"I might have been handing you things."

"Might have been?"

"Fine. I was."

The smile widens despite yourself.

Steve points accusingly. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm absolutely making fun of you."

"That's fair."

The honesty of it catches you off guard. For a second, Steve just looks at you. No drinks. No sunglasses. No excuses. Just Steve.

And suddenly the evening feels much quieter than it did a minute ago. Much smaller. Much more dangerous.

"You know," you say carefully, "you could've just held my hand."

Steve blinks.

The entire garden seems to stop.

Robin makes a noise somewhere in the distance.

Then, slowly, Steve smiles. A real smile. The sort that begins somewhere deep inside him before spreading outwards.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Steve takes a step closer. Close enough now that neither of you needs an excuse. Close enough that there is no longer any need for drinks or sunglasses or bottle caps or napkins.

His hand brushes yours.

Deliberately this time.

Not an accident. Not a trick. Not a reason.

Just because he wants to.

The smile that appears afterwards is so stupidly happy that it makes your chest ache.

Across the garden, Robin throws both hands into the air.

"FINALLY."

She's got a point.

You’re pent up, and you have been for a while. Fuck, there are so many reasons for that, and Roman sort of takes it personally, like it’s probably him. But yeah, honestly? It sort of is, in its own way, because he’s not really good at ‘helping’, he’s said it himself. But one thing sort of turns your brain off, and he knows about it, and he just sort of — ignores it. So now you’re sitting there, drinking so much caffeine that it should be injected into your veins at this point, trying to make sense of mumbo jumbo that goes in one ear and out the other, and you’re overemotional, and you haven’t came in a little over a fucking week.

It comes and goes in a breath with Roman. The offer, that is. “Here, come here.” No ‘bitch’ as it to insinuate you’re taunting him, making him do this with your ‘wiles’, aka, the way your hair looks up, with that sheen mix of stress-sweat and moisturizer.

“Why?” you ask, exasperated, exhausted, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed with a hundred snacks and never have to use your brain again. Party Girl is playing near silently on the TV in the adjoining room, he chose it from the Criterion Channel for whatever reason, and he half-watches from the couch and half-doomscrolls on his phone. He smells like the bougie dark chocolate truffles filled with peanut butter he’s been eating and sweet tart ropes he stole from your room (but not before making fun of you for being a child and having sweet tart ropes).

“Because. I said so. I pay the bills and therefore am your sugar daddy, and this is the arrangement, yes?” he sarcastically quips, like he’s some big bad sugar daddy protector rather than the guy who pays you to be his human version of a live-in hamster in a hamster ball that he throws down the hall. But it’s okay, for the most part, because he’s cute, and despite it all, he knows you better than anyone ever has, and shows it in the littlest ways. Like this.

You walk over, barefoot on the floor of your bedroom into the plush carpet of the living room area, standing in front of him. He doesn’t even look up at you. “Sit, come on, play along, sit on my knee,” he encourages, patting his knee half-heartedly.

“No finger and hand stuff, okay?” you set a boundary as you sit on one of his legs. Setting boundaries isn’t usually exactly difficult, but with Roman, you always find yourself crossing every boundary you thought possible. And you have few boundaries when it comes to this shit.

“What? I didn’t even fucking say we were doing that stuff! Can’t I be affectionate? Must you ruin all sense of spontaneity and romance? Is that an occupational thing?”

“Just saying, none of that stuff. Rest is fine,” you don’t mention that you just feel weird right now, sort of too tired to give a good handjob and not in the mood for hands all over your cunt. But if he wants to fuck your head up and down, that’s fine, and well — all the other holes he usually just uses, sure. Open for business.

“M…kay? Why?” he asks, prying. He always pries.

“Just don’t feel like it.”

“Picky, picky. Picky princess,” he tries out the word, and it sounds ironic coming from him (it always does), but he watches your reactions. Do you like that, when he calls you ‘princess’? He’s willing to bet you do. Your whine in fake disgust kinda just proves him right.

“Uh-huh,” you reply. “I can still do stuff, y’know. Why’d you call me over, I’m assuming because you’re needy? Parker Posey get it up for you?”

“Oh, uh-huh, check yourself, saving me from actual effort. Fuck, honey, you’re a saint. Yeah, Madam Posey really put the ‘tit’ in titillating,” he grins all thin-lipped and sarcastic, the kind that makes it so obvious that he’s kidding around and saying something to get your reaction, teasing you, just tugging your pigtails.

He makes a little noise when he says the first word, “So. I guess you wanna…be…used?” Roman sounds like he’s trying to figure out something he already knows. He’s the one who called you over and away from your work, after all. “Like the ultimate gift for your lil’ lovebug?”

You pout and furrow your brows. How do you respond to that, ‘yes, fuck me, Daddy’? He nods, gets the idea.

“I’m, uh. I’m good on that, actually. I think — I mean, I’m not your therapist, but I think you just fuckin’ need a little…oomph,” he makes a punching-the-air gesture at your side as you straddle his lap instead of sitting on his leg. “Little more of that.”

You stay silent, thinking that you’re gonna let him look stupid and let him keep rambling about what you ‘need’, but his hands trail down to grab your ass. It isn’t even sexual, it’s clingy if anything, mostly just him fumbling around and watching you twitch, trying to resist arching when he spreads your lower ass cheeks and pussy lips. He feels it against the front of his briefs and holy fucking shit, feels like winning the damn lottery.

“Gonna give you some orders, I think. And you’ll follow ‘em, ‘cause that’s what gets my motor running,” the vein in his forehead is visible. He’s stressed, turned on, and his brain is going a mile a minute trying to figure out how to do something good and nice and something that’ll help ease you out of your ‘oh god oh fuck I have to finish up my work’ headspace that’s been keeping you away from him.

“Arch your back for me, give in to it. Look up too, lemme see your pretty face,” he likes you twitching in his arms, watches you as you give in and arch, looking him in his eyes with uncertainty. He’s not certain either, fuck, but he keeps strong eye contact.

You’re gonna get your fix, and he’s gonna get his. That’s the way this relationship works, you getting what you need from him getting what he wants, and him getting what he needs from you getting what you want — a whole merry-go-round, ouroboros of wants and needs. His hands on your lower ass and upper thighs guides you to move your hips in a lazy rhythm to get him fully hard, maybe to get you wet, if you aren’t already. You’re gonna get your fix whether you ask for it or not.

“Open up for Daddy, you don’t have to do any of that ‘thinking’ shit here. Your job, in this penthouse, is just…lay back and let Daddy make good, sweet fuckin’ love to you.” He kisses your jawline and softly along the sensitive spots of your neck to coax you: the side, near the back of your jaw.

“Oh — no, fuck, no, not-not—,” you can’t get the words out, because the word ‘daddy’ just makes your brain so melty and gooey, and he’s sitting you on his lap like you’re his sweet girl, and he’s a five foot six freak who likes to be the little spoon so, it seems sort of wrong, like he probably doesn’t like this as much as you do. There’s a painful lump in your throat at the idea of him sexually making any sort of sacrifice, doing something he doesn’t like just as much if not more than you do. It’s hard enough for him to fuck, she would never ask him to play daddy.

“Don’t…don’t say that, okay? You don’t have to do all that,” because it’s too good for you, it’s too enjoyable. It’s become more of a chore than anything, like taking care of him rather than having fun, almost like a punishment; and having Daddy isn’t a punishment, it’s the reward of all rewards, for good girls who don’t have mountains of work to do.

“Ease up, oh ye of little faith,” he breathes out from where he kisses your neck, forehead scrunched together from furrowed brows. He pulls back, leaning his face near yours to force that eye contact again, to see what the fuck the problem is.

“Come on, seriously? You’re pulling my dick — figuratively, for once. But yeah, I’m a giver today, apparently. Gotta earn my keep,” his voice is pitched with irony and self-assurance, squeaky and dismissive. His fingers knead your ass with clumsy, clingy movements that are more Roman than any smart-ass grin could be. “I’ll say ‘daddy’ ‘till the cows come home if it makes you…fucking breathe right.”

You flinch a little when he jerks his hips up, bouncing you on his lap in a crude imitation of bouncing you on his knee.

"Kiss me," he taunts you, a tone more akin to a bully than any stereotypical 'daddy' you've ever heard. He's taking absolute advantage of this, there's no fucking way he wouldn't. His scruff is surprisingly soft as he pushes his face to yours, angling for your lips, mumbling like he's trying to force you into that dumb, harebrained state where you just do whatever he says and allow him to act like it's all whatever, some normal interaction that happens between every romantic couple. "Kiss meeeee, kiss your dada," he giggles, making fun of you, getting you all emotionally twisted.

"Mm-mnn," you deny, lips sealed shut, watching his eyes twinkle, his breath fluttering over your own, soft and hot and heavy heaving, a light laugh that seems uncharacteristically confident. Maybe you're just that weak to him, easy to manipulate, malleable. Probably. His hands still grabbing your ass and spreading your pussy lips move beneath your panties, one of his middle fingers just lightly touching your pucker, the pointer and middle of his other hand feeling up the seam of your cunt as the thumb presses into the plush skin of your labia. Your mouth opens in a gasp that surprised even him, loud as fuck, and then what he expects: you try to speak, tell him a quick 'fuck you' for not respecting your boundaries, for pushing on the weight of your insecurities, bending them to break you. He kisses you before you get out the 'ck' noise.

Roman's tonguey, he's selfish. He's like a puppy who just loves licking you, licking in your mouth and dripping his spit down your lips to your chin, clumsy and unpracticed, more of a needy action than a precise one; more for himself than you. You arch, can't help the flutter of your eyelids as your lips part, letting his mouth fuck yours, letting him take what he needs. His hands move, he knows this fucking game and the rules he abides by, and no hands in your holes means no hands. His right is in your hair, taking it out of the claw you have it in and feeling it, smushing your face a little with his thumb against your cheek, his left crawling up your oversized shirt.

"Take your tits out," he tries to sound demanding in a bratty tone, lips slick with your spit mixed with his, his dick throbbing. Fuck, he feels that vein on the underside pulsing just from fucking his tongue in and out of your mouth, felt too good, he's gotta chill the fuck out.

"Wha-huh?" you mumble, head foggy, not following what he's asking, or rather, why.

"Tits? Out? Just fuckin' put your arms up, up-up," he gestures for you to raise your arms and you can understand a simple request, a whole lot easier than wondering all these 'why', 'how can I do this in a sexy way', 'what way does he mean' questions. He lifts your oversized shirt and pulls it over your head, tossing it to the side of the couch where your hair claw was hurled, leaving you in just your panties. He lets out a little noise that you can't really distinguish; a whine, maybe just a breathy exhale with an unintentionally high-pitched squeak slipped in there, maybe a squeaky moan?

His lips wrap around your nipple and sucks, one arm wrapped around you in a half hug to keep you from pulling away, the other circling your hip, ready to hold you still on his lap if you try to scoot away. His scruff tickles your sensitive skin, and you feel his grin when he hears you whine, when he feels your melt a little in his arms, jerking a little when he feels your hands wrap around his head to cradle him and play with his gel-sticky hair.

"Mmmhm, you like Daddy licking your nips?" he breaths, looking up at you as he licks the nipple he just sucked, flicking it over his tongue to make you squirm. "Bet that pussy's nice and puffy. You want me to suck it like I'm sucking your tits?"

He can't lie and act like he isn't just as fucked up by this as you are, because he is, he's just got a lot less shit built up in his head breaking him down, making it a little easier to prevent going gooey.

"Want — wanna make you cum," you say, hips twitching over his lap at the thought. It would just be so fucking nice to have his cum in you, or on your face, to feel his dick twitch and throb.

His heart kinda breaks. You should be selfish right now, should be pussy-fucking his face, humping the living daylights out of him, and you're asking to make him cum. He could blow his load in his briefs right fucking now if you wanted, but that's not what he wants. He wants to make you feel nice. You deserve someone who makes you cum, hard. He wants to fucking deserve you, because being the dog that sleeps at the bottom of your bed is nice and all, he likes paying the rent and buying you whatever you want so that you, y'know, exist near him and make him feel good, but also, you're his and you should know that. One day he's gonna put a ring on it and knock you up and all that good shit, like a cheesy romcom.

"Well. I don't want that," he casually remarks, like discussing dinner. "Yet. Yet." His hand drawing little swirls on your hip moves to your neglected tit, thumbing it and playing with it as he speaks.

"I think I want you to get my dick out and gimme a lube job with your fucking...Mother Earth's all-natural slip-n-slide," he says, paying more attention to the outline of your pussy in your panties than your tits. "You think you can get my dick wet? Huh?"

"Yeah, I can fucking — sure, 'course," you say, a little defensive at the notion that you can't.

"...Then ready, set, go? Chop-chop."

You squirm, awkwardly removing your panties with some struggle. He watches, which doesn't help your quickly deflating confidence with the awkward angles and unsure movements. Once your panties are removed, your hands go to the button and zipper of his slacks, his belt undone from earlier and clanking as you fumble with his button. He lifts up so you can tug the fabric down, letting it fall to his knees and then his ankles, leaving only his briefs. They're vintage navy Versace that you bought him as a sort of gag gift, an inside joke the two of you play on from the Wintour quote, "Armani dresses the wife, Versace dresses the mistress," and how he said it once when he bought you some brown Armani boots to convince you into attending a retreat with him. The briefs were a sort of 'welcome home' gift you'd prepared before the two of you left.

You scoot down awkwardly on the couch, twisting to the side a little to give yourself room to press your face against the front of his briefs like a house cat rubbing against the corners of a wall. Little kisses, pecks starting at the middle of his cock down to the base where it meets his balls, to the crown of his tip, and finally to the tip, where you lick into the fabric just enough to feel him tense and twitchy. His hands flail to tug his briefs down anxiously, and he doesn't know if he's scared as shit that he'll prematurely ejaculate or if he's just craving pussy that bad.

His briefs fall to his ankles along with his slacks, and when his dick pops out, Christ, he's hard already. You take a moment, you need a moment to look at his dick. He doesn't want a blowjob, he doesn't want any of the shit you normally do for him that doesn't make you cum your brains out.

But he can't resist grabbing your face by your cheeks and pulling you closer to his lap, to slap his cock against your face. It feels so good, the weight of it, the warmth of it pulsing and throbbing against your lips as you mouth at it, the smell of him that's just pure musk and pheromones, pre dribbling out onto your forehead (which Roman lets sit for a moment before promptly licking his thumb and smearing it in to 'clean' you).

"You wanna kiss him? Go ahead, kiss him," he repeats, nodding to his cock, tapping the leaky tip against your lips as if to encourage you. You pucker your lips and give it a chaste kiss before dipping your tongue to taste his pre, making out with his cock. Roman can't help it, he's consumed by how much you fucking love him, and not only that but you like him. You talk to him after long days and live with him, you snuggle up to him while watching movies, you go to sleep with him in the same bed as you and let him lay all over you. And after a long day with more than your fair share of work, you undress for him and make out with his cocktip like it's the holy fucking grail. His hips buck and the tip pops in your mouth, letting you give it a nice suckle for a moment before he feverishly pulls out with a sharp exhale.

"Fuck, uhn-uh, that's not it. That's not what we're doing," he pulls you up by your face, not in the standard masculine way, more in the way a kid would toss their favorite toy around carelessly. His exposed forearms in his now-untucked button-up are fucking gorgeous, makes you wanna bite him, gnaw down until there's a scar. You know his scar stories, and he knows all of yours — so why can't you be your own? Maybe he'll tattoo your name on his fucking dick if you asked, because fuck, it's such a nice idea, him branded and scarred by you.

He pulls you up on his lap by your face, a harsh motion that feels like whiplash, something rough enough to distract you while he tugs your thighs open to straddle him, rough movements and harsh presses from his soft hands, grabbing at you and pressing his cock between your pussy lips.

"That's where he goes, right?" he muses, playing into his own joke.

"Uh-huh," you breathe out, feeling tense as you straddle him, tummy tightening as his hand on your thigh moves to your ass to encourage you to ride him, manually moving your hips in, then out, then back in again.

"Wow. I was right! You are wet from this shit," he seems to laugh at you a little — at you, not with you — but you're too focused with your clit tingling in his pubic hair that he's left untrimmed. Just for you, you like to think, but who knows — maybe he was just lazy this week, maybe he got into the whole style of growing it out; but he knows how much it affects you, so that's a possible reason, and that's enough a reason for you to believe it's all for you.

"Hey. Are you fucked yet?" he grabs your face, looking into your unfocused eyes. "I mean. Not in that way, but. Are you?"

"Mmmh, yeah, maybe. Just feels good," you mumble, arms wrapping around his slightly stocky midsection — and you sort of wish he was shirtless right now, but you won't dare ask. He doesn't do that, normally. He likes seeing all of you, feels deprived of you when he doesn't, but you seeing him shirtless is either done as a joke or in very rare moments of absolute vulnerability.

"Yeah, you're fucked alright," he laughs like a hyena, like you told a joke. "Oh, you're fucked. And you're getting me all wet, how...considerate!" His eyes gleam at you as your hips move of your own volition, no longer solely from his guidance; he seems sort of proud, as proud he can be while looking at you like he could personally ruin your life if you decided to fuck around and leave him.

"Yeah, you're welcome," you snark groggily. "Welcum," you quip, leaning into him, face in his neck as your back arches at the feeling of his dick throbbing against your pussy, his pre mixing with your wetness. He could fuck you like this. He could just pop the tip in, 'oopsies', and fuck you — and normally, he probably would, but he has ulterior motives and needs this to be more than that, needs to make sure you can't get away from what he's about to do. You're pent up — he's neglected you just to do this — and you're ready and willing to give up your work in the heat of the moment, amidst all the fucking stress of it: this seems like the perfect time.

"Ha-ha," he rolls his eyes, but you're cute. Very silly in this weird, loopy, depraved headspace where your muscles are relaxed for the first time in a while. He grins, buries his face in your hair, and pumps his hips up a couple times, fucking his dick between your pussy lips, pulling you closer into a bear hug.

"Think it's good enough? Huh?" he asks, and you assume that it's a rhetorical question — because how the fuck are you supposed to know whether or not his cock's wet enough?

"Sure?"

"No, look, don't bullshit me when I ask you a question," one hand reaches to his cock to hold it out from your pussy lips by the base, his other hand pushes your face in the general direction, telling you to turn around without having to actually say a word. "Daddy's dick look okay to you?"

"Yeah," you say breathily. It's slick from you, red and bloated and fat from how much he's held back, which is rare for him, king of two-pump chumps.

"Good girl," he says, playing into your weaknesses in a soft but slightly demeaning tone, as if he's surprised you could follow basic directions. "I fuckin' bet it. Feels like it's about to fall off, so it better be ready," he begins to complain promptly after the praise, but mumbles the last part in kisses to the exposed side of your neck facing him as you're turned.

"We're gonna take a little trip to theeee...right here? M'kay?" he grins and pats the couch cushion. You know he's only telling you to avoid getting you too overwhelmed and freaked out before the main event, so you can put your trust in him for whatever he must have planned later — because normally, he'd enjoy flipping you and just doing whatever the fuck he wants as a surprise, to hear you squeak in shock.

"'Kay," you don't argue, you know it'll happen either way.

He moves you up off his lap and gently (as gently as he can) plops you on your back with a sardonic, “Ohhhh, there we go. Comfy?”

He bends you back, legs up against his shoulders as he practically lays on top of you with a huff. It isn't sexy, it isn't something out of a porno, it isn't the shit written in those horny books — it's Roman, and it's based on instinct and clumsy, fumbling attempts at being 'good' at sex. He isn't especially mighty at the moment, he's more of an overexcited puppy than the supreme being he tries to be, and that might make it a little hotter.

"You have, like, an actual pretty pussy. You could probably do porn, y'know? Where they get all pussywhipped?" he says, as if he isn't already. As if he wouldn't die if you did porn and let anyone else see your pussy. He'd pay you more to be his personal prostitute than fucking OnlyFans could ever give you. He could buy OnlyFans to be the only one who sees you riding dick and squealing.

His cock presses against your inner thigh as he makes out with your neck and cleavage, hips rutting into you. The tip leaks onto your clit when his hips falter and move backwards – which is innately charming in a way your brain can’t really comprehend, but your pussy does a fine job at it.

“Oh — fuck, that’s,” you exhale sharply, brain swimming in silly little chemicals, neurons firing, something igniting deep in your core from lifetimes ago, giving in to some primal instinct. You’re not sure what you need but it feels good to have him close, and his cocktip kissing your clit and rubbing into it feels right. Him breathing heavily into the side of your neck and face, huffing you like fumes, humping like a mutt — it sates something deep in you. You may not know exactly what the fuck is going on, but it sure seems like your pussy does.

“Yeah? That’s good? Fuckin’ good for you, great for me,” he mumbles, biting into your neck hard enough for it to hurt, but all the lovey-fucky hormones shooting through your veins make it feel good, like he should be resting his full body weight on you to keep you down and biting you the way he is.

“Daddy’s here,” one of his hands goes beneath you, gently despite how fuckdrunk he sounds, like he’s plotting something, like there’s some joke he has that you’re not in on. “Got you — gotcha, I gotcha, stay still,” he says as his hand reaches your lower back, pressing you up even farther.

You can’t stop with the whimpers and whines, just ceaselessly babbling and mumbling his name. His cologne smells nice, it always does (it had better for the price), but you’re more focused on how you can smell the dark chocolate truffles on his breath with every huff, and his sweat, and that unique musk that comes with being turned on. Your pussy clenches around nothing like a bitch in heat just aching for it.

Roman's tip notches at your pussy and you let out a breath, like the air is being pushed from your lungs, like you could die right there and then, leaking on his dick as he shushes you and huffs into your neck.

Feeling it sink in is such a nice stretch. It's been a while, and just the heat of his dick mixing with your own heat feels nice, a warm body on top of you with a warm dick in you, pulsing so hard that you can feel it throbbing in a nice little rhythm against your inner walls. Or maybe that's you? What's even the difference at this point, is there any reason to distinguish what's you and what's him? What's your own is his either way, and what's his own is yours to do with what you will. Some call it 'codependence', but you just think it's Roman.

"Daddy—," you breathe out, tummy feeling tight as his thumb rub your labia, trailing up to pull back on your clit, then smearing your own slick all over it, rubbing it in tight circles.

"Uh-huh? What is it?" he asks in that demeaning tone, hearing you whine at it and immediately feeling something click in his brain, dick leaking as it's pushed halfway in your pussy. "You don't have a clue in the fuckin' world, do you?" he doesn't wanna say what he means by that — how is one supposed to appropriately state, 'by which I mean, I'm totally fucked, you've totally fucked me up forever by just saying that word and squeezing the life out of my dick'? So he opts for, "Poor bitch doesn't know what she wants, does she? Do you?" He cackles when repeating 'do you', as if expecting you to rebut the claim.

The vein in his forehead is so prominent as he humps back and forth, inching his dick in and out, damn near balls deep in such a short amount of time despite your drunken whines and huffing breath. He pulls back to look down at you, almost like he's analyzing you, like he's about to eat you alive, hazel eyes hyperfocused like a cat ready to pounce. Your arms wrap around his neck to pull him in closer, and as he does, his dick fully seats itself in with a deep hump of those last few inches in your cunt squeezing around him, milking him. His body weight rests on you once again, but instead of his face against the side of yours, his nose nuzzles against yours as you make crosseyed eye contact, huffing into one an other's mouth. Your leg slips a little from his shoulder, dangling onto his arm — not exactly optimal, gravity won't be working in his favor that way. His hand moves from your clit to your leg to hold it up.

"Oop — keep 'em up, I need you to stay right here for me, okay?" he says with a squeaky-lipped kiss on your lips; his are wet and small against yours, cute and puckered out for you, like this is just any old fuck and not the one. This is the fucking one, he felt it the second he popped his tip in your pussy — you wanna get knocked up, you've gotta be ovulating, nice and sensitive, even more than usual from denying yourself, and his balls are nice and full after having held off for so long. Feeling them rest at the bottom of your cunt is weirdly fulfilling, it feels right, like you could fuck him in this position forever despite the struggle to keep your legs fully up against his shoulders.

You don't know why this is what he wants, this position, but you're automatically helping in the process, ready to be bred, knocked up by him. You'd love that, right? It's not really babytrapping when you're already dependent on him, it's just a proclamation of love, or maybe partial insurance. You'd look so pretty with a baby bump and swollen tits. He'd be able to buy whatever you craved and have it there in mere moments. He'd be such a good daddy.

"F-Fuuck, fuck, I — R-Ro, it's too—," you let out squeaky little noises as he presses you down, forcing you back in position, humping his dick clumsily into you without a sense of rhythm. It feels primal, wet sounds of his dick stretching you and balls slapping against your ass, how you drip down his dick onto his nutsack like how you drool all dumblike when blowing him. Are you saying it's too hard to keep your legs up, or his dick is too big, too deep, or you feel too good, or that everything is all just too much? He doesn't ask, he hopes it's a nice, even mixture of all of the above.

"Fucking shut up. Don't — I know you like it, it's not too anything," he mutters against your lips. He thinks it's the most romantic fuck in the world, the best way to make a baby is just like this, humping clumsily into you as you babble and cling to him, trapped under him, mounted like a breeding bitch. "It's perfect. This is the perfect fuck, tell me this is — this is best way to fuck."

"'S the — best way to get fucked," your quavering voice is so close to his face he almost cums right there. He visibly and audibly shudders with a hot, staggered breath against your lips, leaning up to kiss under your eye with a soft, "Yeah, is it?" You have no choice but to respond with, "Uh-huh."

"This is how you'd like to get knocked up, right? Only fuckin' way to...do it, best way."

It sends a jolt through your hazy brain, your pussy squeezing him so hard his hips falter and buck. "Huh?" you say, and he can barely make it out as 'huh', more resembling just a questioning noise, a breath of air, a thick 'h' sound with an inquisitive look.

"It's a simple question, shit, just answer. Is this how you'd wan'it?" he's already embarrassed, but fuck, if he's gonna do it, he wants to make sure this is how you'd want it, though asking you mid-fuck after having not came, much less fucked in a while, is not the most reliable time to ask.

"I guess, I think, may-maybe?" you mumble, knees knocking against his neck when he gives an especially rough hump, his cocktip kissing your cervix, dripping into your cunt, red hot and ready to blow his load.

"You'd be out of this world at mama-ing," his nose nudges against yours, locking your lips into a hot and heavy, open-mouthed kiss. "I mean, impeccable. You think — like, Daddy would make a good...daddy?"

It's a weird time to have this conversation, but it's also kind of hot? It's excusable by the way he's grinding his pelvis against your clit and his tip into your cervix.

"Daddy's such a good daddy," you kinda believe it despite phrasing it as dirty talk. He's attentive and sweet when he wants to be, and he's grown since you've met him; better at addressing sensitive shit and despite ceaseless jokes, taking care of you, checking in on family, making sure his brother doesn't, y'know, OD or jump off a tall building. Giving you allergy meds with your favorite juice as a chaser, holding you when you're feverish and leaving you the fuck alone when you're stressed or just way too overstimulated, learning that some boundaries are actually real. Never putting you in danger, being all huffy and protective when you hang around fuckshits who he doesn't think are good for you, but treating you as the adult you are (usually). He'd be pretty fucking good, maybe even — at least close to — perfect by your standards.

"No, I'm not — I'm serious, not fucking around, okay? Yes or no, daddy or weird rapey uncle?" he asks, a manic edge to his voice like he's teetering on the edge of something, about to jump.

"Yes," you quickly breathe out in a soft whisper, "yeah, Daddy'd be a good daddy. 'Course."

There's a moment, thick air surrounding you both as you hold eye contact, his hips slowly pumping his cock in and out. There's a moment where he can't stop himself, he rears back to sit straight up and his hand reaches down to pin your head in place, slamming his hips into you in quick thrusts, watching your legs fall apart for a moment to give him a clear view of your hole around his dick and your puffy pussy lips. The way you look and your moans almost make it worth not being fully on top of you, but you both know he can't stay away for long.

"I'm gonna fuck a baby into you. That's just...what's gonna happen," he says, palm still pressing your head back into the sofa cushion, leaning in close enough for the words to hit especially hard, not quite as close as before but close enough for you to see the way his eyes are wild and frantic, resembling a rabid animal, a dog backed into a corner ready to bite. He's gonna knock you up, he can't fucking handle the thought of not.

"You—?" you squeak, speechless.

"Guess you're fucked too dumb to speak — I said, I'm gonna knock you the fuck up, and you can infer the rest. A ring the size of China and an island as a push present, et cetera et cetera, ad infinitum," he sardonically exaggerates, voice shaky as he continues to push his dick in and out, in a slightly raised position but much closer than he was, softer for a little bit and then changing completely.

Suddenly, he bends you right back and leans in, hips humping into you rough and fast in that close position before you can respond. No response is enough of a response for him, just as long as you don't say 'no'.

"Don't be a bitch, don't fight it. You like it, you said — this is the perfect time," he uses your own words against you, your own enjoyment. "Just the way your pussy is fucking creaming on me, you know you want it. I'm the one. Daddy's the one you want to do this with you, 'nd I'm going to, that's — that's just fuckin' that. Point blank, period."

He drives into you, having a hold of you so tight, so close, every bit of you being touched and touching. He's glad you're already close to cumming and just so easy right now in your deprivation, because he's fumbling like a baby deer, knees sliding against the sofa cushions and legs twitching as he humps you in not-so-swift fucks of his dick into you, entirely undignified. As he pushes his lips onto yours, his mouth is open, tongue pushing through to drip drool onto yours as he tonguefucks your mouth like a teen.

"Gonna blow my load," he mumbles into your mouth, still kissing you, and the idea is enough – your pussy is fluttering around his dick before he can even do anything. He needs to push you over the edge, he has to, he has to make it better than it would be without him, with anyone else who can fuck you right, but he can't stop himself from gasping and jerking his hips.

"You'll be such a good fuckin' mama, won't you? You wanna suck Daddy's dick as a little 'thank you'?" he would normally laugh at how you moan 'Daddy — Roman, Daddy' in response, or at least from how you're cumming so hard from mostly just penetration, but he doesn't this time. He smiles down at you, faces so close he can barely see your expression, still kissing you but now kissing all over your face, leaving your mouth open to hear your moans.

"I'll suck your tits every time they get a little too full — oh fuck — an-and I'll — I'll make out with your pussy when you're all sleepy and sensitive," he whispers it like a prayer and you're gone, already cumming on his dick, but that doesn't stop him. His balls hurt, clenching like a motherfucker as if saying 'dude, just blow your load in the bitch already, she's begging for it', but he doesn't want this to end yet. He wants you to know he can fuck you, he can fuck you the way a Daddy does and the way you deserve.

"Fuckin' rub your feet and shit — Jesus, I'll be good, I'll be such a good husband, such a fucking beta cuck simp," he rambles through moans, his eyes fluttering at how good you milk him. "Empty my balls in you every day, every day, hold me to it, I dare you."

"Please — please, pleasepleaseplease, Daddy, fuck," you twitch as he fucks you through it sloppily, the sound of your own pussy and the quiet of Parker Posey on the TV in the background.

"Fuck you — fucking love you, fucking love you," he frantically whimpers. "Creaming you now, can't hold it, my balls're gonna explode."

And he does, holding your legs back as he ruts with high-pitched, squeaky moans and rough grunts, his load fills your pussy to the brim. His tip pushes against your cervix, his cum depositing right fucking there where he needs it, but he keeps your legs up as he rocks his hips in and out even after he finishes, trying to fuck it deeper as if encouraging it to take.

"Ohhhh fuck you, you made me do that with your magical pussy powers," he accuses, kissing your collarbones one at a time, then lifting his head to pucker his lips, begging for a kiss. He's eternally satisfied when you lean up to give him a sweet kiss, readily showing your compliance, accepting him, sealing the deal.

"'M gonna be so sore 'cause of you," you whine out, trying to move your legs off his shoulders without pulling his dick out; you know damn well he'd throw a fit if you asked him to pull out, knowing he likes to stay inside as long as possible, not a care in the world, every part of him begging to just keep his dick in, keep it wet and warm and push his cum deeper, giving the occasional push.

"Woah, where the fuck you think you're going? Put that shit back up," he says, pushing your legs back up. "Gotta make it keep. Help my lil' swimmers, geez, they're trying their best," he chuckles, wrapping you up in his arms in a big bear hug around your legs, reaching in towards your sides, snickering when you groan.

"Alright, cream puff, that's enough, you're fine. You'll survive my load, promise."

"Will I?"

"Yes, you will. You've survived it many times before. This time, 's just...special," he says, shifting in you, cock twitching lightly at the idea of just how special it is, this little 'knocking you up' game. He kisses your neck and lays his head on your collarbone, fiddling with your hair and nuzzling your jaw. There's a moment of comfortable silence.

"You're gonna be so fucking fat," he says. You can't stop yourself from giggling with him at the stupid topic of discussion, continuing the whole rhetoric. "I mean, that's fine, more of you to love, right? More cushion for the pushin'."

"Oh, you're so fucking weird, mister obstetrician freak."

"Maybe, yeah, maybe a little — but you like it, oh, you looooove it, breeder," he snickers.

Roman has some new Paul Thomas Anderson movie that he’s already seen twice playing on the TV, stroking his half-hard cock with his button-up barely buttoned, slacks and briefs pulled halfway down his thighs. Shiv had texted she was ten minutes out. Perfect timing. He gives his dick another lazy squeeze, pre dribbling out. You’re trying to button your jeans, a couple months pregnant — just enough for it to be annoying. In just a bra and unbuttoned jeans, you look like a campaign of what not to do. Eloped with a rich, kinda-older guy while still baby-faced. You could be mistaken for a teen mom tragedy, which he thinks is absolutely hilarious. Your twenties have treated you kindly, you guess? Or maybe it’s just because he makes you look young in contrast.

“C’mere. Come onnnn, I’m not gonna bite! I wanna help you button your jeans. I’ve got man-hands, I can do it,” he tries to persuade you, flapping his hands to emphasize them. The moment you give up with a sigh, go to him — when you’re within reach, he yanks you onto the bed beside him. His hands went immediately to your belly, thumbs pressing into your navel.

“God, you’re getting fuckin’ huge. Like a Teen Vogue cover against teen pregnancy. Remember when you were, like, a person? Now you’re a little baby mama. My own personal, hormonal, baby-making dick-pump. Do you even remember what it’s like to not be a knocked-up baby-bitch?”

“You think this is hot, but I regret to inform you that you just sound like a sexbot perv.”

“Which is what, not hot? Right. Uh-huh,” he sort of scoffs mid-chuckle. His hands sneak up, unclasping your bra. He’s not good at it, fumbles a little — funny, he’s had so little experience, even compared to someone your age. A decade of him just being…sexually useless. He tosses the bra after a quick sniff of the cups, smelling like…milk. Milk and some kind of sweet powder, maybe something fruity from your sweat. It’s one of his favorite smells ever. He squeezes your tits gently and buries his face in them, just to sniff for a moment, his scruff tickling the sensitive skin.

“Can’t wait until you have the good shit. The like, real milky-wilky? Fuck. And we have so long to keep this up,” he grabs you, helps you maneuver you on your hands and knees, pregnant belly hanging small —  just noticeable to him, someone who sees your body like this enough to know its normal appearance — facing the door of their room. You’re a bitch in a bitch position. Makes him feel big, like he has some semblance of control, confidence. He admires himself when he plays stud.

You whimper a little. Sensitive, and you can only think to say —, “Sensitive! Careful, careful.”

“I know. Shh, it’s okay. ‘Kay? Honey, I’ve got it. Just. Shut the fuck up and let Daddy do it. Stay,” he uses that voice, like he’s talking to a dog. Sweet and stern and oddly comforting. He kneels behind you, grabbing his cock, slapping it against your puffy pussy lips, then rubbing it over your asshole. Repositions to stick just the tip in your pussy hole without saying a single thing, like you’re a fleshlight that he can just do whatever with. You have a safeword — if you need it, you’ll use it. That’s how he thinks about it, at least; and until then, it’s all free reign.

You gasp at the feeling of his spongey tip pushing in, just the tip — almost fitting with a nice ‘pop’, right in. He lets out a sharp breath, shifts on his knees behind you. Has to look up for a second, can’t fucking lose his cool so quickly. He’s got a whole night planned. 

Roman takes his time, pushing in and out with just the tip. You’re wet enough to fuck, sure, but not wet enough to hear it, yet. That’s the goal. He feels you squeeze impatiently after a minute or two.

“Oh, now you want it? You’re soooo confused. Pregnancy’s really fucked you up.”

“I am not. I’m — pregnant, and needy, and…have hopes of cumming? I wasn’t aware you were so into ‘just the tip’ —,”

It’s like a shitty reality show. As you finish speaking, the bedroom door swings open without a knock. Shiv. Roman’s first reaction is a mental ‘oh shit’, until he realizes this was intentional. Weird, because usually, he’d never be comfortable with anyone observing the two of you fucking? Except, a little birdie (Greg) told him (insinuated) that his best little sister has a bit of a crush. 

He loves Shiv. She’s his sister. But a crush? After constantly trying to bash him for how young you are? He understood the idea of fucking someone for revenge for the first time, just to show her what she’s missing out on.

“Fuck, Rome! Could you — put a note on the door or something? No one wants to see your little dick and fucking — baby-bride!” She’s huffy and faux-disgusted. Turns around quickly and tenses, huffs, hands raised like she walked in on a crime scene. How lucky she was to have evaded most of Con and Willa’s freaky PDA, only to walk in on her other freak of a brother and his younger wife, actually fucking. It convinces her that someone up above is plotting against her.

Roman leans over you, his chest to your back, and talks to his sister while slowly grinding his cock into you. No bucking is gonna get him off. He pushes just a couple inches deeper, just to get a good grounding while you squirm; in his own way, he’s letting you know you’re not leaving unless you say the word. You’re stuck in this mess. You just have to trust him, that it’s for a reason.

“Oh, fuck you. This is a sacred, domestic moment. I’m reaffirming the bond of my marriage to my sweet, loving wife,” he says, only half-sarcastically. He grabs a handful of your hair, firmly but gently tugging your head back so your face is turned towards the door, giving Shiv a perfect view. A pretty little picture of your eyes fluttering at his dick throbbing in you, only a few inches deep.

“She loves it. Don’t you, sweetie? A decorative bitch to fuck and suck me. Got that young mom glow. It’s great, actually.”

Roman feels cruel in the best way, triumphant thrill shooting through him. He sneers at Shiv, eyes glittering up at her; can’t help the fucked-up, gloating pride, seeing you under him, so very trusting of him, on display for his sister. Tits swinging and belly hanging heavy and low, especially at this angle, even this early in the pregnancy.

Shiv tries to force some kind of a disgusted reaction at her brother, tries not to look at you. You’re pitifully in love. You look like you could cum from Roman just speaking it, as if he speaks it into existence. After a minute of him slowly moving, shallowly, she finally looks at you for more than a single second, finally caves into what Roman wants, what she wants.

“Did you actually —,”

“Yeah, but don’t worry! It wasn’t really a shotgun wedding. It was kind of a honeymoon event. No condoms necessary when you’re already married, we assumed. She, assumed. Her fault,” he grins, looking down at you once he explains the predicament you got yourself in (which really, he got you in). Stupid and silly and just as eager to play along, very docile — not even fighting against being paraded. He can’t lie and say he isn’t proud.

Fuck. Shiv’s getting wet. It’s terrible. She feels like this is — I mean, their family is already far past the boundaries of what ‘normal’ families do, but this is…bad. Being turned on because the face she imagined seeing late at night is now — being given to her brother, some weird familial extension of herself. Roman has babytrapped the toy she wanted to play with. It doesn’t make her heart sink as much as it should. Surprisingly, it mostly just makes her clit jump, switches her brain off.

Roman sees the slight conflict in his sister and pushes harder, the rest of the way in, balls deep in you. You yelp and push your hips up, arching higher, moaning when he angles just right, grinds even deeper, deep enough to feel your pussy just leak. His eyes roll back for a second. He keeps rocking, grinding deep, wanting to drag it out. Doesn’t want this to end yet.

“Clearly she likes it. She’s just so happy, Shiv. Look at her. Getting to live out every girl’s dream: get married, get pregnant, and be a personal cum-dump. It’s a fuckin’ fairytale,” he coos at Shiv, then moves you — tugs you up to stand on your knees, your back against his front, sitting with the backs of your thighs on the fronts of his.

You tense, your hand reaching for his that’s under your right breast as you make some small, panicked noise and call out, “Ro?”

“Yeah, Dada’s here. Not too heavy yet. Little Daddy’s girl got herself in a bit of trouble, huh? Forgot to take her birth control, all that grown-up, important shit. Too busy being a hormonal slut to remember how babies are made.”

He bounces you a little on his lap, the movement making your tits jiggle, one still held up in his hand as his other hand moves from the top of your thigh to support your slightly-swollen belly. He nuzzles his face into your neck, breathing deep and mumbling. It’s mostly for Shiv than you. She looks so tormented that it’s making his ball ache. She can’t have you — he doesn’t have to do much else, other than have you.

“Yeah, that’s my girl. Got a little bit of my cum still swimming around in there from last night. Just marinating. Yummy!”

Shiv makes some disgusted noise, walks a few steps to lean on the bedside table. Her thighs press together, legs crossed at the ankles, squirming. She considers giving up, asking Roman to let her in — let her have a little moment with his wife. A taste, to do something, receive something; something to call her own, a souvenir. But that crosses a boundary. It’s more than what she signed up for, which was originally coming over just to discuss some of Kendall’s bullshit ideas with her wholly unintimidating brother rather than to watch him fuck his wife.

“What? You jealous? Of my dick? Or my baby-bride? Orrrrr — maybe the fact that I’m the only Roy who actually knows how to successfully knock a woman up? Continuing the lineage singlehandedly. No IVF, no gay little adoption process. Little bro’s a total stud. My load doesn’t fuck around.”

He looks down at his girl’s tits for a moment, how soft your belly is. He’s proud. Not sure he’s ever done anything as good as fucking you that fateful night. It was the best decision he’s ever made. His eyes slide back to his sister lazily, amused. He’s a stud, displaying his prize bitch.

“Though, in her defense, she’s, like, biologically primed for this shit. A perfect little bitch. All her little eggs are just jumping up and down, waving, ‘Pick me! Pick me! I wanna make a baby for the rich guy!’”

He releases your hair, combs it out a little, and pushes you forward gently, guiding you back onto all fours.

“Go on, honey. Go say hi to your auntie Shiv. Show her how a good bitch greets her family.”

He rubs your ass from behind, pulling the cheeks open so he can see your little pucker. Sodomized. So pretty, too. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone with a prettier body, prettier holes, prettier face. Hasn’t seen many women naked, really — but he’s seen faces, and pornos, and the fuckin’ Jugs magazines he’d sneak into St. Andrew’s. He knows what’s good, knows when he has it made.

“Go onnnn, don’t be shy! Be a good hostess, Shivvy won’t bite. Unless you want her to. Talk to her a lil’, tell her how much you love being a mom. Maybe we can get you in a magazine.” He looks at Shiv, his eyes wide, pupils enlarged. Loves this, clearly. Loves when it’s wrong — the worse, the better.

“She’s so good with her mouth. You want a demonstration? She’s, like, a pro. I mean, she looooves dick,” he giggles out, but it’s true! Or maybe you just love his dick. He doesn’t know which is better. “Learned everything she knows from, I dunno, TikTok or some shit. You know how it is with these kids. They’re all a bunch of sluts.”

He slows his movements, pulling out almost completely before pausing, the head of his cock just notched right in your pussy. As if trained, you bend into even more of an arch, presenting your pussy and asshole even more clearly to him, face falling into the duvet. Whiny and pouty, wiggling your hips and trying to bounce as you throw a fit, tired of the teasing.

Roman waves his hand to invite his sister over. Doesn’t give a fuck that his dick is wet and throbbing, almost completely pulled out. Clearly, despite littered complaints about how ‘disgusting’ this is, how she doesn’t wanna see him — not his wife, his baby-mama, but him — having sex, she’s interested now. An active participant, almost. All it took was a little bait and a wave of his hand for her to come over and drool over his wife’s pussy beside him.

“If you don’t wanna talk to Auntie, you can show her. Right, hon? Come here, show her that you appreciate the stud dick that got you into this mess. Give it a little kiss for good luck. For the next one.”

You lift yourself up off his tip with another whine and turn, facing Shiv as she stands beside the bed near Roman. You lower yourself to his cock, breath brushing over the leaking tip as you politely say, “Thank you for coming over, Shiv,” despite how bratty you were when he took his cock out of your pussy. 

You kiss the tip with closed lips at first, as if it were a loving kiss between husband and wife, and then slowly open your mouth to lap at his urethra, the way you’d french kiss a lover and make out, soft and slow. You trail your slobbering lips up and down the cream-coated sides of his shaft, rubbing your face into it. You like this, very much; that much is obvious to both Siobhan and Roman. Giving head must be something you just take naturally to, she assumes.

“Veeeeery good girl, that’s my girl. A young adult  with manners! Fuckin’ anomaly, right?” His voice is a high-pitched, almost girlish whine as he shifts his hips, pushing himself more firmly against your face, smearing your own slick across your cheek. He should probably dick-slap you, let Shiv see just how good his dick game is, to have a beautiful bitch like you take anything he has to offer, whenever he deigns you worthy. “It’s the good breeding. She was probably bred for shit like this. It’s, like, biological.”

He grins even wider, but not at his own joke. Just giddiness. Pure ecstasy. Shiv is stuck is dust-jerking Tom who still hasn’t knocked her up, and his little wife was knocked up the second they got married, just now back from the prolonged honeymoon. It just seems like he’s won. His dad is proud, happy. Not really involved in his life anymore, because like. Love the guy, but he’s a hazard, and has been having those dementia-riddled lash outs, and likes you a little too much. But he’s officially won the ‘Dad is proud of me’ competition. Even against ‘can’t-cum’, ‘oops-I’m-impotent’ Kendall.

You moan against his dick, swirling your tongue and pushing your thighs together, trying to grind on something. You try to take him deeper than you’re used to, not too experienced yet, and gag, trying to pull away — but he holds you there. No taps, you’re good, so you’re staying. Your drool drips to his balls as you taste yourself on him, basically begging for his load.

“God! You see this? You see this shit? This is what a happy relationship looks like. No little whiteboard with our fuckin’ feelings on it. Just a good bitch who knows her place. You and Tom should try it. Might stop you from looking like such a bitch all the time. Not in a hot way.”

He grabs the base of his shaft and pulls out, giving it a condescending little pat against your wet lips.

“See? She fuckin’ gets it. We’re a unit. A fuckin’ package deal. Kid Mom and the Billionaire Alpha Male Who Knocked Her Up, do not separate,” he looks down at you with a twinkle in his eyes, and not just from the teasing. He loves you. You know it. You’re his soulmate, or something, and more than a kid he got attached to. You clicked, and he trapped you, sold to each other. Attached at the hip, forever. Good deal.

Shiv has been quiet for a while, watching intently. You both notice, even in your cockdrunk haze.

“Wow. Have you been stunned into silence? ‘Cause for all your, like, performative feminism and woke bullshit, you really do look a little envious.” He lowers his tone to a whisper, “It’s the baby fever, isn’t it? All that cosmic energy in your womb going to waste. Or are you just craving her pussy? Penis envy much?”

While Roman teases his sister and waits for a response, you suck the full tip into your mouth, just suckling as you would on a thumb, self-soothing on his tip while you’re bored, getting your oral fixation settled. He barely reacts. You’re so addicted to giving head, the last few months have made him more used to getting his dick sucked than the decades before.

“You are — so — fucking!” Shiv makes a little noise of frustration, like her big brother just doesn’t get it, is teasing her about a boy band concert or something. “Do you have to wave your little dick around all the time! She’s young, Rome,” she plays the moral high ground card, jaw clenching as if she just gave irrefutable evidence, but her pussy’s wet and Roman knows it. So he calls it.

“We both know your pussy’s wet under there, so don’t play the victim card —,”

“Very on-brand for a guy whose emotional maturity plateaued at fourteen. Capturing a pretty, younger wife and playing house, making her play ‘mommy’ for you.”

“Fuck off. She likes it plenty,” he seems genuinely offended, and it just strikes him. He feels some urge to take it out on you, who is gleaming with having been called ‘pretty’ by a girl you find pretty, who is much older and has much more experience. Who should know what ‘pretty’ is.

He bucks his hips forward, forcing his cock down all the way into your throat until you sputter and gag, a tear sliding down your cheek. He held your head there, like it was a message for his sister: he mounted you, you were his.

Your eyes flutter and squeeze shut, Shiv watching the whole time. Both pussies pounding. She couldn’t tear herself away from your tear-streaked face — you, whose only response was to moan around his dick and rub your face against his navel like a contented kitten. You were gonna be a good girl for Roman, and that was that. Shiv both felt the need to cleanse her hands of this, and join in. Shiv thinks you deserved better, better than the pathetic beta-cuck problem-child that is her big brother. You’re an unlucky girl, to Shiv.

“Looks like democracy’s in action. The people have voted, and they want a happy little family unit. Not your weird, polygamist, abstract, cold, politburo sex,” he jokes to his sister, playing off of her misery. “She’s pretty happy, I’d say! Practically purring. You could learn a thing or two about wifely duties. Maybe then Tom’s pencil dick wouldn’t have to be rubbed raw to dribble a watery load, thinking about Dad.” He just knows how to get under her skin, but not hurt her enough to leave.

“My bitch sits pretty and wags her tail, ready to fetch. She's real good at what she does, isn't that right, baby? Fuckin' love Daddy's cock?" He pulls out and slaps your cheek with his dick, a gleeful sneer on his face. Shiv was jealous, pure and simple. He had something she didn't.

“I love it – love it. Daddy, please,” you whine, nuzzling deeper and laying a kiss right on his balls.

“Fucking — course you can,” he doesn't even have to think about it. He slaps his heavy, drool-slicked cock against your cheek again, not as hard this time, more like a…pat. A reward. You lean in, rub against it. It’s something about being denied the privilege of his dick. You’re just dumb enough to fall for that.

“Good job, putting on a show! Go on, get your treat. Go crazy with ‘em,” he patronizes, and guides your head lower, shoving you in to nuzzle your face against the soft, heavy weight of his sack.

You obediently open your mouth to give some attention to his balls, and he can feel the vibrations of your moan as you take one of his balls into your mouth, sucking gently. You switch to the other, suckling on one at a time before you ease your way to fit both in your mouth at once. Breathing in deep at the base of his cock, smelling the musk coming from his ball hair. Roman spreads his legs, giving you better access and showing Shiv just how good he has it. How much control he has over the bitch he’d kill and die for. The good, stupid, unaware little thing he’s caught and trapped in a kind of golden cage situation.

He’s ridiculously proud of you, of how far you’ve come from the tightly-wound girl that’d squirm at his crude jokes. Now you’re just his pregnant, cock-sucking whore, and the thought makes his dick throb where it rests against your cheek.

“Thaaat’s it,” he coos when you take both balls in your mouth, condescending but sweet. “Poor lovebug, all full of baby and still needs her snack,” he rocks his hips to dislodge his balls from your stuffed mouth, dragging them over your face, smearing your spit and his musk across your cheeks and nose. He spits a little dribble on your cheek, dripping down. He grabs his cock, pushing the head against his own saliva on your face, smearing it around.

“Drink up, be appreciative,” he pushes his tip close enough for you to taste, and you try, licking his spit and pre, but his tip pulls away after a moment.

“Rooooooro,” you whine, denied for the last time. Roman’s a cruel show-off, and you know his schemes better than he does, but this – it’s getting too cruel to you. Shiv can suffer and watch, but you deserve at least a little satisfaction, right?

And Shiv can’t help but stare. It makes her tummy twist, makes her cunt pulse. She thinks she’s jealous of her big brother. And she wants to do something about it. She moves, kneeling on the bed beside them and, without a word, scooting behind your ass, and arching your hips up to get a good view of your puffy pregnant pussy. It’s pretty, undeniably. Such a natural, like you were born to be a pornstar. Roman lucked up. Got to you first.

“Hold your horses, patience is a fuckin’ virtue – didn’t anybody teach you that? Am I supposed to do that?” he asks, almost genuine. He’s not sure if he’s technically kind of obligated to teach you ‘real adult’ manners, how to interact with people who aren’t annoyingly young and brattily twenty-something.

Shiv’s hand is on your hip, her eyes are fixed hungrily on your dripping wet pussy. It’s something covetous. It’s the same look she gets when she used to watch Kendall work with their Dad, a look that says ‘I want that. I should have that. How did he get that? I deserve that.’ That nasty, triumphant grin has barely left Roman’s face since they’ve started. He’s bred this perfect little bitch, and now his sister — the ice womb herself — is transfixed.

“Oh, gross,” Roman snarls at Shiv, but there’s no heat in it. He looks back down at the top of your head. You’re obeying, letting his sister do whatever. Trusting him to stop her if she crosses a line. A perfect, pliant bitch for your stud.

“Don’t just stare at it, Shiiiiv,” he sing-songs. “Tell her how pretty she is. You love a little slice of pussy, even when it’s all bred out and still aching for stud-dick. I know, I won’t judge. You judged me, but I won’t. I’m enlightened. I know it’s beautiful. Yeah. For a previously-poor kid, you’ve got a really premium-grade pussy,” he informs you conversationally, his voice loud enough for Shiv to hear.

“Truly top-shelf. The kind of snatch that makes a grown woman wanna…I don’t know, take up gardening? Something weird and lesbian and — handsy. Right, Siobhan?” he taunts as he watches his sister’s jaw tense. He grips the back of your head, mouth opening instinctively and sliding just the fat, leaking tip of his cock past your lips, groaning at the instant, greedy suckling. His hips twitch, shoving another inch in, making you choke around the sudden thickness as he grinds down, fucking your face with shallow, possessive thrusts. He looks directly at Shiv, a cruel, blissed-out smirk stretching his lips as he uses his toy. Her new favorite toy, that she can’t play with — which makes it all the sweeter.

The idea of Shiv touching you right now is fucking heavensent. Roman’s not a pussy-feely guy, very absorbed in his own dick, but Shiv – Siobhan might be a little different from her brother in those regards. How the fuck should you know? Might as well try it out.

You wiggle your hips and let out a whimpering noise as best you can with Roman’s dick down your throat. Your legs spread wide as you try to rock back, as if trying to ride some imaginary dick, humping mid-air. It almost works, until Roman opens his fucking mouth.

“Yeah? You fuckin’ feel that? You feel it in your empty, pretty pussy? Yeah?” He shoves his dick deeper, cutting off any response you might try to make, other than the gag and a squeal it pulls from you. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling your head back at an angle so he can watch the obscene bulge of his cock in your cheeks, the tears in your eyes. He looks at Shiv again, who still has the weirdest fucking look on her face, like she’s looking at a prize mare. Like she’s planning to steal a prize mare. 

“Awww, she’s got a phantom dick in her cunt! ‘Cause she’s a good girl. Knows where she’s supposed to be full. Her pussy’s waiting patiently. Aching for her favorite dick,” he speaks to Shiv more than you, showing off now. He pulls his cock out with a wet, messy pop, a thick string of spit connecting you to his tip.

“Okay, nap time for the face-fucking. We gotta move on to the main event,” he slaps your cheek lightly with his hand, wet with your spit, and rubs it in before pulling away completely. He doesn’t even look at Shiv when he speaks to her. “Get the fuck outta there, Shiv. Go for a swim, take a hike, sit on the sofa — fuck if I care.”

He watches, smug, as your legs fall open wider, slick pussy fluttering. It taunts her, shows her what you’re so willing to give Roman without question. Whenever he wants it.

He can feel the resistance in the air; the stubborn pride that makes Shiv, Shiv. Her hands slowly slide away, as she stands up – a languid, feline stretch, arching her back. She runs a hand through her hair, huffy and obvious as her bob ruffles and falls back into place. She doesn’t leave. She just moves to the side, huffing, adjusting herself, crossing her arms, leaning back against the bedside table yet again. Not yet admitting defeat. The position gives her a perfect, unobstructed view of your pussy. At least, until Roman inevitably shuffles you around to face Shiv. Which still isn’t too bad of a show.

“You’re feeling awful bossy. Don’t think she can take it? ‘Cause, I mean, of course not. You have such an advanced way of showing off. ‘Me fuck, you watch! Ough-ough!’” She makes fun. Acts like it’s playful, but intentionally stings. She’s trying to reclaim the room by making terrible jokes that no one would laugh at, even now. Making it a challenge for his already-bred, already-married, younger bitch. The one she was judging him for mere minutes ago.

“Hooooooly shit, Shivvy swooping in with a counter. I was kind of kidding about the carpet munching, but. No yeah, I think she could take it. I just think she chooses my dick. So, unless you wanna be the problematic one?”

He shuffles closer to you, fitting his tip between your pussy lips before moving your thighs closer together, fucking your thighs and in-between your pussy lips for a moment. Just for wetness. Not minding how you make broken little noises from his dick nudging your clit.

“Shut up, shut the fuck up. Tell her what you want. Okay? What do you want,” he demands, spits on your ass, the glob of saliva sliding down, just imagining pressing the thick head of his cock against the tight hole. Not sure which one he wants to use yet.

“Want you – holy – shit, I want you!”

“Uhn-uh. My dick, or her – pussy, fingers, whatever she’s drooling about. Which one?” his voice turns from completely serious to chirping and delighted by the end. He knows the answer. You’re not one for deciding against him, always try to side with him – even in business. You’re a sucker for the underdog, even when it nips at your heels.

“Dick, she says! Not yours, Shiv. Ohhh, I know, I know,” he coos to you as you try to hide your face in the comforter, pets your hair and pushes you down deeper into it. In his brain, he’s won – but there was no competition. Just putting Sissy in her place.

“Yeahhh, no fucking shit! You want dick! Got it. What’s your favorite color? My tip. What’d you have for breakfast? Dick. Where do babies come from? My balls, attached to my dick. Everybody wants the Roman hammer!” Is he sarcastic, or just exaggerating? He’s not entirely sure. But he enjoys this, grinning all the way.

He leans over your back, his chest pressing against you, his breath hot against your ear. Same as before, no need to change a classic.

“Okay, you want dick, you get dick,” he says in an oddly sweet tone, and lines the slick, swollen head of his cock up with your tight asshole, pressing just enough to make you whine and squirm. “See? Simple. Not a lot of moving parts, is there? You want the dick, I have the dick. It’s a beautiful, synergistic fucking ecosystem.”

His cock slips, sliding back down between your puffy pussy lips, catching instead on the sopping wet hole of your pussy. He pushes his hips forward anyway, going in balls-deep to hear you moan a broken sound. He hears Shiv chuckle from the sidelines.

“Shut the fuck up, why aren’t you gone?” he whines to his sister on the sidelines, his hips already starting a frantic rhythm – if you could call it a ‘rhythm’.

“You invited me for a show. Maybe next time I’ll get more than front-row seats? Good impression and all that,” she grins, not entirely forced but definitely exaggerated. She does enjoy the show, though. Funny – she didn’t think she was one for it, but she still thinks she prefers to give the show.

Roman’s hands grip you where your slightly-swelling belly meets your thighs, holding you steady. The sound of his balls against your pussy lips is obscene — a wet slap-slap-slap. 

Unlike Shiv, the whole ‘age’ thing – that’s not really his thing to care about, but starting as soon as possible with making a family is. With you, at least. It makes him feel justified, like it’s not really a worry. Who cares, really? Plenty of guys his age, even his dad’s age, knock up girls even younger than you. His conscience cares when it’s 2am, and it’s only the two of you, and he’s wondering just how much he’s fucked you up. But you’re a nice prize right now, that he’s very happy to have won.

His thumbs dig into the softness of your ass, spreading you open so he can watch his dick push and out, to see that pretty ring of cream coat the base.

“Already up the duff. Aren’t you lucky? So ahead of your peers. Maybe not in the way you expected, sure. Still richer, aren’t you?”

He feels your pussy clench around him desperately, a wet pull, and he loses it. He’s never had much stamina to begin with. His hips stutter, pumping in and out mindlessly – makes a choked noise, your only warning. His cock kicks and jerks when he starts to cum, covering the inside of your already-bred pussy with his thick load. Over and over, he says, “Love — love you, love you,” and your name as he blows. 

He can feel his own cum, hot and wet, starting to leak out of your pussy around his softening cock, mingling with your slickness. You didn’t get to cum after all that hard work – too bad, so sad. He stays there for a long moment, just breathing you in, the scent of your sweat and skin, the musk. Sweet and thick and distinctly warm.

“Okay, ball cleanup time, honey,” he mumbles into your shoulder, his voice muffled. He pushes himself up, his softening dick slipping out of you. He looks at the white froth of his cum coating your swollen pussy lips and the inside of your thighs. He has a dumb, blissed-out smile on his face. Your cream is mixed with it on his half-hard cock, some of his load splooged out onto his trimmed pubes. A fucking Jackson Pollock of his jizz.

He turns his head just enough to see Shiv. She’s still staring at them, her expression unreadable but somehow still radiating judgment and a deep, lingering disgust.

“What? You want a turn with the sloppy seconds? No? Cool. Well, the private showing is over. You can go now. Go stew in your own childlessness. Vibe is ruined, Sis. Scram,” he makes a shooing motion with his hand, not even bothering to look at her properly. He hears Shiv let out a long, suffering sigh and stand up from the bedside table, and he shuffles up the bed, leaning back against the mountain of pillows, his legs spread wide. He looks down at his softening cock, then at you, expectantly. He hears Shiv’s boot heels click, walking to the door and doesn’t lift his head to speak.

“Oh, you’re going?” he says, not really a question. Monotonous. “Come back soon, don’t let the door hit your cunt the way out. Drive safe, don’t crash thinking about my wife’s pussy!” He doesn’t raise his head to speak to her, grabbing his still half-hard cock as it slowly deflates, excited to be cleaned.

The door clicks shut, and Roman grabs a handful of your hair, pushing your face down on his cock again. It’s a common routine at this point.

“Then there were two! Just the baby-makers, active participants. Get to work on the thank-you. Clean the baby starter kit and show me how grateful you are.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, nuzzling against his tip and slowly sucking it into your mouth, tonguing off the remaining cream and cum.

“Good job earlier,” he slurs, his voice still breathy. “Shiv was impressed. Didn’t — seem, like it? But she was. You’ll understand her soon, she’s not a fuckin’ novel. Pretty transparent, just wants to fuck your pussy and degrade me for actually like, doing it.”

When his dick is just a soft, spent noodle in your mouth, the suckling turning gentle, he decides he needs a different kind of attention.

“Thank you, for uh, polishing the knob off. Making sure the cum-spitter is all spic-and-span.” He’s being gross, disgusting, and he knows it. It’s his love language. He tightens his grip on your hair and physically pulls you off, cock wet with your spit, drip. He doesn't give you a chance to breathe before he’s dragging your face lower, against his balls.

“Nuh-uh, you’re not done. You don’t get to stop until I say. Switch,” he rubs your face against the sensitive skin as you suck each one, then both at once – just how you did earlier. What an easy time it would’ve been if Shiv hadn’t come. How easy he is to ruffle up.

“You’re the hottest wife, ever. You’re doing the most important job in the world, independently wealthy, in a loving marriage. This is a great year for you,” he encourages, a lilt in his voice. He sighs after a while — a happy, pathetic little sound, as your tongue laps at the sensitive skin and you enjoy it, damn near cumming untouched from it. He pets you, feeling your hair, surprisingly gentle for a moment. You lift your head and lean into it, desperate.

“You love me too?”

“Oh shit, sorry. Forgot –,”

“Yeeeahh, I’m sure you did. Say it and we’ll see where it goes,” he coerces, easily forgiving you despite forgetting to return the confession.

“I love you too, honey.” You mean it. There’s a beat, a short pause where he doesn’t react, just keeps his stupid grin.

“Alright, get on up here, cowgirl,” he encourages, patting his own scruffy cheek as you giddily climb up to straddle his face, grinning all the way. You finally get your treat for trusting him, letting him show off, performing. Overall, being such a good girl.

“Sh – oh shit,” you gasp when his tongue enthusiastically laps at your hole, still leaking his own load. Your hands go to grab his hair, ungelled and soft, just how you like it. 

“Uh-huh?” he mumbles shakily into your cunt, kissing the pouty lips and nudging your clit with his nose, wagging his face from side-to-side for a moment, just to feel you tremble. His lips press against your hole again, kissing it chastely before tonguing it again, making out with it. In and out, sighing into you, he gets a good taste – enjoys it, despite not instinctively being much of a giver.

“Uh-huh,” you moan back, rocking your hips against his face as he licks you inside and out, letting you smother his nose on each rock. “Daddy,” you moan again – can’t help yourself. 

He’s not hard, but he’s still an active participant. His brain still works, even if his dick doesn’t – and his brain is telling him to pull you down more, so he fucking does. Grabs your hips and shoves you against his face, doesn’t let you pull back or escape.

“Gonna cum, I’m sorry – Roman, I’m too – I can’t just, not,” you’ve waited for too long, can’t hold back – not that you ever could.

“Lovfh youh,” he mumbles into you, only stopping for a second in response to your pussy making those first telling squeezes against his tongue as it pushes in and out. He leans back to kiss your clit, sucking it for a second, expediting the process – and it does. His scruff tickles your clit when he kisses it, jolts your system and presses a little bit of affection on one of your most sensitive areas before he returns to your hole to lap you up – you and him – as you cum, helping you all the way through.

“I love you – love you, sorry Daddy, thank you,” you moan incoherently, squeezing his tongue and rutting against his face. Finally. You could almost cry, after almost being denied.

Once it’s over, eventually, he helps you off, grabbing your rear end and helping you lay in the crook of his side, head on his shoulder. Your brain is still foggy and he knows, body still limp on top of his, one leg opening up to hitch against his hip. He licks the sides of his mouth, getting as much of the ‘you and him’ mixture off his lips and out of his scruff as possible using his fingers, before kissing the top of your head.

“Good girl. Pretty, pretty girl. You ‘kay?”

“Mhm,” you sleepily respond, not wanting to form full sentences.

“Tuckered out. Fuck you for being so cute,” he says, taking a moment to pull back and look at your face, eyes closed. They flutter open to look back at him for a moment.

“Whuh?” you ask sluggishly.

He spread the aloe over her skin in small careful sweeps. He kept waiting for her to flinch away from his touch and when she didn’t, he wasn’t sure if that meant he was doing it right or if she was just being patient with him. Both were possible. Both were equally hard to sit with.

“That’s good, feels better,” she said, before he’d done anything wrong. Like she could tell he was working it out.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s cooling it already.”

He’d looked it up on his phone, earlier, when he’d caught the colour of her shoulders as she’d made her way inside. He’d known she’d need help with this. He wasn’t going to say so, but he’d Googled quickly before she’d asked - rubbed in versus let it sit, cool compress first or not, and none of the things he’d read agreed with each other. Putting aloe on after the sun wasn’t something the Tillman’s had ever bothered with. He’d gone back and forth on whether to stay back and let someone else help her, but before he could decide one way or the other she’d cornered him in the hallway, the others still out back at the grill, and now he was here, with her, his big dumb hands on her smooth skin.

That was new. The going back and forth on things relating to her. He’d had friends before, obviously, but most of them required nothing from him except showing up (usually with a six pack), and she… she expected him to pay attention. To think and be sure of things. He didn’t mind that the way he thought he would.

His thumbs found a knot in her left shoulder, just below the strap of her swimsuit, and without thinking he pressed into it.

“Ooh,” she hissed, but she didn’t move away.

“Too hard?”

“No.” She paused, turning just enough to catch his eye over her shoulder. “No, that’s… keep going.”

He kept going, working his thumbs into the knot until it softened, adding more aloe to the sunburn and soothing it in. She tipped her head forward a little. He watched the back of her neck, the small hairs there, and looked away.

There was a particular square of skin between her shoulder blades she’d pointed to earlier. Mostly there, I couldn’t get it. He’d nodded like it was a normal thing to be told. He moved to it now, spread the aloe slow, and he could feel the heat of the burn under his fingers, the way the skin was tight with it, and he thought, distantly, that she should have covered up sooner. But he’d liked seeing her in her swimsuit. He didn’t want that to end. So he’d said nothing, and now she was burned.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” she said.

“What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know. You always seem like a guy who doesn’t do things gently.”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands kept moving, the same careful circles.

“I can,” he said finally. “When it matters.”

She went quiet. The bathroom was small and warm and the only sound was the buzz of the bulb above the mirror. He could see the edge of her face if he looked up, not much, just the line of her jaw, the way she was looking down at her hands in her lap.

He didn’t know what they were, really. He’d been trying not to think about it directly, the way you don’t look straight at something bright. They were friends. That was true and also not quite the whole truth and he was pretty sure she knew it too, which was maybe why she’d asked him instead of someone else. Or maybe he was wrong about that. He was wrong about things sometimes.

“Can you do the sides too?” she asked. Her voice was a little quieter than before.

“I will,” he said. “I’m getting there.”

He wasn’t rushing. For once in his life, he was not rushing.

He smoothed the aloe into her sides, slow as the rest of it, then capped the bottle, placing it on the counter beside her.

She turned around.

He hadn’t quite prepared for that - for her facing him in the small space, close enough that he could see the dusting of freckles across her nose and the pink across her cheekbones that had nothing to do with the sun. She looked at him for a second, something working itself out behind her eyes, and then she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

Except she caught the corner of his mouth, just barely. Warm and soft and over before he could decide what to do with his hands.

She pulled back without a word. Reached past him for the blouse she’d draped over the towel rail and shrugged it on, leaving it hanging open, and then she was moving around him and the door was opening and he could hear the others out back, the grill, someone laughing at something.

The door didn’t quite close behind her.

note: another ask that’s been sitting in my inbox for over a month but never forgotten. i hope this fic brings to life exactly what you were imagining when you sent it in, anon, because when art finally gets between reader’s thighs, he really does cry about it.

It starts with your thighs. Thick, strong, impossible not to stare at. He doesn’t even mean to stare. But it’s the kind that flexes when you move and bounces when you laugh. Most of the time, it’s half-visible beneath shorts that never quite stay put when you play. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He’s too tired to go… but his teammates are annoying as hell. So only came because the guys were going. Not because of you. Someone mentioned a late-night volleyball practice and the whole crew was already lacing up. He doesn’t even pay attention to what they are saying when they’re joking like idiots, half-bored and desperate for anything that wasn’t another silent evening in the dorms. Art just shrugged, and dragged himself along. He wasn’t expecting anything. He wasn’t even paying attention.

But then he walked into the gym and saw you. You were on the court, hand braced against your hip, and holding a volleyball like you weren’t even thinking about it. You are barking instructions to your teammates without raising your voice. The authority is there, and he can feel it in his spine. And don’t get started with the shirt you wore because it was damp at the collar, clinging to your lower back, sleeves shoved up past your elbows. Hair is fixed and tied with a scrunchie. Shorts are tight and snug across your hips, it’s hugging your body curves. Pacing along the court lines, pointing to each mistake your team makes, and calling formations like you own the whole goddamn space.

And maybe you did. That- that kind of person does not come easily to other people. Authoritative. Leading. Intimidating. Confident. You didn’t look like you were trying to be impressive. It’s not like he feels threatened, no… he feels like he’s been enchanted, honestly. You weren’t showing off to those eyes who are watching you. Just moving with the kind of natural authority that made it impossible not to watch. Even when you smiled, it was focused- half-distracted, half-mocking. Like you had bigger things on your mind than being stared at. Like you knew they were there and didn’t give a shit. Maybe you don’t, but it doesn’t stop people from watching you. Then you dropped low into a crouch and called for a set, Art thought he might actually forget how to breathe. Or he might have seen God and gone to heaven. Your legs coiled under you, tense and clean and perfect, then released as you sprang up and swung. Damn, look at that… The sound of your spike echoing sharply against the gym walls.

He was already sitting by then- front row of the bleachers with a Gatorade bottle loose in his hand that was warm by now. His hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, still slightly damp from his own practice- but he hadn’t even registered the feeling of it in his skin. He didn’t remember walking over. It’s like the last thing he can remember is being at the tennis court and now he’s in the gym watching you. Didn’t hear whatever dumb thing the guy next to him said. All he could do was watch. Like target locked. He’s like Cupid who can’t let go of someone until he gets them.

He thinks he’s going crazy because he can’t even form clear thoughts when you turn. Jogged a few steps. Adjust your shorts with one hand, your shirt with the other. Glanced up. Just once. Just briefly. But it’s enough to scan the bleachers where half the tennis team sat slouched in their t-shirts, hoodies, or whatever they are wearing, and yeah don’t forget the backward caps as if they’re pretending not to ogle. Your gaze passed right over them- right over him- without slowing. You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge a single one of them. But okay, you might stare a little at that blonde boy who looks like he just pissed his pants. His flushed cheeks that can pass like someone slapped him. Cute.

It literally took him three seconds from squashing the bottle he’s holding when he gets a glimpse of you turning your head to their side. You hadn’t even looked at him directly. Might not have seen him at all. Well, that’s what he thought. But it didn’t matter. He could already feel the image sinking under his skin- especially the curve of your ass jiggle when you jump, and the way your thighs moved when you walked back into position. He saved and locked the whole thing into memory like it’s his storage which has a lot of space for it. Just for you. You can’t really blame him, right? He’s just a guy! He’s blonde and maybe he’s also a little dumb when it comes to girls. And… he’s just admiring, that’s all. You have a good… thick… thighs… big… ass… of course, he will appreciate them.

From watching your practice because his teammates forced him turned into a pattern. A routine. It was just supposed to be one time thing, just him sitting there with the guys, pretending he didn’t care, pretending you didn’t fuck him up a little and make a mark in his mind. But then it happened again. And again. A few days later, he just happened to be walking past the gym after eating outside the campus. The next week, he quickly finished his workout at the gym and the doors were open. Eventually, he just started going. Not with the guys. Not with anyone. Just him. Alone in the bleachers. Always in hoodies. He’s just quiet. Just watching the team. He told himself it was nothing. It was relaxing. At some point, it is because it’s not his own practice being watched on, but others. Well, that’s almost the reason. That he liked the pace of the drills, the echo of sneakers on hardwood, the slap of their hands on the ball. He liked studying athletes outside his sport. Which was bullshit. He knows he’s not fooling anyone but himself. Because all he really did was track you on the court. He doesn’t give a fuck about other girls in the court.

Eyes just stuck on you. The way you moved. The way you drink your water. The way you stood when you weren’t thinking about it- hip cocked, one leg bent, hands loose at your sides. The way you glare at your teammates when they do something stupid for multiple times in a row. The way your shorts never quite stayed put when you called plays. The way your shirt clings to your body when you are sweaty. You always looked a little flushed. A little shiny from the sweat. Your thighs flex when bent a little as you wait for the ball. Your ass shifted when you turned. And he watched. Silently. Obsessively. Dumb as hell about it. It’s like he’s having a massive crush on you. He didn’t think anyone noticed. But they did. They just walk up to gang him up and ask why he’s always here. But maybe they notice his attention is always on their captain- always looking at you.

It actually started with small things. One of the middle blockers nudges you during the water break, muttering something under her breath, and both of you snickering behind your bottles. Another girl glanced toward the bleachers while they stretched. The new recruit smirked as you spiked, yelling “someone’s watchingggg you.” And you- you said nothing. Of course you didn’t. You don’t have time for guys. Until one night, when practice was ending, and he was still sitting there, hands folded over his knee, pretending to scroll on his phone even though the screen was black.

You walked straight over him. He looked up too fast when he saw you were already halfway to him. Hair sweaty. Face glowing like a glazed donut. Breath was a little uneven from the last round of drills you did with the girls. Shirt clinging to your back, and shorts hugging every inch of your ass. You looked confident. Effortless. Beautiful. Sexy. Hot. He would suck the shit out of your thighs and bite your ass if you gave him the chance. Because how can he not when you are curvy in the best places he can imagine? It’s proportioned just right. Like it really fits you. You are a girl who knows how to carry it with confidence. He must be in heaven right now because you just stopped in front of him with your hands on your hips and your eyebrows are slightly raised like you are asking him something he doesn’t know. He blinked like he was buffering. He’s thanking all the gods existing for this moment brought to his feet. Thank you. Thank. You.

“I know you,” you said. Your tone is casual. He blinked, too stunned to say anything other than a “Huh?” Why are you talking to him? He’s not prepared. He’s not mentally ready! He looks like shit. It’s not like he doesn’t want you here… but it’s just surprising. He didn’t actually think he would face you like this. “You’re a player too,” you added and cocking your head like you were already teasing him. “I-uh. Tennis,” he stuttered, nodding too fast. You chuckle. God, it was unfair how easy it sounded. “Thought I recognized you. You’ve been watching practice for days, right?”

He hesitated. Maybe it’s been weeks already but you are just being a kid by just saying days as if he only watches you for three days and not longer. “No-I mean-I just happened to be” He can’t even form a proper sentence and he’s stuttering like a fucking kid who’s in front of his whole class for the first time. “Mmhm.” You took a half-step closer. “You’re cute when you lie.” His face burned. Oh, shit. Please, is he already blushing just because you said he’s cute? Anyone, save him.

He dropped his eyes to your shoes like they could save him. You smiled like you’d already won. “You coming next week?” He nodded. Then panicked. “I mean- if you don’t mind.” Saying this only to make him not look like he’s too eager to come next week and see you again. “I don’t,” you said. “See you, tennis boy.” After making him stutter and blush you just walk back to your team with the same confident sway he’d been watching for two weeks straight- only now he had permission.

Oh, boy and then it happened… after that interaction, you started wearing the tighter shorts. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a subtle shift- fabric that clung a little closer, hem that sat a little higher, waistband that hugged your hips just right. They were still athletic, still comfortable, still your best pair to move in. But they moved differently. They rode up when you crouched. Bunched when you served.

Showed more of your thighs when you paced. And every time you reached for the ball cart, it felt like just a little more of your ass peeked out than it should’ve. The girls didn’t care. It was off-season, half the team was showing skin, and you were all just trying to survive the sweat. But when they noticed you tugging the waistband up before warmups? When they caught you adjusting the tightest pair right before water breaks? That’s when the comments started.

“Shorts getting smaller?”

“He’s already looking, babe.”

“Make it bounce. Just once.”

And maybe you did. Not for them. Not even to be mean. But because he kept showing up. Quiet. Hoodied. Alone. Sitting in the same spot near the front with his knees apart, fingers clenched around a bottle he never drank from, eyes locked to the court like he wasn’t even aware he was staring.

He thought he was subtle. He wasn’t. You started watching for it- those little flickers of panic when your eyes met his, the way he’d immediately drop his gaze, sometimes all the way to the floor, sometimes straight to your legs like it made things worse. The flush on his neck gave him away every time. It would rise slowly, just under his jaw, spreading red until his ears burned and he had to shift in his seat like that would make it go away.

You never called him out for it but you turned in his direction just to see if he was still there. And every time? He was. He didn’t say a word. But he kept showing up. Watching like he couldn’t help it. Like the way your ass bounced when you landed a jump set was going to kill him slowly. And you let him. Every single night. Because if he wanted to look? You were going to give him something to remember. And the worst part was, you knew. You always did every time he came to the practices. And now? Now it’s over.

You’d won the whole thing- the NCAA championship, the final match, the fucking moment-and campus feels like it’s glowing. The house is packed, music shaking the walls, and the rest of your team is already half-drunk. Everything smells like sweat and sugar and noise. And he’s here, too. Of course he is. It’s not hard to spot him. He’s just in the corner with someone else, maybe his friends or his teammates, not that it matters.

He’s holding the red cup with alcohol in it, and he’s in his typical hoodie that covers his neck like it’s calming his nerves. Legs spread too wide for your liking and it’s definitely taking up much space for someone who doesn’t want to get noticed. Curls are damp and a little flattened at his forehead which have not fully dried off after he showered. Just staying there and he hasn’t moved in a while ever since he sat down. Just sips from his drink and watches the crowd like he’s still on the sidelines.

But his eyes keep coming back to you. Every time you laugh. Every time your medal catches the light. Every time you raise your arms and your shirt lifts a little- he’s looking. And then he’s not. But you know he is. So you take your time getting there. You weave through people slowly, nodding, laughing, swaying with the music until you’re close enough that your thighs brush his knee when you stop. You lean one shoulder against the couch arm beside him and look down like you didn’t plan it.

“You hiding?” you ask. His eyes snap up, wide. His cup dips slightly in his hand. “No- just, um. Sitting,” he says. His voice is soft. Almost careful. “Congrats. You were… insane tonight.” Your lips twitch. “Yeah?” He nods. Quick. A little nervous. “Yeah. I mean-you always are. But tonight-yeah.” You let your smile show. Slow. Knowing. “You watched?”

“Of course.”

“Cute.”

His gaze drops to his drink like it might help. You don’t move. Just let the music thump around you while the silence between you gets heavier. His cup shifts in his hands. His fingers tap once against the rim. “God you are drunk already, aren’t you?” you tease him. Smirk on your face and lashes flutter as you look at him. “I’m not drunk.” You laugh softly. “You are.” He doesn’t argue again. Just looking at you. Really look this time. You’re still flushed from the win, still glowing, your legs pressed close to his, your medal glinting against your chest. You don’t say anything else. You just let it hang there- like you’re giving him space to figure out what he wants to do about it.

He doesn’t move. You do. You don’t wait. You don’t ask. Don’t hesitate. Don’t even give him time to shift his cup out of the way. You just move in one slow, easy motion, medal tapping against your chest as you drop straight into his lap like it’s the most obvious seat in the room. The couch dips hard. His breath stutters. And then he just… freezes. One hand was still holding his drink. The other stiff against his thigh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares straight ahead like he can’t trust his own body. You’re warm in his lap. Solid. Real. Pressed against him in a way that feels permanent.

Your back settles comfortably to his chest as if you've done this before, like you just have your own seat on his lap. Like you belong there. Like he belongs to you. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes bounce from your shoulder to your hand to the empty space across the room like maybe it’ll swallow him. But his neck is already flushed. His jaw’s tight. The tension under his hoodie is so loud to the point you can feel it vibrate straight into your system.

And then someone sees you. “OH MY GOD!” one of your teammates screams across the room, slapping another girl’s arm. “She actually sat on him,” another gasps, fake shocked. “You’re so done for, babe,” a third adds, giggling as they start crossing the room like sharks smelling blood. You don’t look at them. You don’t even blink. Instead, you press a little closer, leaning back against his chest just enough that your hips shift in his lap, and lift your drink to your mouth with a lazy smile.

“Hey,” you call out casually, waving over someone you know near the edge of the couch, “did you see that last point? Setter almost tripped over me.” They laugh, sliding into the conversation like nothing’s burning beneath you. You keep your voice light. Breathless. Like sitting on Art Donaldson’s lap in front of ten people is just another end-of-season ritual. “Oh my god, yeah,” someone else chimes in, “you looked pissed.”

“I was,” you hum, grinning as you take another sip. “They would’ve blamed me if it went out. And I’m the one carrying the whole backline, apparently.” The girls laugh again. One of them crouches next to the couch just to whisper, “Is he breathing?” loud enough that you know he can hear it. You still don’t flinch. Instead, mid-laugh, you slide your hand down and take his free one gently from his thigh- like it’s just been waiting and place it directly onto yours. His palm lands warm on your skin. Just above the knee. You leave it there.

He twitches, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. But you keep talking. Smiling. Turning your head to the conversation without moving anything else. His hand stays. And god, the way he’s holding his breath? Like it might all vanish if he shifts too hard. Like one wrong move might wake him up. But this is real. You’re glowing. He’s still not going anywhere. The conversation doesn’t stop. Someone’s halfway through retelling a point from the second set-badly- while another girl keeps waving her drink for emphasis, sloshing liquid over her hand with every exaggerated detail. Everything is loud, flushed, and breathless. Post-championship high. But in that corner of the couch, you’re still pressed into his lap, drink in hand, posture easy like you’re not doing anything at all. Like this is just comfort. Like his thighs weren’t tensed under you from the second you sat down.

You keep your smile soft, eyes tracking the group in front of you, nodding along like you’re listening. But your weight shifts slightly- just enough to adjust your seat, just enough to reposition the hem of your shorts, just enough that your hips roll forward in the smallest, slowest arc over his lap. It could pass for nothing. It probably does. No one flinches. No one calls it out. You’re laughing at something someone says across the couch, your drink raised, your medal still cold against your chest. You look relaxed. Still glowing. But under you, his body reacts like he’s been struck. He stiffens. Breath stutters. His hand tightens just slightly on your thigh- barely there, more instinct than decision and you feel it. The way his legs shift. The way his jaw clenches. The way his eyes flick downward like looking anywhere else might help.

It doesn’t. So you do it again. Another soft shift. Another innocent adjustment. Another drag of pressure that’s barely anything-but still enough to make his cup tilt in his grip. You glance down, watching his knuckles go pale where he grips the rim. Then you lean in. Not dramatically. Just enough. Your head dips toward his like you’re reacting to something someone said, like you’re about to whisper a joke. Your mouth grazes the shell of his ear. And without looking at him, without breaking rhythm, you murmur: “I can feel how hard you are, you know.” Soft. Easy. Like it’s a fact.

And before he can even begin to answer, you’re smiling again. Turning slightly, laughing at something across the couch, like nothing happened. You take another sip from your cup. Your free hand presses lightly against his thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your own skin, grounding the heat between you like you don’t even notice it. But he does. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You feel the tension ripple through him- contained, barely managed, and absolutely wrecked. You can feel the way his fingers twitch on your leg as he lays them there to rest.

His breath is shallow like he’s trying to keep himself together like a puzzle piece. You don’t have to say another word. Not really because you don’t need to. His body says everything for him. You couldn’t leave early. Of course not. You were the captain. You had speeches to give. Teammates to hug. People to thank and photos to smile through and drinks to toast. You had to carry the trophy into the second location and take ten thousand blurry selfies and act like your legs weren’t already tired from the five-set match and hours of celebration.

But he waited. Quiet. Patient. Still buzzing from the way you’d whispered in his ear like it’s some secret he needs to keep. Still hard beneath the waistband of his jeans long after you stood up from his lap and vanished into the crowd. He didn’t follow you. Didn’t ask. Just watched you walk away with your medal still swinging and your voice echoing in his head like you’d dropped a match into his lungs. He waited until the lights were low and the house started emptying. Until someone tossed him a bottle of water and a spare sweatshirt and told him to “get out of there before you combust.”

Now he’s here. On his knees. Face buried between your thighs like he’s praying. His hands grip the back of your legs as if it’s the only thing keeping him motivated to be here. And you’re still wearing his goddamn hoodie he gave you in the middle of the party because of your soaked shirt. You’re still wearing the medal. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. And his mouth is slow. Careful. Worshipful. Like this is a favor you’re letting him perform. Like he’s just lucky to be allowed here between your thighs, under your fingers, lips dragging wet across your skin as he licks and kisses and breathes you in like this is the win he’s been chasing all year. You let your head fall back against the pillows. Fingers curling in his hair. He groans low when you pull quietly, desperate, like he loves it and you feel it all the way through you.

You haven’t said a word since you let him in. You didn’t have to. He’s now where he wants to be and he’s been dreaming of this moment ever since he saw you the first time. He waited. Through the noise, the bodies, the championship high that kept everyone buzzing long after the final whistle. Through photos and toasts and too many sticky drinks, through the sweat clinging to your skin and the way your shirt had started to turn see-through beneath the lights-clinging where it shouldn’t, sheer enough to show everything beneath. You hadn’t noticed. You were still laughing, flushed and sparkling from the win, from the way everyone was looking at you like you’d won it alone.

He noticed. He always noticed. He was still quiet, still sitting off to the side like he didn’t want to take up space, but he got brave, just once. Pulled his hoodie off over his head, walked over without meeting your eyes, and held it out like a peace offering. “You look cold,” he mumbled, even though you didn’t. Even though he was the one shivering. You took it anyway. Slipped it over your shoulders, your sticky shirt bunched underneath, the sleeves falling past your hands. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. The look you gave him- tired and soft and knowing. It was more than enough. It stayed with him all night.

And now you’re in his dorm. Your back against his pillows, his hoodie still on, legs bare and spread over the sheets like you’ve always belonged here. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. Your hair’s a mess. There’s a fading smudge of glitter near your collarbone from someone else’s celebration. He’s on his knees in front of you, his eyes wide- beautiful blue eyes gazing up to you with full adoration behind them. He can’t believe this is happening, that you are here, perfect and real.

Because he can't, not really. Sure, he imagined what the possible things could happen when you’re in front of him but this isn’t part of it. He definitely has fantasized how about having you, to touch you, to have you in his bed, to press his lips on your thighs. And now you are open and waiting for him with that big smile of yours like this isn’t breaking the shit out of him. Like this is not a big deal. Didn’t even know where the fuck he should begin with all of this. There’s so much of you. So much thigh. So much curve. Your ass spilling over the edge of the mattress when you shift, soft and devastating. He doesn’t speak. Just moves closer. Places both hands on your legs and strokes slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

Then he leans in. Presses a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Then a third, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s trying to prove he deserves this- every inch, every breath, every second of it. You sigh, tilting your hips slightly toward him. “Hey,” you murmur, lazy, playful, and voice curling under the low hum of the dorm fan. “You good down there?” He looks up, dazed. Swallows. “I just…” He shakes his head, almost laughs, eyes dropping again to your legs spread in front of him. “I don’t even know what to do with all of you.” You smile. Really smile. It’s a little smug. A little sweet. You lean back further, stretching out in his hoodie, your medal glinting faintly against the fabric. “Then take your time,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” And neither is he.

He still hasn’t touched your panties. Not really. Not yet. If someone asks him how he’s doing, his answer will be 50-50. He will be the happiest man in the world right now, but he’s also the one who’s so fucked up and going spiraling inside. Why? Because he’s been kneeling between your thighs and just staring like he’s processing all of this before he touches and tastes you for the first time. His hands are warm and shaking when he moves them slowly towards your thighs, tracing their flesh and curve as if he’s memorizing the feeling and the shape of them in his palms. Both of his hands move to squish and squeeze it once… feeling and testing the water first. Then again, nails digging a little into the flesh and both of them gripping your thighs fully like he doesn’t want to let go.

There are no words that can be found in his mouth. Eyes not looking up at you, he just keeps kneading and gently stroking the softest parts of them, where no one gets to touch unless you let them. His thumb slides up inside your inner thighs, and it’s close enough where you want him to touch you. When he exhales, it’s shaky as if he’s getting triggered by just holding your thighs. Then came the kisses. They’re soft at first. Careful. Barely there. Just slow presses of his lips along the edge of your thigh, then a little higher, then lower again. He’s not trying to tease you. He’s not playing a game. He’s just trying to understand you through touch. Through taste. He doesn’t want to take it because he’s scared to take it so fast, and it will be gone in the blink of an eye.

You watch him as you lean back slightly while being propped on your elbows. Didn’t even notice how the fabric of your panties got a wet patch in the middle and is clinging more to your cunt with a sticky feeling. But it’s frustrating because he still doesn’t touch you. He just keeps kissing your thighs, your hips, and the very tops where skin gets soft and sensitive, his mouth dragging slowly and softly like he’s praying. You thread your fingers through his curls. Tug gently. Tilt his face just a little closer to where you want him. And he moans. Not loud. Not for anyone but you. Just a low, helpless sound against your skin that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach pull tight.

You wait a beat. Let him breathe. Then, sweet and quiet: “You like my thighs, baby?” He stills. You feel it- every inch of him freezing for just a moment, like he forgot how to answer. His breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t even take off his lips off your thigh when he nods. So afraid to let go when he doesn’t even get all of the taste he can get. His voice is low and a little cracked when he speaks, like he’s thinking of many possible responses he can give to you, but this is the only one he can give and probably enough: “Yeah. Fuck. I- yeah.”

That made you smile. Can’t help it. You tilt your hips just a little closer to his face and let your knees fall wider. “Thought so.” He hums like he might fall apart. Kisses your thigh again, slower this time, then noses gently against the edge of your panties, still not pulling them aside. His hands move up to your hips, holding them steady, like you are the only thing grounding him right now. You’re still wearing his hoodie. He’s still on his knees. And he hasn’t even tasted you yet. But god- he already looks wrecked. He doesn’t move until you let him.

You let him take his time kneeling between your thighs, and his lips drag slowly along your skin. You just let him even though his breath is warm and uneven. You let him even though he’s almost breaking himself by just doing this slowly just to ground himself and not get so lost in it. You let him hold your hip with his hand while the other one is grazing his thumb on your outer thigh. You let him even though what you want is for him just to eat your pussy out. You’re still in your panties- thin, soaked, and clinging- and he’s close enough to feel everything but hasn’t touched the center of you yet. Not really. Not until you say so.

When he finally looks up, he’s flushed. Eyes wide. Jaw slack. He doesn’t speak, but you feel that he’s asking. Needing. Like he wants it so bad it hurts, but he’s still too careful to assume. You nod. Just a little. Your fingers slip into his curls, light and gentle, and you guide his head forward- not forceful, not rushed, just there. Letting him know. “Go ahead, baby,” you say quietly. “I want you to.” That’s the key to open the gates, and the floods flood in quickly.

He takes a breath before he leans in. The mouth found the fabric first, lips parted, and moved against the soaked panties. Tongue dragging flat and licking it softly and slowly like he doesn’t care if there’s a barrier or not. He can taste you still. He doesn’t push. Don't bite. He exhales like he’s smelling the scent of you, and this is making you feel a little shy even though you are a confident person. He’s making your knees weak by just doing that through the fabric. God, you even feel the way his hand tightens in your skin, the way it presses deeper in the flesh. You feel it in the way his moan rumbles low and soft into your heat, his mouth working a little more intentionally now- open kisses, wet and steady, dragging through your folds beneath the fabric.

It’s not perfect. It’s not practiced. But it’s hungry. It’s real. He licks again, slower this time. Tongue flat, broad, and firm. Then again. Each one a little deeper, more sure. And when he starts sucking softly through the fabric, you tug his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter closed. “That’s it,” you murmur, voice low. “Right there.” You’re not teasing. Not guiding out of pity. You’re just showing him what you like, but you are showing him what he’s doing right. Because he is. And you want him to know it.

He moans quietly against it and even grunts there like the sound came straight from his abdomen, and you can feel how it vibrates right and straight to your pussy. It makes your breath catch with just that action he made. Hips rolled instinctively, and he likes the way it’s benefiting him that you grind into his mouth because he can taste more of you; it also means you feel good, and he’s going to enjoy it more, which he shows by pressing his tongue harder, dragging his lips, and burying his face deeper like this is the most important thing in the world. He doesn’t ask for more. But he’s aching for it. Still licking you through your panties, sloppy and slow and completely gone for it- hands gripping, thighs flexed, body trembling just slightly from how long he’s been holding himself together- he looks like a mess. And you haven’t even let him take them off yet.

He’s not as gentle anymore. Still slow, still careful, but there’s something deeper in the way he moves now- like need is starting to win out over hesitation. His mouth presses harder. His tongue drags with more weight. Each kiss sinks lower, each stroke of his tongue lingers longer, and when you shift under him, hips rocking just slightly into his face, he moans like it hurts. It’s all through the fabric- your panties wet, clinging, soaked with how long he’s been teasing, but it doesn’t stop him. If anything, it makes him greedier. Hungrier. He licks right through it, like he wants to memorize your heat before he’s ever allowed to feel it bare.

And then he finds it. Right there- your clit, swollen and sensitive under the thin cotton and the second he locks his mouth around it, everything gets hotter. He doesn’t rush. He just sucks. Open-mouthed and slow, the fabric darkening with every breath, his lips wet and shaky as he pulls soft sounds from you without ever touching skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s trying to hold you steady, keep you right there, and keep himself from going insane. You arch your back for him. You whimper but barely audibly. And then he pulls back. Just a little. Just enough. But his mouth is still parted. His lips look shiny, and his breathing is unsteady, with his pupils blown widely like he’s love-struck by it. “Can I?” he asks, voice raw, barely there. “Please?”

You don’t speak. Hands just reach down gently, and you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties to drag the wet panties slowly to the side. Hold it there for him. The second you do, he exhales like it’s a relief. Like gratitude because he’s been waiting for this moment- to lean in, to part his mouth against it, to lick it directly without any fabric from it. He’s not teasing; he just continues what he’s doing- licking and sucking your pussy. He doesn’t even care if the fabric is just pulled aside; his hands still come up. It’s steady and soft when he brushes yours to push them from holding your panties.

He didn’t even second-guess or hesitate to do it; he just did. He replaces your grip with his own to hold your panties now. Fingers slip beneath the band like it’s some instinct he has over you. Didn’t even yank or fumble over it. He just takes over gently, like this is something to be careful with. Something he should do, not you. And it shows in how he holds it tightly and how his thumb is tucked against your hips and how his knuckles graze your skin when he leans in. The look in his eyes is low, and it even rolled behind when he dragged his tongue in full length to your pussy lips in one slow stroke. That one is not slick or sloppy, nor is it hurried, but it’s deep and intentional to be like that. It’s a continuous movement that starts from the bottom end, and it doesn’t stop until his tongue reaches your clit, and he doesn’t tease you.

He carefully licks and enjoys the moment like he’s trying to understand and learn how you taste and feel in his mouth. The sounds released against your cunt are barely audible; it’s a quiet groan, but it vibrates through your body, and he does it again when he notices that you reacted when he does that. It doesn’t take long before he gives another slow stroke of his tongue, thicker and firmer this time, before it flattens and spreads each pass of it from the base up to the clit. The other hand settles on your thigh, and fingers that hold you are grounding him as he eats you deeper, like pulling him away will be more of a fight than just pushing his head out there.

He keeps holding your panties to the side. His grip is firm now, not letting them slip even as his tongue moves in long, languid motions- up and down, again and again as if he wants to open you with his mouth alone. His nose nudges your clit, and he doesn’t even flinch. He leans into it. Stay there. Letting the pace be guided by how your hips move, your breath hitches and catches, and the way your thighs can’t help but close around his head without your control. And he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses in closer. He’s not licking anymore. His tongue is fucking you now, steadily thrusting it beyond the slit and inside of you, which makes your body twitch.

He’s not messy with what he’s doing; he’s gentle and doing it softly, which makes you want to cry because all you want is for him to eat you like he’s hungry for it. But there’s an appeal to how controlled the pressure he’s doing is, how each stroke drags through the slick like he’s syncing his body to yours. His grip tightens around the panties he’s holding to the side while his other hand remains on your thigh to keep your legs open before he guides it to his shoulder and you let him without any hesitation. You also did the same to your other leg so you can wrap it around him. Locking him in place where he belongs, and you are sure he likes it in the way he groans when your ankles cross behind his back.

The sound is low and deep as if he's been suppressing it ever since he latched his mouth there. His tongue thrusting slowly, rolling it, and focusing on getting it deeper if that’s even possible. Your hips roll up to meet it, fingers tangled in his hair, breath breaking against your lips, and you can feel the heat climbing fast now, climbing hard. It’s too good. Too much. You can’t stay quiet. “God, baby…” You breathe, one hand sliding down to cradle the back of his head. “You’re really doing that, huh?” He moans into you, deeper this time, and it shakes through your core. You feel it all the way down. You let out a soft laugh, breathless and messy, and your voice dips low as your thighs pull him closer. “Using your tongue like it’s your cock,” you murmur, lifting your hips right into his face. “Is that what you wanted?” Your fingers tighten. “Wanted to fuck me like this?”

Another thrust of his tongue, firmer this time, slower. You gasp. Try again. “Do you feel how wet I am for you?” He can’t answer. He doesn’t even try. He just groans- long and drawn out and devoted- and keeps going. His tongue sinks deeper, mouth dragging, face flushed and buried, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re open for him, shaking under him, and he just keeps fucking you- tongue pushing in, lips catching on your clit, hands gripping tighter now, holding you open like he needs to feel you fall apart around his mouth. His hips rock subtly into the mattress, like even his body can’t take it anymore, like he’s getting off just from the sounds you make. And still- he doesn’t stop. He holds your panties aside with a hand that’s almost trembling, rubs softly against his sheets, and fucks you with his tongue like he’d die if you told him to stop. Thighs start to squeeze his head instinctively, body responding to how he’s thrusting and moving his tongue in your cunt; he also does it fast. Switching from shoving inside and sucking it.

You like how steady his mouth is and how devoted he is to what he’s doing and how fucking real this feels now. Sounds were released and made by him when you do it, not because he’s overwhelmed but because this is exactly what he wanted. He’s proving that with how his fingers dig into your hips to keep you down in place while his tongue is still licking, slower now, deeper at your entrance. And then he sucks. Not a tease. Not a pass. A full suction. Lips sealed around your pussyhole, tongue still inside you, sucking like he’s trying to pull you open, like he wants to drink from the source.

His moan breaks against you, low and guttural, and it doesn’t stop. His mouth stays right there, sealed and locked and obsessed with the heat and taste of you, the wet swell of your hole fluttering against his tongue. You can’t even breathe- you just stare down at him, mouth open, chest rising fast, and he keeps sucking you like your pussy’s the only thing he’s ever needed. His tongue pushes deeper while his lips pull back- just enough to draw again- soft, wet suction, like he’s kissing your hole, like he’s trying to inhale it. He breathes through his nose, desperate and steady, jaw moving as he tongue- fucks you in rhythm with the sucking, like this is how he wants to get you off. Mouth full of your hole. Tongue buried. His whole face was soaking in it.

“Oh my god- fuck… right there- don’t stop-” Your words don’t even sound like words anymore. Your thighs lock tighter. He shifts to fit better beneath them, tilts his head to stay sealed against you, sucking, sucking, sucking, the pressure tender but unrelenting, and every time his tongue strokes in deeper, your walls flutter around him and he moans like he feels it in his cock. He’s not even thinking anymore. Just sucking your pussyhole like he belongs there. Like he wants to taste you to come. Like he wants to swallow it.

And when it happens- when you start to shake, when your hands tighten in his hair, when your body starts to give- he doesn’t pull back. He sucks harder. Because that’s his reward. And he’s starving. You don’t mean to beg, not really- but it slips out anyway. Breathless, cracked, barely a whisper between gasps. “Don’t stop, baby. Please, don’t stop.” And he doesn’t. Not when you sound like that. Not when you’re pulling him tighter with your thighs like you’d drag him inside if you could.

He groans the second he hears it- low and deep, like something inside him breaks- and seals his mouth tighter over your pussyhole, lips locking around your entrance, tongue still pushing slow and deep inside you like he’s trying to fuck you open with his mouth alone. It’s not messy, it’s not hurried- it’s focused. Hungry. Every movement exact, every kiss purposeful, every slow suck like he’s trying to drink the orgasm out of you.

And then it happens. Your body starts to give in, hips stuttering against his face, hands fisting in his hair, and thighs trembling so tight around his head. He moans into it again- louder this time, like he’s grateful. Your pussy pulses around his tongue, and he just stays there, still sucking your hole through it, slow and deep and perfect. He wants to feel every twitch with his whole mouth. Your breath catches. Your muscles tighten. You feel yourself fall apart around his tongue, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t ease up. He just stays locked in place, licking and sucking through every flutter of your cunt like he’s not finished until you’re empty. You breathe out something like a laugh, ruined and shaking, head falling back against the pillow as your thighs slowly loosen around him. “You’re going to kill me,” you whisper.

He groans again; it’s low and desperate before he sucks your pussyhole one more time. Like he’s still not full. He almost looks disappointed when he pulls back because he doesn’t speak at all. His breathing is hard, his face is flushed, his lips are wet, his gaze looks like he’s lost before he stands up with all of that, and his hair is a little damp, and he’s just there on the edge of the bed like he’s not sure what to do next. But when you nod at him, he starts taking off his shirt, and his sweats are shoved down to the floor along with his boxers in them. Cock sprang out at the action, and it’s already flushed and soaked at the tip. It’s hard and looks painful because it’s so red and leaking. You managed to pull your panties away from your body, and he took a deep breath at the sight.

He climbs to the bed without saying anything, and his hands cage your body, hovering over you with his shallow breathing. Legs automatically parted for him without even thinking, just welcoming and ready. He leans forward slowly, not guiding himself inside yet and not pushing. He is just lining up and letting the thick, leaking head of his cock drag through the mess he made of you. Not fucking. Not teasing. Just pressing himself along your slit like he needs the friction just to stay alive.

His hips rock gently, slow and unsteady, and his cock slides wetly between your folds- bare, deliberate glides that catch on your clit just enough to make him shiver. He didn’t even look at you; he just buried his face in your neck the moment his cock made contact with your pussy. Breath hot against your skin, and his voice could pass as a whisper, how low or shy he sounds when he’s fucked up and speaking through the strain stuck in his throat. “Fuck- I don’t- I can’t… this is-”

He doesn’t finish. Just hides there, panting, letting the length of his cock rub again and again against your pussy like he’s afraid to go further, like this alone might undo him. You feel the tip drag up over your clit and down again, slick and thick and so careful, like he’s savoring every inch of pressure he gets without fully slipping inside. You smile into his hair, fingers running down his back, soft and slow, as you press your lips to his temple. “You feel so good,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “You’re okay, baby.”

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a moan, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he needs to hide from how much he feels. His cock drags down again- thick and hot and heavy- grinding softly against your clit until your breath hitches. “You’re shy now?” You tease, you say gently, still breathless, still smiling. “After everything you just did to me?” He laughs, but it’s ruined- broken into your neck, quiet and trembling- and he just keeps moving. Not pushing in. Not yet. Just rubbing slowly, back and forth, dragging the head through your folds like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be this close. Like, this is the whole thing. Like you’re already enough.

And all you can do is hold him. Let him rut into your cunt like you’re his first and last. Let him feel it. Because he’s not fucking yet. He’s falling. You shift under him, just enough to let your hips tilt and your thighs open wider, guiding him in closer with the softest squeeze of your legs. His cock slides through your slickness as if it belongs there, thick and hot and already flushed deep, the tip catching at your entrance before gliding back up to your clit again- slow, shaky, almost desperate. Breath shaky against your skin, warm and making you shiver. Your neck could feel how he’s shaking and the way his arms get tense on either side of your body like he’s holding back from being fucked up completely.

“Put it in,” you tell him, commanding even. Your lips brushed against his ear when you told him that. “I want you.” But he doesn’t move. Not in the way you expect. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t look at you. He just thrusts forward again, dragging himself through your folds like he can’t stop, like he’s too far gone to do anything else. His face stays hidden in your neck, lips parted, breath catching as his cock glides through your slick with slow, shaky pressure.

“I-I can’t,” he whispers, and it breaks right out of him, raw and low. “Your thighs…” He grunts against your skin with his hips twitching and the head of his cock sliding between your wet slit every time he rocks forward, but it’s slower this time. He’s trying to feel every skin and shape with each thrust while his whole body trembles above you, yet he still keeps going. He keeps rubbing his cock between your folds, enjoying the press and drag again and again.

“They’re so soft,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You’re so warm- I can’t think- fuck, you feel too good…” Each glide is heavier than the last. His cock pulses every time he passes over your clit, and still, he doesn’t lift his head. He just stays there, breath stuttering, mouth hot against your throat as he keeps rutting into you like your thighs are going to make him come. But he feels overwhelmed and flushed over you regardless of how he stays still but loses and goes crazy about how you feel.

“Just- just a little more,” he says, but it’s not really towards you but to himself, as if he’s trying to justify how his cock keeps chasing the friction you can give to him. “Just… like this. Just a little longer…” You can feel it- the way his cock slips and stutters along your entrance, how your pussy clenches around nothing with every pass, and how his whole body’s begging for you to pull him in. But he won’t do it until you ask again. Or until you guide him. Because right now? He’s too deep in it. Too shy to look at you. Too obsessed with your thighs. Too gone to stop.

He keeps rutting between your folds, cock dragging slowly and soaked through your slick, trembling above you like he’s trying so hard to stay composed, but his body’s already begging. His breath breaks into your skin, face still tucked into your neck like he can’t look at you, like he’s too shy to see what he’s doing to you. The tip of his cock catches against your clit and then slides down again, dragging over your entrance in a slow, sticky glide that makes you ache- and still, he doesn’t push in. He just keeps rocking, lost, murmuring into your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Feels so good… I can’t- fuck your thighs- your pussy is so…” It’s too much for him. So you help. You reach between your bodies without saying anything; your hand is steady and slow before your fingers wrap around the base of his cock. You feel him twitch and shudder the second you make contact with it, and there’s also a breathless gasp muffled into your shoulder while you guide him down. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just be careful. Sweet. Like you’re lining up a child’s spoon to their mouth. Like he needs help eating.

“Shhh,” you whisper, hand soft over his cock, guiding the head back to your entrance. “Let me, baby. I’ve got you,” he whined. He buries deeper into your neck, one hand fisting the sheets, the other slipping under your back like he’s holding on for dear life. And when your pussy flutters as the tip of his cock finally nests right against you, ready to sink in, that’s when you feel everything in him falter.

“You don’t have to think,” you murmur, rocking your hips up just slightly to help. “Just let me do it for you.” He nods. It’s tiny and slow, and he follows your hand. And then he pushes. Just an inch. Then another. That made him moan. Loud, desperate, shaking. The sound breaks into your throat, echoing into your skin like he’s never felt anything like it before, like it’s too much, like you’re too much, like being inside you might kill him.

But you just hold him there. Your hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock, and your other arm was around his back. Keeping him close as his body sinks slowly into yours like this is how he learns what love feels like. And when he bottoms out, trembling and silent, stuffed full into the wet heat of you. Then you feel him fall apart- without moving.

Just shaking, moaning, hiding, and finally… finally inside. He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried as deep as he can go. His cock is thick and warm and pulsing inside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to fit somewhere like this. His face is hidden in your neck with his breath shaking, skin damp. The rest of his body feels like it’s trying to remember how to exist. He isn’t tense- he’s soft all over, like just being inside you has taken something out of him. You hold the back of his head as his hips stay still. His full weight is against you as his chest presses to yours, and you don’t rush him. You just let him feel it and let him just take his moment there.

“You did so good,” you praise him like your breath almost catches. You make sure your voice sounds soft against his ear with your hand still cradling him like he’s some precious diamond that might fall apart and break if you stopped holding him. “You’re doing so good, baby.” He exhales like it hurts to hear that. A sound low in his throat, muffled by your skin, but real. His fingers push deeper to the point his nails dig into your waist, but not painfully enough to leave a bruise, just enough to grip you like you are the only one grounding him. You could feel the tremble run through his system before he said something again.

“Thank you,” he mutters before repeating the same words again and again like he can’t just stop himself, “Thank you- f-fuck, thank you-” Your lips touch his hair and hum while you let him keep hiding there. Let him fall apart gently, slowly, and all the way inside you. He’s so deep. You can feel every twitch of his cock that makes your breath catch, but he’s still not moving- just holding. Just staying. And when your hips shift up ever so slightly, when your walls flutter around him from just the weight of it, he moans. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s helpless.

“Feels good, baby?” you ask him. It’s like you are rocking him in your arms, the way your words are warm and slow. When he nods, it makes you smile, and it’s so endearing how he still presses into your throat like he’s not ready to do that yet because he might cum quickly. “So good,” he whispers. “You’re so warm. I didn’t know- I didn’t know it could feel like this.” He starts to move. Not much. Just a slow roll of his hips, the tiniest drag of his cock inside you, but it’s enough to make both of you gasp. He does it again, just a little deeper, and you tighten your arm around him like he’s about to slip through you.

“That’s it,” you murmur. “You’re doing so well. You feel so good inside me, baby.” He breathes something that isn’t even a word- just a noise, a broken sound caught halfway between a moan and a prayer- and rocks into you again. Slow. Careful. So present it aches. And still, he thanks you. “Thank you,” he murmurs again. “I want to make you feel good. I just want to make you come. I just want to be good.”

“You are,” you assure him, brushing your lips against his temple. “You are. You’re so good. You’re perfect, baby.” He makes another sound into your neck, and it’s almost a sob but soft. Grateful. His cock pulses as he starts to move a little more, hips finding rhythm, but it’s slow and shallow, like he wants to make love to you with every inch he has.

And the whole time, you hold him like he’s yours. Because he is. The moment you let him inside your world, you consider him yours. You know he’s not just fucking and pushing his cock inside of you. You know he’s thanking you for letting him be here, and it’s not hard to pick up by the way he’s acting. He figured out how you like the rhythm, and he has this attitude where he wants to please people, so he wants to match it. There’s something gentle in the way he moves. It’s still restricted because, you know, he’s shy in the way you can feel it, like he’s not certain if he’s allowed to want you this much as he does. His hips rolled, and he thrust smoothly and deeply. You can feel each stroke of his cock; it’s enough to make your back arch into him and moan your lungs out to show him that you like it.

He responded with the way he holds you, like he’s asking for something, but not with words. With his whole body. With the way he keeps you wrapped up. The way he trembles. He doesn’t pull back to look at you. He stays close, mouth brushing your cheek, breath caught in his throat as he starts to move a little deeper. His cock slowly thrusts inside of you. You can feel its thickness and size filling you up, and you can feel it every time he pushes it inside. His voice is shaky and low. “Does that feel good?” And then he asks another, but it’s barely louder than a breath. Thankfully, you are skin to skin, so you heard it: “Am I doing it right?” You gasp, clenching around him, hands sliding down his back to hold him closer, and you nod into his skin as you whisper,

“Yes, baby. So good. You fuck me so good.” That breaks something open in him. It’s like your praises are fucking him up but not in a loud way. It shows the way his hips stutter every time he hears it, as your words land exactly and hit what he wants to hear. His cock goes deeper, if that’s even possible, but it kisses your cervix because the angle is just right. It earns a low groan from him before he thrusts another again and repeats what he did. One of his hands remains beneath your lower back while the other is resting at your waist. Both hands holding you gently and firmly at the same time to anchor himself to your body.

“S-shit. You’re so tight,” he mutters when he feels you clench around him, and he doesn’t even care if he doesn’t sound in control anymore. “Feels like you’re pulling me in.” It’s obvious how he’s trying hard to keep everything under control and slow, to make everything last, and how he wants to stay in the moment. Every thrust is deep, full, and intentional. There’s no rush. Just this overwhelming need to stay connected, to do it right, to make you feel everything he’s too shy to say out loud. He lets out a shaky breath, and then- “Can I go a little harder?” It comes out hesitant, like he’s asking permission for something he already aches for.

He doesn’t move until you give it. “Yes, baby,” you breathe, tilting your hips for him. “Take what you need. I’ve got you.” He moans into your skin and starts again, but this time with a little more pressure behind each thrust of his hips. Not fast. Not rough. But with more rhythm and not sloppy. His cock pushes in and out of you with steady movements before he kisses your jaw down to your neck like he’s dreaming and can’t believe that you let him do this. “I love how you feel- p-please- mhngh-” he moans out softly even though he’s not really starting yet, and his words feel dreamy. “I love being inside you. I love how you wrap around me…”

How he moans, how he breaks, how he twitches, and how his movements stutter just drive you to purposely squeeze him tighter just to earn another sound from him, and his body even reacts. He’s so fucked out already, and you don’t even care at this point if you will cum or not because just watching the way he thrusts, the way his breath catches, and the way his cock stays inside like he never wants to leave is enough for you just to get pleasure out of it.

You can even feel how close he’s getting, but he’s still holding it. There’s already tension bubbling through his stomach and the shake that traveled down to his thighs, and how his hips twitch when your pussy grips around him. But he doesn’t let go. Not yet. Not until you tell him. Because even now, even while he’s fucking you perfectly, filling you completely, thrusting deep and soft and full like he’s learning what devotion feels like, he still needs your voice to carry him through.

He continues to rock and move inside you. His hips rolling with a slow but focused rhythm and his cock dragging deeper with each roll of his hips. It’s like his cock has already imprinted the shape of him inside of your pussy by now, and he certainly knows your body now too. He’s hitting the right angle, how to press it right, and how to stay deep like he’s cock-warming from your pussy for a few moments before he pulls out and pushes again. And you moan just from the stretch alone he’s giving you. Warm breath stays against your throat, and arms hold you carefully as his pace gets faster and heavier.

Then he pulls back a little, just enough to see you better. His eyes flick down, lips parted like he’s been thinking about it this whole time, and his hands slip to the front of the hoodie still wrapped around your body. His hoodie. It’s yanked up halfway and damp with sweat, and he can see how your shirt underneath is still clinging to your skin. Lips found your jaw as his hands pushed up the hoodie from your body more, and it exposed the shape of your body underneath. He takes his time with it and doesn’t rush even though he’s already inside of you. It’s like taking it off his intimate area and resting his cock there in your pussy.

It doesn’t take long before his fingers find the hem of your shirt after your hoodie. He pushes it up too, but inch by inch until it’s bunched above your bra and shows the swell of your chest. He also slides that up too, just enough to let go of your chest and show your nipples to him. His palms cup your tits while he continues to fuck you. And when he sees them- when his thumbs brush over your nipples, and your back arches into his touch- he groans. “God, fuck- look at you…” His voice is unsteady and cracking.

His head lowers, and his mouth is warm against your chest, just hovering above it while he’s still inside of you and still moving. Besides your thighs and ass, your tits are also the ones that always caught his attention, so he’s not forgetting about them today, of course. So he drags his hips forward and deeper and pulls out just enough until it reaches close to the head of his cock while he gropes your tits like he’s been dreaming about it. Hands are big and a little clumsy because of the eagerness to touch them, but he’s also starved for it, so his thumbs keep brushing back and forth. His fingers are curling and gripping under the swell as he continues squeezing it softly like a stress ball, and he wants to feel every part of you in every way he can.

His cock doesn’t stop moving inside of you; he keeps thrusting and pressing, but the difference is he’s watching you now. Eyes on your breasts and how they bounce with every roll of his hips. He likes the way your lips part or how you bite your bottom lip. And he loves the way your legs wrap around his body to pull him deeper and lock him in. “You’re perfect,” he compliments you, voice low but obviously sounding like he’s already pussy-whipped. “So fucking perfect,” he adds before he leans in again and his mouth latches onto your right chest. His tongue licks softly around your breast before he starts sucking your nipple and licking it as he does so. Each suckling earns a groan from him, and it's also because of how your pussy clenches more around him when he starts doing that. And even then- even inside you, even shaking- his hands stay soft.

Because he’s not just fucking you. He’s worshipping. And he wants all of you in his hands. He continues moving inside of you, liking how deliciously his cock drags deep with each thrust and how his mouth is hot on your nipple and wrapped around it like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. Hips rolling with focused and steady movements, and each thrust was thick and heavy. It presses right into your cervix while everything about what he’s doing feels careful… gentle… attentive… grateful. He’s the kind of boy who knows how to fuck but still puts the person’s pleasure above his and still listens with his whole body, and right now? He’s waiting for you to tell him he’s doing it right.

And then it happens. One thrust lands just a little harder, hips catching the curve of your ass at just the right angle, and the sound it makes- wet and full and sharp- claps. It echoes. He freezes. Just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting it to sound that loud. Like he didn’t realize how noisy it could be. And then your pussy clenches around him- tight and needy- and your ass jiggles against his hips as he rocks back in..His breath breaks on your neck. And then he groans. “Oh my god-” And he does it again. Another thrust. Deeper. Harder. Just to hear that sound again. Clap. Clap. Clap. The slap of skin-on-skin, the way your ass bounces into him with every push- it wrecks him.

He starts moving faster, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that’s still tender but filthy underneath, all guided by the sound of your body against his. “Fuck- your ass- shit- it’s so- god-” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just moans into your chest and keeps fucking you, deep and steady, and clap clap clap with every stroke, the rhythm filling the room like he’s addicted to it. His hands slide down to grab the curve of it now, fingers digging in, guiding you into him, watching the way it moves, feeling the way your pussy pulls him in tighter with every sound.

“Feels so good- feels so fucking good- you’re so soft- can’t stop- want to keep watching it- please-” He’s moaning into your skin now, sucking at your tits between each thrust, fucking you harder but still holding you like you’re precious. Like you’re his. His cock presses deep and thick inside you, your body bouncing into his hips over and over, the wet slap making his hips twitch like it’s too much and still not enough. “Thank you- thank you- your pussy’s so warm- I don’t want to come yet- I’m trying- fuck- I’m trying to be good-” And he is. Even now- slamming into you harder with every clap of your ass, breath breaking against your collarbone- he’s still trying to hold back. Still waiting. Still need you to say it’s okay. Because he won’t come until you tell him to. Because you own him now.

Hands travel up to his chest without thinking; it’s warm and steady. Your hand stays there while the other rests on his jaw, and fingers curl around his jaw while his hips move deep. Wet skin slapping against each other echoes in the room, and you guide his face up until his eyes meet yours. He looks completely fucked out when you take a look at him; his eyes are glassy, his lips are parted, and his brows are knit closely as if he’s going to cry because you hold him like that. He’s still moving inside you, slow but hard, cock dragging deep as his breath catches, hips twitching like he’s trying not to fall apart with every thrust. “I-” he gasps, voice already breaking. “I need it… I need your pussy… please…” It’s barely a sentence. Just a tangle of want and panic slipping past his lips like he thinks you might take it away.

And it doesn’t even make sense- he’s already inside you, fucking you so deep your toes curl, the clap of his hips against your ass echoing through the room- but he still asks like he hasn’t earned it. Like he needs permission to feel this good. You tighten your grip on his face, cradling his jaw with both hands, not rough- just firm, grounding. Like you’re keeping him here. Like you want him to feel it. “You’ve got it, baby,” you whisper, voice warm, steady, and made for him. “You’re inside me. You’ve been inside me this whole time.” His eyes flutter shut while he shudders at your words. It took him some moments before he looked at you again, eyes so beautiful and blue, wide, and lashes standing out, the corner of his eyes tearing a little, and he looked like he was not even in the moment and so gone.

Thrust grows faster, deeper, and heavier. His hips snap into your body with a deeper rhythm of his movement. It’s like your words trigger something and unlock the reason for him to let go. It’s not like this with other girls; he’s not this messy. He’s not the one being fucked up. But when it comes to you, he couldn’t just help to press closer and mouth your jaw like he’s some kind of person who’s afraid of distance. Hands grips your hips tighter to keep himself together, but he’s not succeeding with that plan either. “I love your pussy,” he dumbly says, not even realizing what he’s saying. “I love how it feels- I love how it holds me- I don’t want to stop- please let me-” His words got cut off with a whine when you shut him up with a kiss, and it’s slow and deep. Lips sliding together as your thighs wrap tighter around his waist to suffocate and make him closer to you.

You rock up to welcome and meet each thrust he’s doing. His whole body is shaking and trembling now, but you enjoy every thrust he gives because it’s making your pussy flutter even more, and you clench so tight that his cock can barely breathe. He’s pulling back enough so he can rest his forehead against yours. He can’t even form a proper sentence with the way his breath is hitching and voice is shaking: “Please… I’m gonna come. I can’t- I can’t hold it- can I come inside? Please- please tell me I can…” And he means it. Not just the words. Not just the ask. He’s eager for your permission, and it shows in the way he says it and looks at you while he begs. He’s asking for trust. For you. And you owe him.

Your hands are still on his face, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes as his hips move, slow but firm, cock dragging deep with every thrust like he’s scared to stop. His face is hot and red, soaked with sweat, and his eyes are closing from the pleasure, but it still looks like he’s pleading for something. He’s completely gone. You know he’s closer than before because his hips falter and get more sloppy, and his grip on your body tightens like he needs something to hold. His moans soften and break into little sounds that make you crazy inside when you feel his hot breath on your neck and hear it so close.

Pussy squeezes and clenches around him. It’s tight and unintentional; it goes quickly to his system, and he gasps, hips jerking, and cock twitches deep inside your cunt. Eyes open quickly and find yours again. It’s teary, wide, and desperate. That made you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before you spoke against it. The voice sounded so sweet and tender, teasing him. “Inside or outside, baby?” The question is messing with his head. He takes a deep breath like it hurts just to think which option is the best, but pulling out and busting it in your stomach is the option he likes the least.

He nods even though the question does not require a yes or no answer; his body shudders, and he’s literally a wreck, like he’s about to cry when he starts speaking, “Inside. Please. Inside- please, please.” Your smile is soft, nearly cruel in how sweet it sounds when you murmur back, “You want a creampie, baby?” And that’s all it takes. He whines into your skin, shuddering as his hips stutter, cock throbbing at the edge. Forehead pressed to yours when his head falls forward like he needs to make contact and can’t hold himself together unless he feels you right there keeping him from fucking up more. “Please let me- please- I want to come inside- I want to feel it- I want to fill you up.”

“Are you going to come for me?” you whisper, voice just above a breath. “Gonna fill me up just like that?” He nods again- frantic now, voice trembling as he moans against your mouth. “I need to- fuck- please- I’m trying- I need you-” And you don’t make him wait. You wrap your legs tighter around him, pull him closer, your lips right against his ear as you breathe it out. “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.” And he does. Right then. His whole body jerks, hips slamming forward as his cock throbs inside you, thick spurts spilling deep, soaking you with everything he’s been holding in. He moans into your neck, long and low, shaking as he presses as deep as he can go, whispering over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you-” You don’t even realize you’re close until his voice breaks again. Until he whispers ‘Thank you’, like it’s all he knows how to say, his cock throbbing deep inside you, hips stuttering like he’s holding back tears.

And then it crashes all at once- the tight clench of your pussy around him, the ache deep in your belly, your thighs locked around his hips as your orgasm gushes out of you, hard and wet and so full. His voice barely held together. His body was trembling. Your pussy clenches around him as he comes so hard he whimpers. And still- he doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t stop kissing your cheek, your jaw, or your shoulder. Because you let him have it. Because he asked and you said yes. Because he’ll never want anything else again. He gasps like you just pulled the air out of his lungs, crying out as his cock jerks inside you, spurting hard, filling you, pushing so deep it feels like he’s trying to live inside your body.

And then he collapses. Not away. Not off. But forward. Into you. Face buried between your tits before he groans. His breath is warm against it, and his lips are parted and wet like he’s drooling as he stays there like it’s a safe haven. “Thank you,” he whines, his voice sounding so small and his breath shaking when he says that. “Thank you- fuck- thank you.” You cradle his head gently, your fingers running through his damp curls, your body still fluttering around him as he keeps thrusting- small, slow, aftershock rolls, messy and deep and needy. And then his lips find your nipple again. He sucks. Slow. Soft. Like a baby. Like he needs it. Like it soothes him. His mouth wraps around you, tongue moving gently, cock still twitching inside you, still leaking into your cunt while he moans low and broken.

“Feels so good,” he whispers against your skin, suckling like he can’t stop. “You feel so good- so warm- I don’t want to leave-” His hips rock forward again- shallow, weak little thrusts- as more comes spilling out of him, slippery and wet between your thighs, your bodies pressed so close there’s no space left for anything else. Just his mouth on your tits. His cock is still inside you. His voice said thank you like you saved his life.

And you did. Maybe at some point you do, but God, he feels so blessed right now. His hips continue to move and keep thrusting through it even if it's slowly, weakly, and sloppily. He just doesn’t know how to stop because his cock keeps pulsing before he gives one last slam of his cock inside before he can feel it thick, hot, and pull and settle inside. It feels good and makes your clench and clit pulse. His breath stutters against your chest before he slows down. The pace falters. The tension in his thighs gives way. His moans soften into sighs.

And he drops. Full weight. Skin to skin. Still inside. His body settles into yours like he’s finally come home. Like he belongs there. His chest presses to your breasts, sticky and flushed, his cheek against your skin, and he doesn’t move. Except his mouth. He keeps sucking your nipple- soft now, slower, not even for arousal anymore. Just comfort. Just closeness. Lips parting around you like he’s calmed by the shape of your chest in his mouth, and you just let his tongue brush lazily on your skin. Let his cock twitch and soften while he’s buried inside. Let him, even if it’s heavy, thick, warm, and wet from the mixed cum from both of you.

He groans quietly, like he knows he should pull out but can’t. “Don’t- don’t make me leave,” he murmurs, voice thick and dazed, breath spreading across your chest. “Wanna stay right here…” You hum and pet through his hair, your fingers gentle along the nape of his neck, and he melts. All over again. Just drips down into you like he’s yours now. Like he always was. He shifts once- barely- just to press his body closer, thighs flush against yours, sticky warmth seeping between you where he came so hard it spilled out. “Feels so good,” he whispers. “Feels so safe. Just let me… just like this…” And his mouth stays there. Still suckling like you’re his. Still there inside of you, just cock-warming, and he’s acting like he can’t bear to pull out.

So you let him, and you stroke his hair while his breathing starts to calm down and slow. You could feel the tension ease from his shoulders, system, arms, spine, and whole body. He slowly sinks into yours, naked and warm. Liking the way you both warm each other and how he stays inside you even though it’s softened now, thick and heavy and resting where he emptied himself, warm come leaking around him, between your thighs, seeping into the sheets- but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try. Just continuing to suckle at your nipple despite his mouth slackening a little, but he feels more hungry. His mouth parted softly, and it lulled him deeper into your chest like it’s not even about sex anymore.

It’s about comfort. About staying. About being allowed to have this. You feel him sigh against your skin- long and low- and then he mumbles something that barely makes it past your skin. “Don’t move… I want to sleep like this…” You smile into his hair, wrapping your arms tighter around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Okay,” you whisper. “Stay right here, baby. I’ve got you.” He hums contentedly, dazed, so sweetly tired. His mouth doesn’t move and stays in the same place. It’s latched gently while his cock also rests inside of you despite how it’s softening because he loves having you around him like it belongs there.

He also feels a sense of possessiveness as he does this because he feels like you were made to keep him warm. And he falls asleep like that. Breathing against your chest. Held in your arms. Loved in the deepest, wettest, and fullest way. Still inside. Still touching. Still yours. You close your eyes, one hand stroking his back, the other holding his head to your breast, and let him rest. Because you know. He’s not going anywhere. He can’t. Because you’re his home now. And he never wants to leave.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

About learning exactly what you like. How deep to go, how slow to drag it out, when to snap his hips a little sharper to make you whine.

He loves telling you how beautiful you are. Loves feeling you clench when he asks if you can hear how wet you've gotten for him.

But even then… it’s not enough.

Because, see, his mind doesn’t stop there.

It starts to wander, fixate.

On the mess he’s making. On that slick, warm drag between you, the evidence of it everywhere—on his fingers, your thighs, soaked into the sheets beneath you.

On what that must look like.

On what you must look like.

On what you must taste like, fuck—

And once the thought takes hold, it doesn’t let go.

His head dips, rhythm faltering as his gaze drags down your body instead of staying locked on your face.

And then he’s sliding out, the sudden absence making your breath catch, that soft, wet sound of his cock slipping free from your pussy.  

He mumbles a breathless apology, a gentle hold on, baby, and before you can even process the loss, he’s kissing his way down your body, lips worshiping the swell of your lower stomach, the delicate arc of your hips. 

He doesn’t go far—never far—but he just needs to see.

Needs to check.

Needs to know what he did to you. To know what you look like after he’s spent hours making you his—round after round of slow, patient love-making, nothing short of worship—unraveling you piece by piece, then putting you back together the way he wants.

Warm, broad palms settle against your thighs, coaxing them apart.

His thumbs press into your skin, gentle but insistent when he spreads you open.

He just stares for a while, taking in the view like a man starved.

Tongue licking at the corner of his mouth, eyes gone dark at the sight of your swollen pussy; all puffy and fluttering around empty air, gaping from the way he’s stretched you open.   

You usually turn away from this kind of intimacy, still a little shy about being seen this closely—but in the rare moments he can get you like this, completely undone and unmoored, he knows he only has a brief moment to take it in, and he makes the most of it.

He can’t stop staring at that fucking gape, can’t help the low groan that slips past his lips when another line of your arousal trickles down and soaks into his sheets. 

“Shit, baby...”

And then he’s gone.

Once he starts, he doesn’t hold back.

Can’t, not when he’s down here. There’s always this moment—right before he presses that first, tender kiss to your pussy—where something in him splinters, and the version of him that survives doesn't hesitate.

He always gets a little too into it.

More than he should, probably. Past the point where it’s normal.   

It unsettles him, sometimes, how far his mind drifts when it’s just you and him inside it. Things he’d never say out loud, things that'd have his face going red if he lingered on them for too long. Everything he imagines doing to you—doing with you—if he ever let himself lean fully into the feeling.

He loses himself in that thought, same way he loses himself in your pussy. The scent of it, the wet, velvety heat that glides across his tongue as he slowly laps at your entrance. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, squeezes your hips, vision tunneling until everything else fades out, until even his own breathing stops feeling automatic—it breaks into quick, shallow bursts, and he pauses just long enough for the light dizziness to pass before he dives back in for another taste.

Gentle, always gentle at first, savoring your flavor, melting you on his tongue. Though it doesn’t take long for him to get a little carried away—how is he supposed to help it when start squirming underneath him like that, rolling your hips to try and chase his mouth?

“Yeah? Right here?” he murmurs, muffling a smile against your plush warmth, nosing into your clit. A soft laugh follows when your hips buck up into his face.

This is his favorite part—seeing you give in, letting go of the careful restraint you usually carry. He doesn't want you to hold back, never with him.

He moans into you, chasing the quick, erratic motion of your hips with his mouth, sucking at your swollen clit with a pressure that makes you gasp, thighs twitching against his ears.

And when you start to whine—when you start begging for him to come back to you, for him to fill you in a way only he can—he just huffs out a quiet laugh, breath warm against your pussy.

“I know, baby, I know,” he rubs his palm against your thigh, barely pulling his lips away to speak. “Just hang on a sec, okay? I just... just need to taste you—god, you’re so fucking perfect.”

He buries his nose into your mound, takes a deep breath like he’s running out of air, when really it’s just an excuse to linger a little longer. To press closer, inhale your scent in greedy, shuddering pulls, letting it sustain him until the next inevitable return.

When you finally tug at his hair, fingers clenched between sweat-damp strands, demanding kisses with quiet whimpers that make him ache for you all over again, he can’t resist.

How could he?

He lets you drag him back up, mouth parted, chest heaving. His whole face is flushed, nose and cheeks shining with your arousal.

And there's this quiet, adoring stillness in him when he looks at you like this, propped up on his elbows, eyes heavy with something he doesn’t try to hide.

Watching his girl, an angel if he’s ever seen one, glowing against his pillow like you're lit from within.

“Steve...” you whine softly, clutching at his shoulders. “Need you.”

“Yeah? You need me?” he pushes your hair back, thumb dragging lightly along your cheek. “Need me so bad, huh?”

He presses a tender kiss to your mouth—one pair of lips just as sweet and velvety as the other—as he slides back home, the warm, tight clutch of your pussy welcoming him inside.

And when he settles into you again, like he never really left, he lets a quiet sigh brush against your lips.

“Could stay here forever, baby,” he admits. "I love you."

He eases back into a familiar rhythm—slow, deep strokes, just the way you like them—his forehead resting against yours like he really could stay right here, suspended with you, for as long as you’d let him.

But it's his eyes that give him away, betraying him with the smallest glance downward.

He knows he won't be able to stay away for long.

blearing, white-hot pain shoots through the side of your neck, and a gasp tears through your throat. it is so sudden—so sudden, and you barely have time to understand how you ended up how you did. 

he had grabbed you, holding you so close to him—his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you upright while his tongue licked lazily up your neck. 

“shh…don’t cry. it’ll be alright.”

he had murmured against your ear, breath hot and dripping with thirst. 

it was a cruel thing.

cruel in the way it stole breath before you could even scream, in the way it mocked the simplicity of your night—how only minutes earlier, your hands had been warm, reaching for the last pair of drawers on the line, the wind tugging gently at your nightgown like a teasing friend. you had only stepped off the porch. just a few steps. just to gather what was yours.

and then he was there.

the roughness of his grip was so sudden, so wrong, it split the air like a crack of thunder. your body flinched on instinct, mind fumbling to catch up to the moment—was this real? did you know this man? were you dreaming? but the pain blooming beneath his fingers on your arm told you otherwise. told you this wasn’t the kind of nightmare you could wake from.

you had opened your mouth to say something—anything, but no words could escape before his teeth—no—fangs punctured your neck. 

his rough tongue darts quickly, his mouth slurping as your blood—warm and tangy—leaks down your neck from where his mouth hadn’t been quick enough to catch. the splatter of it spills onto your cotton nightgown.

a movement—sudden, but clear, spills from him. more so, from the space where he is pressed up against you. a stuttering breath passes through your lips at the contact.

he’s flushed up against you, and aside from the blearing pain flying through your body, you feel him pressing into your bottom.

he ruts against you, chasing the friction provided. he lets out a sound—a whine, you assume through the mind fog. 

a heat flushes through you—sudden, unprovoked, and sickening. it crawls beneath your skin like a fever you didn’t ask for, one that sets your nerves on fire in all the wrong ways. shame follows fast behind it, swallowing you whole. it pulses in your fingertips, clenches in your gut, coats your teeth like bitterness.

you hate that you feel it.

hate that your body reacts at all.

because the pain—sharp, raw, burning—should’ve been enough. but somehow, it’s the shame that lingers heavier. shame that makes you feel small. shame that makes your skin feel too tight. shame that makes you wish you could disappear, not because of what’s happening, but because some awful part of you believes you’re supposed to bear it.

the suction of his mouth grows sharper for just a second—you swear he’s going to drain you. just before he can, you feel his head snap back, the crimson fluid he just stole from you dripping down his chin, coating his cheeks.

“oh….oh.”

your head slowly turns, and you spot his eyebrows furrowing as he glances down to the space—or the lack of—between you.

he seems confused as his eyes scan the way he fits against you—firm and hard, like instinct. like muscle remembering what the mind had long tried to forget. Like something inside of him is remembering something he had buried and traded for the concept of survival. 

his mouth opens with a smack, before it slowly forms into an ‘o’.

you’re sure he’s about to say something when suddenly, he presses forward, flushing his chest to your back, ripping a gasp from your throat.

“i…i don’t think this is ‘posed to happen’”

his breath ghosts over your ruined neck, and the confusion falls from his lips.

a groan, low and abrupt, passes through his blood-stained lips. it’s a sound that doesn’t belong to hunger or pleasure—it’s uncertainty. reluctance. it rumbles like a warning he doesn’t understand himself, and it sends a jolt through your body, sharp as a spark beneath the skin. your breath catches. you’re not sure if it’s fear or revulsion or some terrible, trembling mix of both.

your eyes flit back to the porch—to the basket where your clothes lay, spilled and crumpled in the dirt. a shirt hangs over the edge like it’s reaching for you. the sight guts you.

you had dropped it when he grabbed you.

your arms had been full of ordinary things.

of clean linen, still warm from the sun.

and all you want now—achingly, desperately—is to return to it.

“please,” your voice comes out with a breath—choking up in your throat, “…let me go.”

he pauses. 

the arm around your waist tightens and it causes a soft gasp to sound from your throat. 

“why you wan’ me to let you go?”

his nose pokes into the bite mark on your neck, eliciting a wince from you. the question comes out a bit uncertain—like he’s confused as to why you want to leave him like this.

“you don’t feel this,” he punctuates his word with a rut against you. “you can’t leave me like this.”

the tone in his voice is desperate—needy even, causes you to freeze.

confusion laced with desire falls from his mouth. his rough, hot tongue darts out to lick at your neck once more. 

a sound of disgust slips through your mouth—sharp and guttural, rising before you can stop it. it’s instinct, raw and trembling, the only thing you have left to give.

he pauses.

just for a breath. just long enough for the air between you to shift.

then he pulls back—confused, maybe stunned—and that retreat is all you need. you don’t think. there’s no space for thought. only a surge of heat.

you ram your head back, hard into his chin. bone meets bone. the crack echoes inside your skull like a church bell rung wrong.

a grunt tears through his lips, and his hold falters.

you move. not gracefully, not cleanly—

just fast. just desperate.

you push forward, wrenching yourself out of his arms. your feet slam against the cold grass, slick with dew, and the ground tilts underneath you. your vision veers sideways, spinning from blood-loss, from panic, from the weight of everything all at once.

“s-stop! you can’t leave me like this.”

his voice rings out behind you—desperate, yearning, maybe even startled—but it feels distant, like it’s echoing from underwater. you don’t dare look back. the only thing you see is the porch rising in front of you like salvation.

your legs nearly give out as you reach the steps, but you launch yourself upward, stumbling and scrambling until your body crashes against the door with a dull, aching thud. pain flares along your shoulder, but you don’t stop. you brace for the worst—for the hard slap of wood refusing you, for the cruel slam of a locked world.

but you’d left it cracked.

you don’t even remember doing it, but thank god you had.

your body falls forward, toppling past the frame in a blur of heat and breath and blind panic. the wooden floor meets you with a thud, and for a heartbeat, you just lie there—half-sprawled, half-curled, heart pounding against the floorboards like it’s trying to get free of your chest.

past the threshold.

inside.

safe.

the door was still splayed open, and you could hear the heavy boots of him pacing on the worn wood of your porch, but you didn’t care. didn’t care how or why he couldn’t just walk in and take you right back out.

no. you didn’t think that far, and as the weight of the blood-loss settles over your body like a wet blanket, your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

——————

it had been a week. 

a week since you had stepped outside your house at night. 

that morning—when the light finally broke across your floorboards like a quiet apology—you woke with your head pounding and your mouth dry as cotton. every part of your body felt sore, like you’d been wrung out and left in the sun too long.

he was nowhere to be seen.

no shadow. no sound. no sign he’d ever been there at all.

but you knew better.

you didn’t step outside. not even once.

you stayed inside your home, locked behind the door like it was the only thing keeping the world from splitting open again. a strip of cloth was pressed against your neck, stained from the wound that throbbed beneath it. the ache pulsed steady with your heartbeat—a quiet, cruel reminder.

your fingers stayed curled around the handle of a kitchen knife, white-knuckled and still trembling, long after the sun had crept across the room. even when your hand went numb, you didn’t let go.

he didn’t return that day. or the next.

you didn’t want to worry, but a part of you still clung to the idea that he was out there, waiting. waiting for you to slip up so that he could grab you once more.

by the third day, you decided to continue on with your life. stepping outside onto the porch with your breath held in your throat.

he wasn’t there. 

the sun beat down heavily across your home, and the clothes line danced with the wing—rustling gently.

that night, you dreamt. 

your body jolted with each thrust, already caught in the storm, and his voice—ragged and wild—only pulled you deeper under.

“say it… s-say my name!”

it came out in a near-snarl, not cruel, but desperate. like the sound of a man barely holding himself together, trying to find something to anchor to as he pounded into you with reckless, trembling need.

but your voice—

it wouldn’t come.

your mouth opened, but nothing formed, just broken gasps and choked cries, your face still buried in the pillow, now damp with sweat and spit. your throat ached with moans you hadn’t meant to make. you were unraveling, bit by bit, your body pulsing around him, clenching tight as the pressure in your belly twisted into something unstoppable.

his hand on your clit didn’t let up. if anything, it grew more deliberate—ruthless in its rhythm. his thumb swirled over you, hot and slick, heavy and rough as your hips twitched uncontrollably. every nerve in your body was alight, the sound of his groans behind you nearly as dizzying as the slaps of skin and the bed frame straining beneath the force of him.

his cock throbbed inside you, each stroke deep and hurried now, dragging against your swollen walls like he was trying to carve his name into you from the inside out. the sound of it—wet, sharp, filthy—filled the room like a song that only your bodies knew how to sing.

and then it happened.

your body locked.

your toes curled.

and your lungs emptied.

a sharp cry tore from you—his name half-formed, almost there—as your climax hit, sudden and all-consuming. your vision blurred as your body convulsed, waves crashing through you so hard you nearly forgot where you were.

he let out a strangled groan behind you, his hips jerking erratically, chasing your release with his own. his cock twitched deep inside, and with a hoarse, broken sound, he spilled into you—warmth flooding you, filling you, marking you.

he rode it out, his body pressing down on yours, hand still moving, dragging the orgasm from you until it left you limp and shaking beneath him.

your fingers finally released the sheets, trembling, and you gasped into the pillow like it was the first breath you’d taken in years.

your mind blanked.

you woke with a startle—your body jerking, breath caught sharp in your throat like you’d been yanked from the depths of something unspeakable. heat flooded you, thick and sudden, pooling beneath your skin as if you were still there, still lost in it.

your chest rose and fell too fast, lungs aching from how hard they worked to steady you. your hands clutched the sheets without realizing, the fabric damp beneath your palms. your mind, still fogged with fragments, tried to twist back into itself—tried to make sense of what was real and what had only felt that way.

your thighs rubbed together—and you felt it.

a wet, sticky warmth clinging to the soft skin between them. slick and unmistakable. your breath hitched as the realization hit you, and a wave of shame surged through your chest so suddenly, you flinched.

“fuck…” you whispered under your breath.

your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your nightgown, bunching it against your stomach as if the pressure alone could make the feeling go away. like you could press the memory down, flatten it, bury it under cotton and guilt.

your mind spun, trying to make sense of why him.

why that.

you didn’t understand why you dreamt of him in such a scandalous, filthy way—why his hands, his mouth, his body had felt so real.

why your own body responded like it wanted it.

like it remembered.

your face burned.

hot and clammy to the touch, even in the cool quiet of your room.

you squeezed your thighs together, trying to contain the pulsing ache that hadn’t yet faded. it sat there, low and heavy in your gut, begging to be soothed. your fingers twitched at your side, and for a split second, you almost let them drift lower.

but you stopped yourself.

you clenched your jaw and shut your eyes tight, pressing your legs together like a seal. like that would hold back the memory of his name falling from your lips, the feel of him stretching you open, the sound of skin slapping and breathless groans in your ear.

————

by the end of the week, you felt as though he was truly gone for good.

the silence had settled again, not like a threat this time, but like dust returning to undisturbed corners. no voice behind you, no shadow in the tree line, no sudden breath against your neck. just the wind. the sun. the familiar creak of the porch beneath your steps.

it didn’t take long before you slipped back into the rhythm of your days—those quiet, outdoor chores that had always grounded you. you began hanging clothes again, your fingers brushing the warm fabric, sunlight catching the edges of the sheets like a blessing.

in the back of your home, you knelt beside your small herb garden, pressing your fingers into the dirt like it could anchor you. rosemary. sage. thyme. they greeted you like old friends, unaware of what you’d endured. or maybe they knew—and simply chose not to ask.

the peace didn’t last long.

on the sixth night, he returned.

you’re taking the clothes down that had been drying all day—like you had before, when he first got you. 

a crack sounds behind you.

sharp. sudden. too close.

your body jerks, instincts sharper than thought, and your head whips around—fists clenched tight around the soft fabric of a freshly-dried gown. your heart lurches upward, caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

your body knows before your mind.

knows the rhythm of danger. the hum beneath the skin.

and without a thought, your feet begin to move—gravel crunching beneath them as you pull yourself toward the front door like safety is just inches away.

“wait.”

you hate how you stop.

how the sound of his voice roots you in place.

there’s something in it—something cracked open. desperate. searching.

and for some godawful reason, it reaches you.

your feet freeze.

your head turns, slow and reluctant, toward the right.

and there he is.

dressed in dark pants, suspenders hanging loose like they’d been tugged too hard, too fast. a pale blue button-up clings to his frame, sleeves rolled, top buttons torn clean open. it might’ve once looked neat. now it clings to him like second skin—filthy, sweat-soaked, streaked in places with grime and something far worse.

blood.

so much of it.

his brown hair is tousled and damp, the front sticking to his forehead in matted curls. and beneath the fabric, the white of a wife-beater peeks out—though it’s barely white anymore. more a rusted red, like someone had tried to scrub the stain but it refused to fade. a thin gold chain glints against his collarbone, catching the moonlight like it doesn’t realize it’s resting on a monster.

your eyes widen.

your breath catches.

you take a step back. your heel digs into the dirt. and still, your gaze is fixed on him—on the smear of blood across his cheeks, dried and flaking at the edges, like war paint. it trails down his throat, painting the lines of his neck, seeping into the cotton of his shirt. it looks fresh.

his mouth opens as he takes a step forward.

you take a step back—slow, deliberate, your heel skimming the earth like you’re testing the ground beneath you, unsure if it will hold.

“i ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

his voice is soft. too soft. like he’s trying to fold himself into something harmless, like he doesn’t still have blood on his face, like he didn’t tear through you once already. it’s a tone that might’ve calmed you in another life. in this one, it makes your stomach turn.

your fingers clutch the dress tighter, knuckles paling with the strain. you can feel the seams of the fabric pressing into your skin, grounding you, even as your body begs to run.

you want—desperately, urgently—to look back. to see how many steps remain between you and the safety of your door. but you don’t dare move. not even your eyes. not when he’s watching you like that. not when you know how quick he can close the space between you.

even the smallest glance away might invite him forward.

“you hurt me before.”

the words fall from your lips before you’re ready. soft. strange. unfamiliar.

the sound of your own voice jars you. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound afraid. it sounds… disoriented. like the memory has begun to blur around the edges, melting into something that doesn’t make sense anymore. like you’re not certain if it happened the way you remember. if it happened at all.

and that terrifies you more than anything.

because you know what he did.

your body still remembers, even if your voice has started to forget.

your mind flits back to the dream—the dream that had you gasping for air once you’d awaken. 

it’s strange. 

here, in front of you, was the man—the beast—who had held your life in the palm of his hand, threatening death with a final pull of your blood into his mouth. 

and now, all you could think about was the way he rubbed against you—like the feeling was both foreign and enticing to him. 

he lets out a strained laugh.

“yeah. you’re right about that, b-but, i ain’t goin’ to do that again. 

“how can i trust you?”

your voice is more certain this time around, and your hands fall to your sides, still holding the dress in your hand as your chest moves with your breaths.

the wind sweeps between you.

he takes another step forward and you mirror by taking another step backward.

his arms lift, elbows jutting out wide as his hands settle on top of his head. his fingers thread through his messy hair, gripping at the roots like he’s trying to hold something inside from breaking loose.

then comes the sound.

low, cracked—something between a groan and a whine.

“please… why is this happenin’ to me?”

his voice trembles at the edges, and for a moment, it almost sounds like grief. like confusion twisted into something uglier. and that unsettles you even more. because this isn’t remorse. this isn’t shame. it’s self-pity—sharp and misplaced.

you blink, heart rattling in your chest.

you have no idea what he’s talking about.

and the not knowing—it’s beginning to twist in your gut, cold and tight.

he starts pacing, erratic and restless, but still a good distance off. far enough that you can breathe. far enough that you don’t yet have to run.

“i’ve been runnin’ ‘round everywhere,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice thick with something that borders on frustration. “drainin’ folks left an’ right…”

he pauses, his body stiffening.

“but i ain’t do this with them.”

his arms drop heavily to his sides, and then one hand presses flat against his pants—lower. against himself.

your breath stutters.

the gesture is crude, almost unconscious, like his body is betraying him, like he doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. and that’s what makes it worse. not the motion itself, but the fact that he’s unraveling—right there in front of you.

and you’re the one he’s unraveling over.

you take a step backward, slow and cautious, and the snap of a small branch beneath your foot cuts through the quiet like a shot.

he stops.

his head turns toward you—slow, deliberate, like he already knows exactly where you are. his eyes lock onto yours, and something in your chest flinches. not from fear. not entirely.

no, it’s something else.

something low and stirring, unwelcome but real, curling hot in your belly beneath the weight of his gaze. it shames you the moment it blooms, but it doesn’t leave. it sits there, twisting—because the look in his eyes isn’t hungry for blood. not right now.

he looks torn.

like a man fraying at the seams.

like something inside him is breaking open under the weight of a need he doesn’t understand—had forgotten was possible. a craving that wasn’t sharp teeth and crimson thirst, but touch. closeness. something unbearably human.

he takes a step forward.

you don’t move.

“help me…” he breathes, voice cracking as if the words pain him. “i won’t hurt you. just help me feel better. yeah?”

he inches closer, each step careful, almost reverent, until he’s within arm’s reach. and now, this close, you can see it all—his chest heaving, the tension in his shoulders, the way his pants strain from how tightly he’s wound. how unbearably pent up he is.

your eyes flick down. just for a second.

your cheeks flush hot, instant and humiliating, and you curse yourself silently—clenching your jaw as if that alone could rewind the moment. your body had again. as if it hadn’t learned.

he doesn’t let you answer.

he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid any hesitation might send him unraveling again.

your empty hand flies up on instinct, palm raised between you like a barrier made of sheer will.

“stop,” you say.

but your voice—god, your voice—comes out too soft, too unsure, trembling on the edges. it betrays you, just like your body does.

he doesn’t stop.

he keeps moving until your hand meets his chest, firm and burning beneath your touch. his skin is hot through the thin fabric, and the moment you make contact, a sound spills from him—deep and broken. a groan laced with something softer, needier. a whine.

his head dips slightly, his breath brushing your skin.

“see?” he murmurs, voice thick, ragged. “see what you’re doin’ to me?”

it takes every ounce of strength to keep your gaze on his, to hold steady beneath the weight of him. but the tension in his body, the ragged rise of his chest, the way he looks at you like you’re both his torment and salvation—it all pulls your eyes downward.

just for a second.

just long enough to see his hand again, pressing against himself, slow and deliberate.

resuming what he had started.

and your breath stutters.

“stop. i don’t know you.”

your voice is firmer this time, but there’s a crack running through it.

a hairline fracture of fear, of confusion, of something far more complicated than either.

his eyes stay locked on yours, wild and pleading.

“remmick,” he breathes.

“what?”

you blink. it comes out before you can process it.

“my name,” he says again, faster this time. “remmick.”

he says it like it means something. like it should unlock something in you.

he pauses, as if waiting for it to take hold, and then looks up—right into your eyes.

“say it. please.”

your hand is still on his chest, trembling now, caught between pushing him away and holding him there. your lips part, hesitating, uncertain. but the sound slips out anyway.

“remmick.”

that’s all it takes.

his body shifts—subtle but unmistakable—as if the word pierced straight through him. he leans forward, just slightly, like he’s being drawn into you by gravity itself. one of his hands lifts, and he presses yours harder against his chest, like he needs to feel it. like he needs proof that you said it. that it’s real.

a soft moan escapes him, low and shivering, the sound pulled from somewhere deep. it curls around you like smoke—dangerous, intimate, and far too close.

a sensation shoots through you—sharp and strange—sparking low in your belly and crawling up your spine like a current. your body shudders, betraying you before you can make sense of it. you suck in a breath through parted lips, and that’s when you catch it.

he’s close.

so close, you can smell him.

not just blood, though that’s there—metallic, sharp, and thick like it clings to him from the inside out. not just dirt either, though earth clings to his clothes, the scent of sweat and soil mingling on his skin. there’s something else. something older. colder. something that reminds you of decay, of things buried and forgotten. it lingers in the air around him like a warning.

your voice trembles as it slips past your lips, low and unsure.

“if…”

you pause, swallowing hard as your thoughts struggle to take shape.

“if i help you… will you let me live?”

your eyes dart away from his, just for a second.

you don’t mean to. but holding his gaze for too long feels like surrendering.

remmick pauses.

it’s slight—barely a beat—but you feel it in your bones.

“i was always plannin’ on keepin’ you,” he murmurs, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist. “couldn’t do that if you’re dead.”

his voice has changed. not just the words—his whole way of speaking. the southern drawl softens, thins out, and something else bleeds through. a different cadence. older. maybe even his real voice. it startles you, but you can’t quite place why. it sounds less put-on. more him.

he studies your face—eyes flicking across your features like he’s trying to read a language only he remembers.

then, a slow smile curves his lips. not smug. not cruel.

curious. certain.

“tell me you feel it too.”

you want to say no.

you want to recoil, to push him away, to scream that this is wrong, that none of this makes sense, that nothing about him feels safe.

but your body—traitorous, aching, alive—gives you away.

because as you look at him, at the hunger and confusion tangled in his expression, something warm begins to spread through you again.

you gather the courage to turn from him, your eyes flicking toward the back door—your door. the one that had always meant safety, the one you weren’t sure would feel that way ever again.

“i can’t let you in.”

the words leave your mouth like something sacred. like a boundary you hope he might honor.

his smile deepens, slow and knowing.

“i know, darlin’,” he says, voice like worn velvet. “you’re not stupid.”

the way he says it isn’t mocking. it almost sounds like admiration. like he means it.

you glance back at him, chest tight, and exhale a shaky breath. your hand softens against his chest, settling there beneath the warmth of his palm—no longer resisting. not quite yielding. something in between.

“okay.”

you barely get the word out before the world shifts.

suddenly, you’re in his arms—lifted with startling ease, pressed tightly against his chest like you belong there. a shocked gasp rips from your throat, your arms instinctively grabbing hold of whatever they can, unsure whether to brace or cling.

his feet move fast, sure, and then the cool slam of the outside world hits you again—your back porch beneath you, the creak of old wood under his boots.

your feet touch down onto the dirty boards, but you barely feel them.

your back hits the wall of your house, and his chest meets yours.

you’re trapped—surrounded by the scent of him, the warmth of him, the tension that radiates off his body in waves. the wall behind you is cool and hard, but his body in front of you burns like fever. he’s close. too close. and yet somehow not close enough for him.

something in him shifts—slow, subtle. like the current inside him changes direction and he doesn’t know how to follow it. you feel it in the way his body stills, then trembles slightly, pressed so tight against you that every breath he takes stutters against your chest.

you can feel him—hard and insistent—pressing into your thigh through the worn fabric of his pants. the weight of it, the heat, the way it pulses with no rhythm but his rising need.

he seems… lost.

remmick’s eyes flicker, wild and unsure, and when you meet them, there’s something desperate there. not hunger like before—but confusion. like his body remembered something his mind didn’t. like he had no idea what to do with this kind of ache.

you search his gaze, trying to find a map inside him. something that tells you what he wants. what he expects. but there’s nothing clear. only the trembling look of a man who doesn’t remember how to feel without violence.

then he lets out a groan—low and helpless—as his hips push forward, grinding against your thigh with a need he doesn’t seem to know how to contain.

your body jerks in surprise.

a sharp breath tears from your lips as the movement drags heat through you, low and dizzying. it coils in your belly, thick and sudden.

you hadn’t meant to respond.

but now that you have, you can’t pretend not to feel it.

“do something, please.”

his voice breaks apart as he speaks, breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. he begs through it—through the way his hips keep chasing the friction, rutting against your thigh like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

you swallow hard, nerves tangled with something warmer, something you don’t want to name. your fingers twitch where they rest, and you shake your head, barely able to speak.

“i–i don’t know what to do,” you confess, voice thin with uncertainty.

and it’s true.

you’d never been with a man like this—never one so far gone, so undone, so completely at the mercy of his own body. and even if you had… you never learned how to give this kind of touch. never learned how to bring pleasure to anyone other than yourself, never thought you’d have to.

but something about the way he presses into you, so frantic and confused, stirs a reluctant kind of empathy in you—mixed with fear, with heat, with a strange pull you can’t understand.

your gaze drops.

his hips are still moving, slow but desperate, grinding into your leg like he needs more and doesn’t know how to ask for it. something about it makes your breath catch.

almost without thinking, your hand moves down—hesitant, shaking—and you press your palm gently against him, through the fabric of his pants.

he freezes.

utterly.

and then a sound tears out of him—a moan, raw and broken, rising from the pit of his throat like it surprised even him.

his body shudders under your touch, rigid with restraint, but trembling like he’s seconds from falling apart. your hand stills where it rests, the heat of him burning through the cloth and into your skin.

your palm presses down harder, instinct guiding your movements more than experience. and that’s when you truly feel him—solid, straining beneath the fabric, the heat of him radiating through your skin like a fever. the bulge stretches wide beneath your touch, filling your entire hand, every inch of him throbbing with need you can’t begin to comprehend.

he lets out a choked breath, and then his hand shoots down—larger, rougher—covering yours. he presses it harder against himself, hips stuttering like he’s chasing something that keeps slipping just out of reach.

“it’s not enough,” he pants, voice cracking as his brows draw together, his face twisted in a mix of agony and need.

you feel your face burn at the words—at the implication of what “enough” might mean. your breath falters, throat tight, but your hand doesn’t move away.

instead, your fingers twitch.

they curl slightly, without thinking, just enough to grip.

the reaction is immediate.

he winces—a shudder running through his body like a jolt of lightning—and his mouth parts with a sound that’s somewhere between pain and pleasure.

“don’t stop.”

his voice is strained—hoarse, almost fragile beneath the weight of his own desire. like stopping would shatter him entirely.

your mind flickers back, unbidden, to the dream from a few nights ago. the one that clung to your skin even after waking. in it, he had been so sure of himself—so commanding, so in control. his hands had known where to touch, his mouth had known what to say, and you had given yourself over without question. there had been no trembling. no hesitation. only heat.

but this—this trembling, panting version of him pressed against you now—this was the opposite.

and yet it didn’t cool the fire in you.

it stoked it.

your heart pounds harder, your face flushing hot as the realization settles deep: he hadn’t felt this in a long time. maybe ever. the touch, the friction, the aching pleasure that left him shaking in your hand—it was unfamiliar to him. and yet he clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him whole.

and you… you were the one giving it to him.

there’s power in that. not the kind that demands or dominates—but the kind that hums quietly under the skin. the kind that says he needs you. not just for blood. not just for survival.

but for this.

and that truth alone makes your breath catch, your thighs press closer, the warmth between them blooming hotter, heavier.

you tighten your grip just slightly—just enough to feel him shudder again.

his breaths come out ragged now—uneven, trembling, like every second that passes without release is too much for him to bear. his hand stays pressed over yours, holding you there, grounding himself in the heat and pressure of your palm.

“take ’em off.”

your voice is steadier this time. firmer.

and it surprises even you.

not because of the words, but because of the confidence. the realization blooming slowly but surely in your chest—that you hold him. literally. completely. his need is cradled in your hand, and his body responds like it’s never known this kind of touch before.

remmick glances down, eyes locking onto the way both of y’all’s hands are still cupping him. and something flickers across his face—raw, unfiltered desire.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t hesitate.

he scrambles, fingers fumbling at his belt, unbuckling in rushed, uneven motions like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he takes too long. the sound of metal scraping against metal, the zip of fabric—it’s frantic, loud in the quiet space between you.

you watch the way his hands move—desperate and clumsy—and when you glance up, your breath catches.

drool.

thick, glistening, slowly spilling from the corner of his mouth. it stretches into a line, gleaming in the light, trailing from his parted lips as if his body is unraveling faster than he can control it. his jaw hangs slack with need, his eyes half-lidded and glazed.

then his pants fall open, and your hand moves without thought—slipping beneath the waistband of his underwear to grasp him fully.

he gasps—loud and shuddering—and his hips buck the slightest inch forward, as if chasing the warmth of your palm. in that same instant, the line of drool falls, landing wet and hot on your wrist, sliding down over your skin like a mark.

the feeling of his drool sliding warm over your wrist sends a jolt through your body—strange, electric, exciting in a way you can’t fully explain. your thighs press together instinctively, the heat between them building with every breath he takes.

he’s heavy in your hand.

hot. stiff. pulsing with need.

his body leans forward, barely held up by the tension in his muscles. his head tips back, exposing the column of his throat, jaw slack as he pants through parted lips. he’s a mess in your hand—completely undone, breathless and sweating, helpless to anything but the touch you’re giving him.

but your strokes falter.

he’s slick with sweat, and it’s more of a struggle than you expected. your hand catches slightly with each movement, and you glance back up at his mouth, remembering the way that thick drool had spilled from his lips.

you pull your hand from his pants.

at the loss of contact, he stutters—broken and breathless.

“why?”

your face flushes, warmth rising all the way to your ears at what you’re about to ask.

“spit in my hand.”

his eyebrows pull together—not from refusal, but from the sharp spike of desire and confusion. his mouth parts slowly, and then he obeys, cheeks hollowing as he draws the drool forward.

his tongue slips out, mouth wide and willing, and thick strings of spit fall heavily into your waiting palm.

you watch it.

watch how it glistens, how it coats your skin, warm and obscene and intimate.

your hand stills for a beat as you take in the weight of the moment—how close he is, how his body is giving you what you need to bring him pleasure.

then, slowly, you lower your hand again.

your fingers wrap around him, slick now, and the difference is instant. your strokes glide smoother, faster, and his body reacts with shudders and gasps. his hips twitch and his head falls forward, forehead nearly brushing yours.

a ragged moan rips from him, and his hand slams against the wall beside your head, bracing himself—because now he’s truly falling apart.

“s–shit!”

it rips from his throat, a sharp groan laced with more than just surprise. there’s something else in it—something raw, starved. hunger, yes, but not just for release. for you. for more of your touch, your attention, your hand wrapped around him like it was meant to be there.

you move with growing confidence now, dragging your hand up his length until you can tug him fully out of his pants.

he winces as the cool air brushes over his flushed skin, a tremor running through him at the sudden contrast. the heat of his body meets the cold of the world, and he shivers—but doesn’t stop you. not even close.

you see him fully now.

hard and flushed, the tip red and glistening, a thick vein running the length of him like a path carved straight to your hand. pre-cum beads at the head, already smeared down his shaft from where your palm had moved over him before, mixing now with the slick sheen of drool still coating your fingers.

your fist wraps around him again, deliberate and slow, and the combined wetness allows you to stroke him with ease. the sound is soft, wet, and rhythmic—his breaths syncing to the motion like he can’t help it.

his body bows slightly, every muscle tensing, like he’s trying not to collapse from the overwhelming pleasure you’re building in him.

he tenses beneath your hand, muscles locking as your strokes grow faster, more assured. his body is trembling now—not from fear, but from how close he is to falling apart completely.

another thick line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing slowly down his chin. you watch it for a moment, caught in the daze of his unraveling, until your eyes lift—drawn instinctively to his face.

and then you gasp.

his eyes are open.

not fully, but enough.

cast downward, glazed over with pleasure. but just enough to catch it.

a glint. a glow.

red.

dark, pulsing, unnatural—like embers caught in the low light. your breath hitches in your throat as you stare at it, transfixed, and then—almost like he knows—he slams them shut, a sharp whine escaping him.

“aah… wait,” he pants, his voice trembling. “something’s happening…”

you know exactly what.

you feel it in the way he twitches in your hand, in the pulsing warmth building at your palm, in the desperation threaded into every sound that falls from him.

so you don’t stop.

you go faster. tighter. focused.

his hips jerk forward, chasing the friction like he can’t help it, and a strangled moan breaks from his throat. his whole body hunches over you, trembling, until his forehead comes to rest against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“please,” he gasps—voice small now, breathless—as his head turns just slightly, his mouth nearly brushing your neck.

you smell it.

blood.

copper-sweet and heavy on his breath.

then a deep, guttural sound tears up from his chest—a growl soaked in something ancient, primal—but it breaks halfway through, collapsing into something softer. weaker. almost… pathetic.

and then he tenses, hard.

his whole body locking, shaking in your grasp as he finally lets go—spilling into your hand and across the front of your nightgown in hot, thick pulses.

there’s a moment of silence.

thick, heavy.

the only sound is his breathing—hot and uneven—ghosting over your neck, brushing the skin there with every exhale like he’s still tethered to you by need alone.

your hand remains around him, even as he begins to soften, your fingers still slick and warm. only once he’s completely spent do you slowly pull your hand away in one long, fluid drag. the motion makes him flinch, a gasp slipping through his lips at the sudden overstimulation. his hips twitch, but he doesn’t speak.

he stays still, suspended in the hush between you, before his head tilts up. there’s something open in his expression—tender, maybe. something you’re not ready for. his lips move closer, and you know before it happens what he’s trying to do.

he wants to kiss you.

your head turns, just slightly. your eyes soften, but the word comes quiet.

firm.

“no.”

it’s barely louder than a breath, but it lands like a weight between you.

his eyes close slowly, and he leans his forehead back against your shoulder—not angry. just… quiet.

your legs are still pressed together, thighs tense, breath held. your nightgown clings damp against your stomach, the fabric sticking to your skin where he’d spilled across it. the reality of it hums through you, the scent, the heat, the knowledge that you let it happen. that you made it happen.

then you feel it.

his nose against your neck.

the slow inhale.

he’s smelling you.

your body stiffens.

for a second, terror scrapes at your spine. you think—maybe he lied. maybe this is the moment. maybe he’s going to sink his teeth into your throat and finish what started a few days ago. your heart races.

but he doesn’t bite.

instead, he pulls back slightly, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air—curious. drawn.

you follow his gaze.

he leans in again, closer this time, his softening length pressing faintly against your stomach, dragging heat across your skin through the nightgown. and then, his voice—low and hoarse—scratches its way up.

“what’s that smell?”

your stomach tightens.

you hear it—that hunger tucked just beneath the question. not for blood this time. something else. something that makes your skin tingle with anticipation and shame.

his hands move slowly, tracing the shape of your waist, until they settle at your hips—gripping them gently, but firmly enough that you feel the intent behind it.

your brow creases in confusion… until his eyes drop.

you follow the look.

and then it hits you.

you know exactly what he’s asking about.

because while you were focused on him—while your hand moved over him, while you whispered his name and watched him fall apart—the warmth between your thighs had bloomed into something undeniable. your panties are soaked. clingy. shamefully damp against your skin.

your face burns hot as the realization settles.

he smells you.

remmick’s eyes slowly rise to meet yours, and what you see there sends a ripple through your chest—hunger, thick and molten, pulsing just beneath the surface. another line of drool spills from the corner of his mouth, thicker this time, stretching as he breathes through it.

his hand moves—slow, sure—and drags down, curling behind your thigh. then, without warning, he lifts. your leg rises with the motion, guided by his strength, and your breath catches.

a gasp slips from your lips as your hands press instinctively against his chest, trying to ground yourself, maybe even push him back—but your limbs are shaking.

“what are you doing?” you stammer, voice barely stable as you feel his hand slide higher. it skids up your thigh, rough fingertips brushing hot skin, slipping under your nightgown like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“you’re leaking,” he says, simply.

like it’s an observation. a fact.

like it’s not the most shameful, intimate thing he could’ve said aloud.

drool slips over his chin, unbothered by the mess he’s making, by the mess you’re in.

your body burns. flushed and twitching beneath his touch, thighs trembling around the hand that now glides so easily against your damp skin. his fingers drag through the heat gathered between your legs, and your hips jolt, a quiet sound caught in the back of your throat.

his mouth hovers just beside your cheek now, voice ragged and breath thick.

“let me taste ya,” he says.

almost pleads.

and there’s something so raw, so utterly stripped of pride in the way he says it—like he’s not asking just to take, but because he needs it. like the ache inside him will never fade unless you let him have this one thing.

you turn your head slightly, breath hitching as you meet his eyes—his mouth still hovering beside your cheek, so close you can feel the heat of his breath skating across your skin.

“i…” you begin, voice quiet and uncertain, “i ain’t never had that done before.”

he lets out a groan—deep, throaty, almost pained.

it vibrates against you like a confession.

“let me do it,” he murmurs, eyes dark and pleading. “please. show me where you like to be licked.”

the words make your heart stutter, but before you can even respond, you feel it—his fingers pressing firmly against your clothed heat, dragging slow and deliberate along the soaked fabric.

“remmick—!”

your voice breaks, sharp and startled, rising without your permission.

your face floods with shame, your body trembling at the sound that just tore from your throat. but desire drowns it out, thick and surging—because the pressure feels too good to ignore, and his touch is reverent, not cruel.

he pulls his head back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

and he waits.

there’s no smirk, no demand. just remmick, gaze burning into you with raw need, silently asking for something he doesn’t know how to take without permission.

you stare at him for a long, aching second—heart racing, chest heaving—before you nod.

slow.

shy.

but real.

that’s all he needs.

he sinks lower, descending to his knees with a hunger in his movements, yet careful—like you’re something sacred. both his hands slide along your legs, settling at the backs of your thighs, his thumbs rubbing gently into your skin as he looks up at you from below.

his face is flushed, his hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead, his lips parted and still shiny from where drool had spilled earlier.

“tell me what to do,” he groans, voice rough with restraint, with admiration.

his mouth is inches away.

but he won’t move until you tell him how.

your body is burning now.

inside and out.

the sound of his voice asking to be guided—tell me what to do—echoes through you, wrapping around your spine and sending a shiver up your back. no one’s ever asked that of you before. not like that. not with that kind of hunger barely held back by restraint.

when you glance down at him again, you find his eyes already on you. waiting. not impatient. not demanding. eager. wide, dark, full of wanting—but still waiting. like you’re the only one who can give him permission to breathe.

“use your fingers,” you say softly.

your voice wavers, shaky at the edges, but it doesn’t matter.

he hears you.

he obeys.

you catch the way the corners of his lips twitch upward—just for a moment—before one of his hands slides up, lifting your thigh gently and settling it over his shoulder. the stretch of it opens you, exposes you, and you gasp as the new position presses your nightgown higher.

then, his other hand moves—slowly, reverently—until his fingers are back at your panties. they’re soaked now, clinging to you, and you can feel every brush of his knuckles against the sensitive skin there.

his eyes flick up to yours again—checking. asking.

and then he slips a finger past the damp fabric, the tip curling just inside you.

your breath stutters in your chest, a sound catching in your throat that you didn’t mean to let out. he watches you. his gaze never leaves your face.

and then—

with a sudden tug, he rips your panties clean.

the sound is loud, sharp in the silence—the tear of fabric quick and final—and the cold air hits you immediately.

your body tenses, thighs quivering around him as the sudden exposure leaves you breathless. every nerve is awake now, burning, aware of the way his hands hold you open, how the cool air contrasts against the heat pooling between your legs.

you’re bare to him.

and he’s still kneeling.

still looking at you like you’re holy.

you let out a soft pant, your breath catching as you feel his finger slowly trail up the inside of your thigh. his touch is warm—rough in texture, but gentle in pressure—and your skin tingles beneath it. his movements are slow, careful, like he’s learning your body inch by inch.

he stops just at your entrance.

he doesn’t go further right away.

he lingers there—testing. waiting. seeing how you react to the nearness, the quiet promise of what comes next.

then, without warning, he slides a finger in.

his middle finger—long, thick—and the stretch of it makes your walls flutter around him.

a low moan tumbles from your lips, your head tipping back slightly as your muscles clench. it’s more than just the intrusion—it’s the heat of him, the weight of that single finger inside you, the way it already fills more than you expected.

your hand reaches down, gripping the hem of your nightgown tightly, bunching the fabric against your stomach as if anchoring yourself to the moment.

he draws his finger back out—slowly, deliberately—and then pushes it back in with a soft, wet sound that makes your cheeks burn. your body clenches around him again at the sensation, and the lewdness of it, the intimacy of being this bare and open, sends another wave of warmth washing over your skin.

he breathes in through his nose, like he’s memorizing the scent of your arousal, and you can feel him growing more confident in the way his finger curls just slightly on the next thrust.

the thrusts of his finger continue—steady, slow at first, then building into a rhythm that leaves your legs weak. each movement sinks in with purpose, the tip curling ever so slightly, brushing against a place inside you that makes your hips twitch.

your walls clench around him, instinctive and aching.

“you’re so warm,” he pants, voice husky with awe, like he’s never felt anything like this before.

you glance down—eyes glazed, breath uneven—and see his free hand working at himself again. his fingers wrap around his cock, now slowly thickening with each stroke. the sight makes your stomach flutter, your lips parting as another moan slips from your mouth, uncontained and needy.

your mind is fogged with sensation—his hand inside you, his hand on himself, both moving in tandem like some unholy harmony of want. your body is no longer your own. it belongs to the rhythm, the heat, the burn of it all.

then you feel it.

another finger at your entrance.

his ring finger this time—thicker than the first. he eases it in beside the other, stretching you slowly.

you wince. not from pain exactly, but from the sudden fullness.

you’d touched yourself before, sure. but your fingers had never felt like this.

his are longer. rougher. firmer.

they reach deeper.

your walls stretch to accommodate him, muscles fluttering as both fingers begin to pump in and out of you. slick sounds fill the air—soft, obscene—and every time he curls them just right, you whimper.

meanwhile, his other hand strokes himself in slow, languid motions, the pad of his thumb brushing over the tip. he groans aloud, the sound low and wrecked, spilling from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

and all of it—his fingers inside you, his pleasure building in front of you—pulls you deeper under.

he starts to move closer.

you can feel it in the way his breath warms your skin, see it in the way his shoulders shift, the subtle rise of his body as he inches toward you like gravity’s pulling him into place.

a low growl rumbles in his throat as he presses his face in, and when the bridge of his nose brushes against that sensitive bud, you tense—hard. a full-body shudder rolls through you, your breath catching sharp in your chest.

then suddenly—his fingers leave you.

you gasp at the loss, clenching around nothing, your body pulsing with the need to be filled again, to feel something.

“let me eat you, baby,” he pleads, voice raw, mouth just a breath away.

his words hit you deep—both filthy and tender, desperate and reverent.

you hesitate.

not from fear.

but from the overwhelming weight of it. the way your body is already responding without needing to be told.

then, you nod.

he doesn’t look up.

but he must feel it—through the way your thigh tenses over his shoulder, through the way your hips shift just the slightest bit forward, offering yourself.

he takes that as his answer.

his mouth descends, and you feel it—his tongue drawing a slow, deliberate line between your folds, tasting you for the first time. your back arches off the wall, sharp and sudden, your thigh slipping, and he readjusts it with one hand, holding you steady with a strength that borders on possessive.

then he licks again.

this time deeper, firmer—and a moan tears from his mouth. the sound vibrates directly into you, and your head falls back with a strangled cry.

“you’re so sweet,” he breathes.

then he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your entrance—like a promise—before his tongue pushes inside of you.

you cry out, the stretch of it unfamiliar and overwhelming, but so, so good. his tongue thrusts harshly, rhythm building fast, and every movement sends you spiraling, moan after moan clawing out of your throat as your body writhes against the wall.

your hand flies down instinctively, fingers diving into his hair, clutching at the thick strands. you don’t even realize how hard you’re holding on until you feel him groan again, deeper this time.

and then—his mouth rises, lips closing around that bud.

he sucks.

you break.

completely overwhelmed, shaking with the intensity of it, clenching around nothing but air and the feeling of him devouring you.

your head flies back, colliding with the wall behind you with a dull thud, but you hardly feel it. the pleasure ripping through you overshadows everything else. your free hand reaches up, grasping at your hair, tugging gently—desperate for anything to ground yourself as his mouth continues to assault your core with relentless devotion.

“remmick…”

his name falls from your lips in a moan, soft and broken, like a prayer caught halfway through a plea.

he doesn’t stop.

his tongue licks, flicks, drags through your folds, then closes around your clit again, sucking it into the heat of his mouth with rhythm that borders on sinful. the sounds he makes—low, guttural moans and hungry grunts—vibrate directly into you, sending fresh waves of sensation surging through your thighs, your belly, your spine.

he’s pumping himself with the same desperation, his hand moving fast and slick over his length, the sounds of it mixing with the wet noise of his mouth working between your legs. and every time he moans into you, you feel it—feel it everywhere.

then he shifts.

the hand that had been resting firm on your thigh over his shoulder suddenly moves. it slides down—strong and sure—until his fingers press into the flesh of your inner thigh, right beside your entrance. and then he pulls—gently but firmly, opening you wider for him.

a soft gasp slips from your mouth at the stretch, the exposure. you feel so bare, so utterly open. his tongue immediately returns, working deeper now that you’re spread wider for him, and it feels devastating—like you might come apart entirely just from the way he holds you open and tastes you like he’s starving.

your eyes squeeze shut as a stuttering moan tears its way out of your throat—uncontrolled, raw. your fingers twist tighter in his hair, clutching at the only thing tethering you to the earth as his mouth continues to work you open and undone.

and then—

something shifts.

a feeling. strange. unfamiliar.

it starts low in your belly—tight, electric, and rising fast. it coils, curls, builds like pressure behind a dam, and you don’t know what it is, only that it’s coming hard and fast and you don’t know how to stop it.

your breath hitches.

panic flutters in your chest.

your eyes snap open, wide with the sudden fear of losing control, and your body tenses as if to brace for impact.

and then—

it hits.

a violent, blinding explosion rocks through your body.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes at first—just the air being pulled from your lungs as your release rips through you.

your eyes roll back, vision swimming, and your legs nearly buckle beneath the weight of it. your thighs twitch, body quivering uncontrollably as your climax washes over you like a crashing wave you were never prepared for.

but remmick doesn’t let you fall.

his hands grip you steady, firm and reverent, holding you together even as you come apart in his mouth. he moans into you, greedy and satisfied, lapping up every drop of your release like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted—like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you tremble above him, caught in the aftershocks, completely undone.

when he finally pulls back, his cheeks and chin are drenched—slick with you, shining in the low light. his mouth parts slightly as he breathes, dazed and wild, and you can still feel the ghost of his tongue between your thighs. you’re still catching your breath when he moves again—this time, pulling you gently down with him.

your back meets the wood floor of your porch with a soft thud, the cool surface a harsh contrast to the heat blooming in your skin. before you can process it fully, he’s leaning over you, body caging yours in, his cock already hard again, flushed and leaking at the tip. the sight of him above you, thick and heavy, makes your breath stutter.

you barely have time to react before you feel him—his tip brushing against your entrance, slicking over sensitive skin, nudging.

you snap out of it instantly.

your hands press to his chest.

“w-wait! stop!”

his body stills.

he freezes above you, panting, chest heaving as he stares down at you. the desperation in his eyes is immediate—sharp and pleading—but he doesn’t move. instead, you feel his fingers tighten around the bunched fabric of your nightgown, clinging to it like an anchor.

your mind is racing.

he wanted to go this far.

he was going to go this far.

and you—god, your face burns even hotter as the thought settles—you’d never done this before.

not with anyone.

not like this.

and the fear coils tight in your belly.

“i won’t hurt you.”

his voice comes soft.

echoing what he said earlier.

but it lands differently now—closer to a promise.

you look up at him, searching.

his hand on your hip is strong, grounding, and though he grips you tight, there’s no force in it. only restraint.

you search his eyes for anything that might read as a lie, some shadow of cruelty or indifference—but there’s nothing. only tension. only waiting.

so you nod.

his gaze softens, and the hand holding your gown lowers, moving between your bodies. he grips himself, lining up carefully, guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance.

you inhale, slow and deep, trying to ready yourself.

then—he meets your eyes.

and begins to push in.

your jaw clenches hard as the stretch begins. the pressure is immediate, unfamiliar, so much. he’s thick—thicker than anything you’ve ever felt before—and your walls struggle to accommodate him.

“s-slowly…” you manage to stutter, breath caught in your throat.

he nods, sweat beading at his brow, his own face twisted with the effort of going slow—of not losing himself completely in the heat and tightness of you. your walls clench around him, instinctively, and he groans low in his chest.

inch by inch, he presses deeper, until—

you feel a pinch. sharp.

not enough to cry out, but enough to make you tense again.

your hand flies down, gripping the wrist on your hip.

“wait!”

he halts immediately, eyes flying up to yours.

“almost there…” he moans, voice strained. “i’m almost there.”

his hand tightens, holding himself still—waiting for you to give him more.

and when you finally nod—heart hammering—he moves again.

he pulls out slowly, carefully, then pushes back in with more urgency this time. the stretch returns, but this time the pain dulls quickly, fading into something else. something thicker. warmer.

his hand plants beside your head, fingers splaying against the wooden floor for balance, and he pushes the rest of the way in until he bottoms out inside you.

you both still.

your bodies tangled, your breath ragged, your skin burning where it touches his. and for a long, pulsing moment—there’s nothing else.

just the sound of panting.

just the feel of him inside you.

just the overwhelming, terrifying intimacy of being this connected

slowly, but surely, he pulls out—just an inch, just enough to make you feel the loss—before pushing back in with a deep, guttural groan. the sound of it vibrates through your chest, and your own moan answers his as your hand flies up, gripping the wrist of the hand planted beside your head.

your grip is so tight your knuckles turn white.

“aah… yea…” he stutters out, breath shaking as his hips roll forward again, his thrusts slow but deliberate, each one more assured than the last.

the drag of his cock inside you leaves your body stuttering—your breath catching in broken gasps, your thighs trembling with every deep, slow stroke. he’s thick. so thick. every movement stretches you wide, your walls struggling to take him and clenching around him with a mind of their own.

he groans—mouth falling open in something pathetic, raw, aching—and the sound shoots straight through you. the hand on your hip tightens, guiding your body with each thrust, steadying you, grounding himself in your warmth.

your walls flutter around him, and he sees stars behind his eyes.

every time you clench, it’s like heaven and hell collide inside him.

your back begins to slide against the porch beneath you, the wood warm and rough, dragging lightly at your nightgown as his thrusts gain rhythm. the pace builds—not fast, but firm, deeper. every push rocks your body just enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

the sound of skin meeting skin fills the air now—wet, rhythmic, desperate.

his grunts are low in his chest, slipping out between clenched teeth.

your eyes open slowly, jaw slack, mouth parting as choked moans tumble past your lips.

and then—

you see it.

his mouth hangs open, panting, and in the haze of your half-lidded gaze, something catches the light. not just teeth. fangs.

sharp. monstrous.

inhuman.

you let out a sharp gasp as his hands suddenly move—grasping the backs of your thighs with a strength that steals your breath. he drags you toward him with ease, your slick skin sliding across the wooden porch until your thighs rest on his, legs spread and trembling as he settles into the new angle.

once you’re in place, his hands return to your hips—strong, possessive—and without pause, he begins pounding into you again.

but now, it’s different.

his rhythm grows more erratic, more primal. he groans through gritted teeth, fangs fully bared now, glistening with spit as his mouth hangs open in pleasure-drunk awe.

he finds that spot inside you again—

and again.

and again.

each thrust is a strike of lightning behind your eyes, drawing stars out of thin air, making your body convulse in helpless rhythm beneath him. you try to say his name, to moan it into the thick air between you—but all that escapes is garbled, slurred noise. syllables tangled in pleasure too strong to form words.

you don’t notice it at first—

the way his fingers change.

the grip on your waist grows tighter, rougher.

his nails stretch, curling longer, sharper, claws forming in real time as his body reacts to you. to this. to everything he’s holding back.

he groans through clenched fangs, jaw twitching with restraint. it takes everything in him not to pierce your skin. not to lose himself to what he is.

your hands reach down, fumbling for the hem of your nightgown, wanting it off, wanting to feel the air, feel him. remmick sees the motion, and something feral flashes in his eyes as he helps you—tearing the gown up and over your head.

it now lays beneath your upper back, your spine pressing into the fabric as your body arches.

the cold air hits your bare skin and a shiver runs through you. your breasts bounce with each thrust, each impact sending them upward and down in hypnotic rhythm.

remmick lets out a guttural sound—desperate and overwhelmed all at once—as drool escapes the corner of his mouth and spills messily across your stomach. you gasp at the sudden warmth of it, the contrast between cold air and wet heat making you twitch.

then his hand moves again.

he lowers it between your legs, and suddenly he’s rubbing your bud—rough and unrelenting. the pad of his thumb swirls over it in frantic circles, careful not to scratch you, using just enough pressure to send another bolt of pleasure through your spine.

you cry out, louder this time, your back arching as your body tenses up around him.

his other hand rises, large and trembling, and cups one of your breasts, kneading it with a kind of reverence that’s quickly undone by the bite of his claws. one scratches just slightly—a soft sting blooming across your skin—and instead of pulling back, you moan louder.

the pain only sharpens the pleasure.

and remmick…

he watches you fall apart like he’s witnessing something sacred.

and he’s the one dragging every sound, every shiver, every tremble out of you.

you’re losing yourself.

your vision blurs at the edges, body flushed and trembling, unable to hold on to anything solid—except him. your hand reaches blindly, desperate to touch, to anchor yourself in something, someone. your fingers find it—the chain. that gold chain around his neck, damp with sweat and heat.

you loop your fingers through it, gripping tight.

the moment you do, his body responds—his thrusts picking up speed, harder now, deeper. his hips crash against yours with ferocity, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing across the porch. each thrust sends his balls slapping against your ass, adding to the filthy rhythm of it all.

“l–look at you…” he pants, voice breathless and broken, eyes wild as he stares down at where you’re joined. “so beautiful… and speared on me…”

your head falls back, jaw slack as he slams into you again—rough, desperate. his thumb is still on your bud, circling fast and tight, and the pressure spirals out of control.

you feel it.

again.

rising.

but this time, you don’t panic.

you welcome it.

your walls flutter, then clamp down hard around him, squeezing his cock in perfect rhythm with your unraveling. your moans tear from your throat, raw and choked, as your body convulses beneath him.

remmick chokes on a moan of his own, hips stuttering as you clench around him. but he doesn’t stop. not for a second.

he pounds through it—thrusting through your orgasm, keeping the rhythm alive, drawing it out until you can’t tell where the high ends and the overstimulation begins.

the sounds are obscene.

each time he pulls out, it’s wet and loud, a slick drag that makes your stomach tighten—and then he slams back in, deeper, filling you again with a moan.

your walls twitch, overly sensitive now, and a sharp little wave of discomfort flares in the middle of the lingering heat. it stings, but not enough to stop. not when he keeps going like that. not when your body can’t decide if it wants to push him away or pull him deeper.

your grip on his chain tightens.

remmick moans—loud and broken—as the gold links dig into his neck, and still, he doesn’t stop.

his hips drive into yours with punishing need, his chest brushing yours with every thrust, and you realize—

he’s not just trying to fuck you.

he’s trying to stay inside you.

to live there.

to lose himself in the place where you melt around him.

and it’s becoming too much.

your body is trembling, wrung out and burning, nerves raw from how he keeps moving inside you—deep, relentless, nonstop. the sensitivity spikes, each thrust dragging along your pulsing walls like fire and silk, sending you over the edge and right back again before you’ve even caught your breath.

your mouth opens in a soundless moan, your legs twitching, body locked in that unbearable space between pleasure and pain.

remmick groans above you—deep, rough sounds torn straight from his chest. they rumble through his body and into yours, and you feel the way he’s struggling. holding back. holding in.

his fangs flash as his lips part again, saliva stringing between them as he pants like an animal. he’s trying—truly trying—not to sink them back into your neck. not to bite down and mark you like instinct is screaming at him to do.

you see it in the way his head tilts, the way his mouth hovers near your throat before he jerks back again, forcing himself to focus.

your hands are full now—

one clutching his gold chain so tightly the links dig into your fingers,

the other gripping his wrist, fingernails pressed to his skin, grounding yourself as your body thrashes beneath his.

you whine, high-pitched and breathless, overwhelmed as your thighs threaten to close, but his grip on your hips is unyielding.

his eyes glow—deep, dark red—and when he looks down at you, it’s through that glowing haze of instinct and want and near-unraveling. his jaw clenches hard, fangs bared as he fights the shift overtaking him.

then he tenses.

you feel it—

in the way his rhythm falters,

in the way his thrusts grow sloppy, uncontrolled, missing that sweet spot as his hips jerk with no pattern.

he’s close.

he hunches forward, his whole body curling in on itself, and a loud, broken groan tears from his chest as he spills inside you—hot and thick, pulsing with each wave of release.

you moan, long and soft, as you feel him flood you—coating your walls in warmth as his hips keep moving, fucking his orgasm into you.

he pounds through it, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto your skin. the mixture of you both—slick and steady—drips down from where he stretches you open, forming a glistening ring around the base of him each time he pulls back.

“remmick—!”

his name bursts from your lips, sharp and breathless, as your thighs snap tight around his waist, trying to anchor yourself to him—to anything.

your entire body trembles beneath him, and you feel like you might fall apart again, even though there’s nothing left in you but the aftershocks.

“i k-know, baby…” he groans, voice low and shaking, still thrusting inside you. his movements are uncoordinated now, sloppy and feverish, driven more by need than rhythm. his hips jerk like he’s chasing the last of it, like he doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of being inside you.

your eyes squeeze shut, and your fingers finally release their grip on his chain, the gold slipping from between your knuckles.

you trade it for flesh.

your now-free hand reaches up to grab his other wrist, mirroring your other hand—holding him completely. your body, your breath, your trembling form says stay.

his breathing stutters again, another broken groan ripping through him as he thrusts deep—hard—like something inside him is unraveling one last time.

at this point, you feel it—

the steady leak of your shared pleasure slipping out of you, warm and wet, trailing down your thighs and pooling on the floorboards beneath you. the sounds between you are slick and endless—every movement, every shift punctuated by the lewd, messy wetness of it all.

then he pulls back—just slightly—to look.

his eyes drop to where his cock still moves in and out of you, glazed with the evidence of everything you gave him. you feel his stare deepen, and you swear he’s ascending—his lips parted, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sight of you stretched around him, milking every last wave of his orgasm.

his hips slow.

slow again.

until they still.

his chest rises and falls, frantic and wild, then slower, steadier—as he begins to return to himself.

he looks up.

eyes searching yours.

his mouth opens, like he wants to say something. like he needs to.

but nothing comes out.

instead, he leans down.

his lips hover just above yours, breath brushing your mouth, waiting—asking. not like before, when you turned your face away. this time, he lingers.

and this time, you don’t pull back.

you tilt your chin just slightly, and your lips meet his in a kiss.

slow. warm. breathless.

not demanding. not frantic.

just real.

The porch sits right on the edge of it, a little island of yellow lantern light with you cross-legged in your chair, enamel bowl in your lap, fingers slick with bean juice. Crickets grind away in the ditch, frogs answer from somewhere near the pond, and the heat that pressed on your skin all day finally lets go a little, turning soft and damp and heavy instead of mean.

Your daddy, Joe, stands out by the road with a cigarette, just that small orange coal drifting up and down whenever he draws on it.

He’s mostly shadow, hat brim pulled low, shoulders a dark cutout against the pale strip of dirt lane. The smoke hangs around him in thin gray strands, catching the lantern glow before the breeze worries it apart.

The wagon makes itself known before you see it.  A tired rattle carrying over the fields long and low, iron and wood complaining in a way that could belong to any old rig on any old night. 

The mule steps out of the dark first, ears flicking, hooves whispering in the dust, harness creaking, then the wagon-bed, then the man riding it, the whole shape of him hunched against the evening like the road’s been sitting on his back.

He climbs down slow, not careless, one boot testing the ground, then the other. He isn’t tall; not one of those long, scarecrow boys you see come through town sometimes. He’s put together closer to the earth than that, thick through the shoulders and arms, weight settled in the meat of him instead of stretched out. 

Shirt pulls across his chest where the fabric has been asked to hold too much too often, sleeves rolled to his forearms, muscle and old work written in the dust and veins there. Suspenders run straight over his torso, holding everything decent, but there’s something loose under the neatness, a restless set to the way he carries himself, like he’s got more energy than his frame knows what to do with.

His hat sits low enough to shade most of his face until he steps up nearer and the porch light reaches for him.

“Evenin’, Sir,” he says, voice a slow scrape, low and worn, like it’s been dragged over gravel and cigarettes for years. 

The vowels don’t belong to your county, not exactly, but he leans into them like he’s been practicing, trying to make them fit the dirt under his boots.

“Evenin’,” Joe, flicks ash toward the ditch without turning. “You Remmick?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes off his hat then, presses it to his chest in a gesture that seems to be humble, and in that little bow you see the line of him clear. 

Hair dark and close-cropped, stubborn where it’s tried to wave up and been tamed with water and a hand. Jaw rough with stubble that looks more forgotten than stylish. 

There’s a hardness around his mouth, something that could tilt into a grin or a snarl with not much provocation either way.

When he straightens and lifts his eyes, they cut toward the porch, and you feel it right away when they land on you, as sure as if somebody laid a hand on your bare ankle.

A limp green bean hangs between your fingers, ends torn and wet.

His gaze drifts, following your calves where your skirt’s ridden up, running along the slope of your shins and the span of your knees pressed together, sliding up the line of your apron and the thin open V between your collar buttons where the night air pushes in against your skin. 

He looks like he’s reading you, not just seeing you, taking his time over every line.

You go still, sharp-aware of every place your dress touches your body and every place it doesn’t.

The bean pieces drop into the bowl as you lower your eyes to the boards. The porch wood is dark and warped from years of feet, knot-holes winking like little eyes in the dim.

You fix on those, on the small wet snaps and soft taps of beans piling against enamel. Anything that is not the feeling of a stranger’s stare walking up and down you like a man checking fence.

“Baby,” your father says, voice flat, cigarette smoke curling out on the word. “Say evenin’.”

You wipe your hands on your apron and stand, bare feet quiet on the boards. “Evenin’,” you say, polite as sunday, letting the rest of what you feel sink down where it won’t show on your face.

Remmick smiles like he hears it anyway. It isn’t wide or warm. Just a slow tug at one corner of his mouth, a small, crooked tilt that never quite reaches his eyes.

“Evenin’, miss,” he answers, and there’s a drag in that word miss, the s held just long enough to make it catch.

Miss, when he could have asked for your name, when any decent man might have. Your father hasn’t offered it yet, so you keep it closed up in your mouth.

“Girl oughta be in bed this hour,” Joe mutters, eyes on the yard, not on you. “Ain’t no call for her to be sittin’ out like some boy on watch. Night’s for men workin’, not for women gawkin’.”

The words land on your shoulders like an old coat, familiar weight, old smell.  You bite down on what you want to say and feel it burn on the way down.

“I’m finishin’ the beans,” you tell him instead, hands tightening on the bowl till the rim bites into your palms. You don’t bother trying to explain that the dark sits easier on your skin than the hard white noon does, that the night gives you a little space to stretch.

You can feel Remmick watching you still, not with that sloppy hunger you’ve seen from boys in town, all elbows and gawking.

This is like he’s comparing what he sees to something he’s held in his head a long time. 

“Don’t reckon there’s any harm in her gettin’ some air, Sir,” he says after a moment, pitched low, as if he’s offering reason and not meddling. “So long as she stays where you can see her.” He tips his head, and his eyes make another lazy path over you, unashamed. “World’s rough for a girl on her own.”

Your daddy snorts, jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. “You just worry ‘bout them fields, son. I didn’t hire you to advise on my girl.”

The almost-smile on Remmick’s mouth doesn’t quite leave. “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll give all my attention to what you’re payin’ me for.”

He keeps his words aimed at your father, but his gaze is not that obedient. It flicks back to you when he says attention, and there’s weight in it, promise, something that makes your skin prickle fine all over. Something in you bristles right back, lifts its head like a barn cat whose tail’s been stepped on.

You draw a breath and set the bowl against your hip. “Where you want him sleepin’?” you ask your father, eyes fixed out over the yard so you don’t have to meet either man’s stare straight on.

“In the old place.” Joe jerks his chin toward the smaller farmhouse slumped beyond the well—a squat little shape where the lamplight doesn’t reach, half-eaten by shadow. “Closer to the barn. Got a bed and a stove. Man don’t need more than that.”

Remmick turns to look at it, and the lantern light catches his eyes in a strange way, making them flash for an instant like there’s something slick behind them.

The little house sits there like it’s been waiting, windows dark, door shut up tight, roofline sagged just enough to look suspicious.

“That’ll do,” he says. “I’m a night sort myself. Easier workin’ when the sun’s gone and the air ain’t tryin’ to boil you clear through. Less trouble all around.”

He says it easy, like it’s about sweat and shade and nothing else, but you hear the way he shapes night in his mouth, the soft way he lets it roll off his tongue, and something in your belly curls up smaller and sharper.

“Heard you don’t care much for daylight,” Joe says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Remmick’s jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like it wants to answer on its own. He glances at you, quick and bright, before he looks down at his boots. “Sun don’t care much for me,” he finally drawls. “Burns me to char if I let it. Always been that way. Doctor said I got delicate skin.”

The word sits wrong in your ear as soon as it’s out, delicate, dangling over this stocky man with forearms roped up in tendon and dirt ground into his knuckles, hands that look like they were made to break things, not handle them gentle. 

It slips out of you before you can catch it, quiet and skeptical. “Delicate,” you repeat, eyes finding his without meaning to.

He catches that and settles into it like a cat into a warm spot. “You don’t think so, miss?” he asks, voice a touch softer now, gaze steady and unblinking.

You ought to let it pass. Ought to dip your head and let the men talk over you, let delicate lie between them like some joke you weren’t meant to get. 

Instead you hold his stare in the lantern glow, take your time looking back the same way he did to you, tracing the faint hollows under his eyes, the line of his nose, the mouth that looks used to biting down on words and maybe on other things too.

“No, sir,” you say finally, after a beat that stretches long. “You don’t look delicate at all.”

Something shifts behind his eyes at that, something pleased and sharp that makes your heart knock once, hard, against your ribs. The corner of his mouth tugs just a shade higher.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to live up to what you see,” he murmurs. “Would be a shame to disappoint you.”

Your daddy grinds his cigarette out under his heel, done with this line of talk. “You can unload what you got, then I’ll show you the place,” he says. “Got work waiting for nobody. You ain’t too tired from sittin’ on a wagon all day, are you?”

Remmick rolls one shoulder, hand rubbing the back of his neck. The stretch shifts his shirt over his back, pulls the fabric across solid muscle there.

You feel your breath snag for half a second and hate that it does.

“Wagon ain’t heavy,” he says. “I’ll get settled quick, then you can put me to whatever needs doin’.”

Joe nods and starts toward the dim outline of that little house, his boots crunching through the loose gravel near the well. The lantern light falls behind him with each step until he’s just another moving patch of dark.

Remmick lingers at the foot of the porch. He settles his hat back on his head, brim bringing his eyes into shadow again, but you can still feel them.

“You finish them beans,” he tells you, voice gone softer, aimed up at you like a secret. “Man works better with a full belly.”

There’s nothing in the words you could point to and call wrong, nothing on the surface you could carry to your father and hold up like proof.

Still, the way his gaze drifts down and back up as he says them leaves something slick and uneasy under your ribs. Heat crawls up your neck, hot in a way that has nothing to do with the air.

“I’ll see to what’s mine,” you say, gripping the bowl till your fingers ache. “Same as you should see to yours.”

His laugh is low, a rough little sound that lives in his chest and doesn’t quite make it to his teeth. He dips his head a fraction, like you’ve handed him a dare instead of brushing him off. “Oh, I intend to,” he replies. “You can count on it.”

Then he turns and walks after your father, stride easy, body moving with a loose sort of purpose. His shadow stretches out along the yard behind him, tossed strange and long by the lantern, then swallowed up as he and Joe move past the well. 

The small farmhouse waits ahead, black windows staring, door a darker cut in the wall. It looks, for one breath, like it’s swallowing the two men whole.

You stand there with the lantern hissing softly at your elbow and watch the dark take them. 

When the yard settles again, when their footsteps fade and the crickets creep back up to full volume, the space between the barn and the house does not feel the same. It’s as if something else has stepped into it and sat down, something you cannot see but can sense just the same, like a pressure change before a storm.

You sit again, bowl back in your lap, fingers finding another handful of beans by habit alone. The wet snap of them breaking sounds too loud in the hush, echoing in the hollow boards under your feet. 

Every few seconds, your eyes drag toward that low silhouette out past the well, toward the little house that is not empty anymore.

You tell yourself you’re only minding where your father put a stranger. 

The first night after he arrives, he walks the fence line while you wash dishes.

You hear his boots dragging through the loose gravel near the yard, then the softer sound of steps in the grass. 

The screen door hangs open to let the air move, lantern burning low over the sink. Your arms are wet to the elbow, suds creeping up your forearms as you scrub at a pan that’s older than you are. 

Out past your own reflection in the dark window, you catch a small shape of motion—the swing of a lantern out near the barn, then the shorter, solid outline of him moving along the fence, checking posts, rattling wire. 

He doesn’t look up at the house that you can tell, doesn’t lift the light toward you, just keeps on with that steady pace, head bent. 

Still, your shoulders hunch like you’ve been caught at something you haven’t done. The glass fogs a little with the breath you don’t remember letting out.

You tell yourself it’s good your father found a man willing to walk the property at night. That’s what you tell yourself as you rinse plates and stack them, as the little yellow circle of his lantern slides back and forth along the edge of your sight.

The second night you have to bring him his supper, because your father ‘forgets.’

It’s late by the time the last of the pots are scraped and put away, your back aching from standing, hair pasted to your neck. Joe leans back in his chair, radio humming low on the table, and says without looking up, “That boy eat?”

You still your hands on the dishrag. “Ain’t seen him at the table.”

“Damn it,” He grumbles, more at himself than you. “Told him come in if he heard me holler and I ain’t never thought to holler. Fix him a plate and take it down. Man don’t work right hungry.”

You swallow whatever you were about to say about whose job it is to feed farmhands, scrape together a plate from what’s left—two biscuits gone hard at the edges, a ladle of beans, a piece of ham with more bone than meat—and cover it with a clean cloth. 

The air outside hits your damp skin and feels cooler than it ought to. The night smells like dirt and hay and whatever’s blooming along the ditch. 

The smaller farmhouse sits out near the barn with a faint thread of light leaking around the edges of its curtain, not bright enough to spill onto the yard. You walk out there, skirt brushing your ankles, plate balanced careful in both hands.

You knock, knuckles soft on the wood. For a second there’s nothing, then the faint scrape of a chair, the hush of someone crossing a small room. 

The door opens only halfway. He fills the gap, shoulder and chest just there, heat and sweat.

“Evenin’,” he says, voice a little rough, like he hasn’t used it since sundown. “You lost?”

You hold the plate out, not stepping any closer than you have to. “Daddy forgot to call you in. Told me to bring your supper.”

His eyes go to your hands first, to the way your fingers wrap the rim of the plate, then to the food, then back up. 

He doesn’t reach right away; he lets the moment stretch, his gaze traveling from your wrists up your arms, lingering on the damp on your skin, on the few stray strands that have worked loose at your temple and stuck there. 

“That’s mighty kind,” he says at last, taking the plate so slow his fingers brush yours. 

They’re not as rough as you expected, just warm and solid, the pads of them catching against your knuckles. “Hope he didn’t drag you out here from your bed on account of me.”

“I wasn’t in bed,” you answer, because lying feels worse than telling him anything true. “Kitchen don’t clean itself.”

He makes a small noise at that, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “No, ma’am. World’d fall apart if it weren’t for everything women do men don’t think about. Least he can do is call me in for a plate now and then instead of sending you.”

You don’t like that it sounds almost gentle, that there’s no clear edge you can grab onto and call wrong.

You nod once and start to turn away, wanting the room behind that door to stay his business and not have to wonder what’s in it.

“Miss?” he says, and you stop even though you don’t want to. “You tell your daddy I’m obliged. To him and to you.”

You keep your eyes on the yard. “He’ll hear you tomorrow.”

“Maybe I like the thought of you carryin’ my thanks,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You don’t answer to that. You walk back toward the big house with your empty hands and you feel his eyes between your shoulder blades all the way to the porch steps.

Another night you pass him by accident at the pump.

You come around the corner of the house with a pail in each hand, too focused on not sloshing well water onto your skirt to notice him right off. 

He’s just there suddenly in the lantern’s edge, sleeves rolled high, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair damp with sweat or water; you can’t tell which. 

The pump squeaks once as he lets go of the handle. Moonlight catches the wet on his forearms, the curve of muscle there, the scar that runs pale along his left wrist like a rope burn that never faded.

You stop short, pails swinging. “Didn’t know you were usin’ it,” you say. “I’ll wait.”

He tips his head, that same little crooked half-smile thinking about showing up. “You scared I’m gonna dirty the water, standin’ too near?” His accent is thicker tonight, as if he’s tired of smoothing them for everybody’s sake.

“I ain’t scared,” you say. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to, which only makes him watch you harder. “Just got taught not to crowd folk when they’re at work.”

“And here I thought you were just bein’ polite,” he murmurs. He steps back from the pump, gives you room to pass. “Go on, then. Wouldn’t do to have Mr. Joe’s girl haulin’ from the ditch ‘cause I hogged the handle.”

You move past him, the damp of his skin ghosting near your elbow, the smell of iron and sweat and something like tobacco clinging to him. You set a pail under the spout and work the handle, arm moving in a practiced rhythm.

The pump groans, then warm water shudders up from below, splashing cold over your fingers when you misjudge the first rush.

His gaze sits on your hands again, on the bare forearms you didn’t bother covering because it’s night and there’s no sun to scold you. “You do all that yourself?” he asks. “Water, cookin’, everything inside?”

“Me and Mama,” you say, though your mother’s cough has been bad enough lately you both know it’s more you than her. “Daddy’s got the fields.”

“And now he’s got me,” Remmick says, watching your arm work. “Guess I’m supposed to make life easier ‘round here.”

“Then do it,” you answer, a little sharper than you meant. The second pail fills and you swing it away, careful not to splash your toes. “Don’t stand around talkin’ about it.”

For a heartbeat there’s quiet. Then he laughs, low and delighted. “There she is,” he says under his breath, as if he’s been waiting on that bite. 

When you glance over, he isn’t offended. He looks satisfied, eyes bright, lean mouth curled up. “You keep snappin’ at me like that, miss, I might start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

“Or you might start thinkin’ wrong,” you shoot back, lifting both buckets. The weight drags at your shoulders, but you’d sooner drop in the yard than ask him to carry them.

He doesn't offer, just watches you walk away, and you can feel that as keenly as the pull of the water on your arms.

There are other little moments like that, small as splinters. Like, when you cross paths in the barn one evening when you go to check on a cow that lowed funny through your window. 

He’s already there when you reach the threshold, one hand on the animal’s neck, murmuring something soft and nonsense in her ear. 

She calms under his touch, sides heaving slow, eyes rolling less. The lantern hangs from a nail overhead, throwing golden light over the dust in the air, over his shoulders, over the cow’s hide. 

He glances up when he senses you, and for a blink his irises flash almost too light, as if the lantern’s in them and not above him. Then they’re ordinary again, a color you could name if you got close enough, and he’s saying, “She just didn’t like the thunder,” even though the sky’s been clear all day.

You lean on the stall rail, arms folded, watching his hand move in slow strokes along the cow’s neck. 

The steadiness of him with animals makes something twist in you, something like reluctant respect and something like fear, because if he can soothe two thousand pounds of nervous flesh with a voice and a touch, what could he do to yours if he ever decided to try.

On another night you fix a tear in one of his work shirts at the kitchen table because your father plops it there and says, “Stupid fool’s gonna walk around with his arm hangin’ out if someone don’t thread a needle.” 

You mutter that Remmick has two hands and surely they can manage a seam, but you fetch your sewing basket anyway. 

The fabric smells faintly of him, sweat and field and that odd metallic thread that’s been nagging at the back of your senses since he arrived. 

You push the needle through worn cotton and wonder how a man gets a rip that clean across the bicep, by snagging it on barbed wire or nail head, without a single bloodstain around the torn edge.

He shows up to collect it before you take it down yourself. Don’t know how he knows it’s ready, but he’s at the door not long after you knot the last stitch, hat in hand like he’s paying a call.

Your father’s gone out back to piss or smoke or both, your mother’s dozing in her chair, so it’s just you in the quiet kitchen with your fingers still sore from the work.

“You didn’t have to,” he says when you hand the folded shirt over. “Could’ve walked around indecent a day or two, see if anyone complained.”

“My father would,” you say. “Don’t like loose things on his land.”

He takes the shirt with his good arm, the other rolling his shoulder like it aches. The lantern throws his eyes into little warm coins. 

Some nights you only see him from a distance.

Through your bedroom window when you should be sleeping, you catch the sway of his lantern again and again, marking his rounds. In the moonlight, his stride is compact, efficient, not showy. 

He moves like someone who’s spent a long time walking alone, someone who knows better than to waste steps. He never seems to stumble, never misjudges a rut or loose stone.

You watch him slip between the barn and the smaller house, in and out of shadow, and you tell yourself you’re just making sure he’s where he should be, that you are only doing what your father would want.

You notice, too, the nights when the light in his window stays on longer than makes sense. Long after your father’s snores have settled and your mama’s breath has evened into sleep, after you’ve lain there staring at the ceiling until your eyes burn, that far-off square of yellow will still be sitting out there at the edge of your sight. 

Sometimes you think you see the shadow of him cross it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, moving back and forth in a tight little path, but when you squint it’s gone.

Once, you step out onto the porch for air and catch him already looking.

You don’t see him at first; you just feel that prickling awareness that has become his signature in your body. 

Then your eyes find him where he’s paused near the barn, one hand on the fence post, the other hanging loose at his side. No lantern this time, just moonlight on his face, flattening all the hard parts, making his eyes look too bright and his mouth too soft. 

He doesn’t look away when you notice him. He doesn’t call out or tip his hat in greeting. He just stands there in the dark, steady as another post, and lets you decide whether to step back inside or stay where the night can see both of you.

You stay a breath longer than you should, chest tight, heartbeat stepping up loud between your ears. Then you reach for the door, fingers curling around splintered wood, and it feels, for a strange second, like you’re the one retreating and he’s the one who lives here.

By the time a week has worked itself around, his presence has braided into the place.

The horse knows him, ears twitching toward his voice before dawn. The dogs have quit barking when his boots scrape the yard at dusk. Your father has stopped watching him like he might bolt and started calling for him when something heavy needs lifting. 

The small farmhouse doesn’t look so empty now; you’ve grown used to the idea of a man’s breath in there, a man’s boots by the door, a man’s shadow on the curtain.

You’re the one still wary, nerves still stretched thin every time you feel his eyes, even if nobody else in the house seems to notice how often that is. 

You catch him in little reflections—a sliver of him in the pump’s metal, in the window glass, in any surface that throws back light—and he’s always looking your way. 

Not always outright, not always rude, but always aware of you. Always clocking where you are in the yard, whether your sleeves are rolled, whether your hem rides high on your calf or hangs proper at your ankle.

You tell yourself it’s just because there’s not much else worth watching out here.

You don’t quite believe it.

Clouds bruise up toward the horizon, swallowing the moon a few bites at a time. You’re at the kitchen table with mending in your lap when you hear it—one sharp, panicked bawl from the barn that cuts straight through the hum of crickets and the low murmur of your father’s radio.

You’re on your feet before you think about it, thimble still shoved on your finger, needle stuck tight in a loop of thread. 

Your father says something about “damned horses spookin’ at their own shadows” but doesn’t move from his chair.

His back’s been bad all day; he’s been walking like every step hurts. Mama’s dozing, her breath a thin whistle. 

So you grab the lantern from its hook, light blooming up in a hot bloom that stings your eyes, and head out barefoot into the yard.

The grass is cool against your soles, damp from the thick air. The little farmhouse where Remmick sleeps has a strip of light at the curtain-bottom, but you don’t see him outside. The barn looms ahead, big and dark, door standing half-open like a mouth. Another low, fretful sound comes from inside, not as sharp as the first but enough to hurry you along.

“Easy now,” you call as you slip in, lantern held high. “Hush yourself, girl, I’m comin’.”

The barn swallows the outside sounds. In here it’s hay and dust and the soft shuffling of hooves, the rustle of wings up in the rafters. 

Your mare stamps once, snorting, eyes rolling white when the lantern light hits her. You cross the packed dirt quick, set the lantern on a hook so you’ve got both hands, and reach for her halter, stroking her long face.

“It’s just the weather actin’ strange,” you murmur, words more for yourself than her. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you.”

She settles a little under your voice, but her muscles are still tight, skin twitching under your palm.

You’re so focused on her that you don’t hear him until he’s already in the doorway.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

His voice slides through the gloom, low and rough. 

You jerk a little, head snapping toward the barn entrance. He’s just inside the threshold, lantern in his hand turned down low, throwing more shadow than light. Sleeves rolled, suspenders hooked proper tonight, hair damp at the temples like he’s just come in from a hard walk. 

“Lord,” you mutter, heart kicking hard. “You move too quiet. Thought you were a ghost.”

He lets out a short huff of a laugh. “Not yet.” The lantern swings by his knee as he steps inside, setting the hay shadows dancing. “Heard her fussin’. Figured I’d check before she took it into her head to kick through a stall.”

“She just spooked,” you say. “Storm brewin’ somewhere.”

He comes up nearer, close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat along his throat, the bead of something darker at the cuff of his shirt where it brushes his wrist. 

His gaze does a quick, automatic sweep of the stall—manger, bucket, the mare’s flanks, your hand on her halter—and then it hooks on you, like it always does, like there’s a string between his eyes and your skin.

“You shouldn’t come out here by yourself at night,” he says, quiet, not rebuking exactly but not gentle either. “Barn full of spooked stock, any one of ’em could knock you right off your feet. Ain’t proper for a girl to be runnin’ around after dark alone.”

“That girl’s got ears,” you answer, voice tight, stroking the mare’s neck to hide your own nerves. “She can hear you fussin’ without talkin’ over her head.”

His mouth does that little tilt again, amused. “Reckon she can,” he says. “Reckon she don’t listen half as good as she ought, neither.”

You’re just shaping a sharp reply when it happens.

Something cracks outside, a dry, sharp sound—maybe a limb breaking, maybe a board settling wrong, maybe thunder grumbling way off where the clouds are thickest. 

It doesn’t matter what it is. The mare flinches hard, shoulder slamming sideways. The stall rail shudders under the hit, and you’re standing too close, lantern throwing crazy shadows as the world jolts.

Your first instinct is to get out of the way. You jump back, skirts swishing, hand flying off the halter. You pivot toward the stall opening and catch—not air, not clear space, but the edge of an old nail head that’s been working itself loose from the post for years.

The sound of fabric tearing is loud as a gunshot in the barn.

It rips from just below your hip down the side of your thigh, a long, rude run that opens your dress like a mouth. 

Cool air hits bare skin where cotton should be.

You gasp, more from the exposure than pain, and slap your hand down, fingers clutching at the split to keep it from gaping wider.

For a heartbeat you stand frozen, lantern light swinging, breath shallow, your leg half-bared through the torn seam.

You don’t have a slip on under this dress, not a proper one. It’s too hot. You’ve got plain cotton drawers and a whole lot of skin, and you know without looking that the tear has gone high, high enough that if you weren’t grabbing it shut he’d be seeing places no man has any business looking at on you.

“You all right?” Remmick’s closer before you register him moving, his boots whispering over packed dirt. His lantern clanks against a beam as he hangs it up. He reaches for you by pure reflex, hands coming to your arms, steadying you where you’ve stumbled.

“I’m fine,” you snap, too quick, humiliation burning your face, neck, chest. “Let go.”

You twist away from his grip, turning your hip, trying to angle the torn side away from him. 

The dress shifts anyway, hem dragging through straw, and there’s a flash of thigh where your fingers don’t quite cover everything. You feel the rush of blood under your skin like you’ve been slapped.

His eyes drop before you can stop them.

It’s an instinct with him just like yours, hungry and automatic. His gaze hits the split, the glimpse of your leg, and sticks. Time slows down around that look. You see it happen, see the way his pupils widen, see the quick, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost soundless.

You yank the torn fabric tighter, the motion making the rip strain up higher, edge brushing the curve where your thigh meets your hip. Your whole body feels like a lantern flame, exposed and flickering. “Don’t you look,” you hiss, low and furious. “Turn around.”

One of his hands lifts, like he might actually offer to cover the tear for you, fingers curling as if they want to fit over the place you’re guarding. He stops himself, hand hovering for an awful second near your hip, close enough that you feel the heat of him even through the thin cotton. 

“Ain’t my fault you went tearin’ yourself open on every nail in the county,” he says, tone trying for light and landing somewhere rougher. 

His eyes drag up slow, from your knuckles clenched in the fabric, up the bare strip of thigh he already saw, up the shape of your waist and the heave of your chest. “Maybe you should let me look and make sure you didn’t cut that pretty skin to ribbons.”

The way he says pretty makes your stomach flip and your teeth set.

“I ain’t cut,” you spit. “And I sure as hell don’t need you inspectin’ me.”

He should look ashamed. Though, he doesn’t. There’s color high in his cheeks now, not from heat, not from work. His mouth’s gone a little slack, like he’s holding back words. His gaze keeps sneaking back to the place your hand guards, greedy, any time you aren’t staring right at him.

“If you say so,” he murmurs finally. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

You hear the echo of his earlier lie in that word, delicate, and decide if you stay here another minute you might do something you can’t take back, like slap him or cry or both.

You shift your grip to catch more fabric, bunching the torn side up in your fist so nothing shows. It makes walking harder; you’re hobbling, half-skipping, desperate not to let the skirt fall. “You see to the mare,” you manage, chin up, eyes burning. “I’ll fix my dress.”

He steps back enough to let you pass. As you squeeze by him in the narrow space, your shoulder brushes his chest, your bare calf bumps the hard line of his boot. 

“Careful,” he says, voice quiet, right by your ear. “Would be a shame if the rest of that dress gave up and left you standin’ in nothin’ at all.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You duck your head and hurry out, every step measured so the torn seam doesn’t pull, one hand clamped between your thighs, lantern bumping at your knee. 

The night air on your exposed skin feels wrong, every stray breeze finding its way up under the rip.

You keep your eyes fixed on the glow of the house, on the square of the kitchen window, on anything that is not the barn behind you.

You slam the kitchen door with more force than you mean to, startling your mama awake, mumble something about a nail catching you and make straight for your room. You don’t light your own lamp; you don’t want to see what he saw. You stand there in the dark with your back to the door and your dress torn open under your hand, heart hammering, ears roaring, shame and something hotter and uglier twisting up together in your belly.

Down by the south fence, in the smaller farmhouse, Remmick sits on the edge of his narrow bed with the easy, humming satisfaction of a man who’s been saving something up.

He lit the lamp as soon as he stepped in, not out of any real need for light but because he likes the way it throws shadows, likes the way it paints dim gold over bare wood and gives him something soft to look at while his mind runs back over the evening. 

The room is small and warm from his own body heat, close enough that every breath feels shared with the walls. Old wood, dust, a curl of tobacco from the roll-up he finished outside, and under it all the ghost of you clinging to his clothes—soap and starch and sweat—make a thick little stew in the air.

He shrugged out of his shirt as soon as the door shut, tossing it over the chair without bothering to check if the seam you mended had held. 

The rip in the fabric is nothing next to the rip in your dress that he can’t stop savoring. He works the buttons of his trousers loose without hurry, fingers moving with the contented patience of a man about to sit down to a meal he’s been smelling all day.

He doesn’t try not to think of you. That would be a waste of a perfectly good night.

He leans back against the wall, boots kicked off, pants open at the fly, and lets the picture come as easy as breath. 

You in the barn with your hand clapped between your thighs, dress split wide, that slick little strip of thigh flashing when the cloth slipped. The way your eyes flared when you realized he’d seen, outrage and mortification and something bright under both. The sound of your voice when you told him not to look, like you already knew he was going to anyway.

“Hell,” he mutters, half laughing under his breath as his cock swells heavy against the thin barrier of his briefs. “Ain’t nothin’ on this earth I’d rather think on.”

His palm drifts down over his belly, fingers tracing a slow path to the bulge at his groin. Even that light touch makes him suck in air through his teeth. 

He presses his hand over the outline of himself, feeling the hot, solid weight of his cock straining upward, and a low, pleased sound curls up out of his chest. He palms it once, a lazy roll, enjoying the way it kicks against his fingers like it’s eager too, then he slides his hand inside.

Warm cotton gives way to hot skin. He wraps his fist around the thick base of himself and exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the barn, relief and hunger tangled up in it. His cock sits heavy in his grip, veins standing up, the head already wet where precum has gathered from how long he’s been walking around hard on the memory of you.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb smearing that slickness over the swollen tip. “Worked up over one little tear. You’d laugh yourself sick if you saw me now, wouldn’t you?”

The thought of you seeing him like this, spread out on his narrow bed with his trousers open and his cock standing full in his hand, only makes him harder. 

He drags his fist down slow, savoring the drag from head to base, then back up again, the friction sharp and sweet all at once. The first few strokes are measured, a man settling into a rhythm he plans to enjoy, not something hurried and guilty he has to choke down.

He lets his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping shut so he can see you better behind his lids. 

Not the church version, not the good girl with the hem tugged just so and the buttons done up high. 

The barn version. Lantern light sliding over your bare thigh, the tremble in your fingers when you clutched at the rip, that split second when your hand wasn’t fast enough and he got the clean, unearned look he’s been replaying ever since.

“Shit,” he breathes, hand tightening, the slide of skin on skin picking up a little speed. 

He drags his fist down again, slower, getting a feel for every inch, for the way his cock swells harder in his grip with each pass. Arousal slicks his thumb, gathers at the crest of the head, and he spreads it with an easy, greedy little twist, working it around until the slide turns wet and smooth. 

His hips lift into his own hand without much prompting, body eager after nights of walking around with you on his tongue and in his teeth and under his nails.

“Bare leg,” he mutters, watching his hand move now, eyes half-lidded, lashes throwing shadows on his cheeks. “Goin’ about your business like you ain’t got that tucked up under your skirt. Like I ain’t seen it now.”

He remembers exactly how the tear opened, how the cotton gave and the seam surrendered, how your thigh flashed in the jumpy lantern light. 

That first raw glimpse lives in his chest like a hot coal. Skin smooth and soft-looking, the curve of muscle under it, the sweet thickness where it met your hip. 

He remembers your drawers too, plain white cotton clinging to you, riding that line between demure and lewd when the fabric shifted wrong.

His hand moves faster at that, instincts catching up with memory. He curls his fingers a little tighter, pulling from the heavy base up to the slick crown, milking a fresh bead of precum up with each stroke. 

“Bet you went home and stitched that dress up neat as a Sunday virtue,” he says, voice roughened by breath. “Head bowed, lips bit, pretendin’ that leg ain’t still there underneath, smooth as cream and just as soft. Bet you can’t stop thinkin’ about me seein’ it neither.”

He can picture you at your little table, lamp burning, needle in hand, fingers trembling just enough to make the thread snag. Your face hot, your mouth set, your thighs pressed together under the cloth as you sew shame into every stitch. He imagines you tugging that seam tight, that same hand that clutched the torn fabric now working the needle, every pull a memory of his eyes on you.

His free hand slides down his belly, fingers pressing over the flexing muscles there, holding them tight as he fucks up into his own fist. The bed creaks under him, wood complaining, but he doesn’t slow. He spreads his legs wider on the mattress, giving himself more room to move, and the extra slack lets his strokes lengthen, his hips roll, everything turning into a slow rhythm.

“You know what I see when I close my eyes?” he asks the ceiling quietly, dragging his thumb across the slit. “Not that pretty little mouth tellin’ me not to look. I see that hand of yours slip. I see that dress fall open just a little more.”

The picture in his mind sharpens: you, back against a stall post, hand too busy clutching at rough wood to hold your skirts closed, light catching on the full line of your thigh as the rip edges skid higher. 

He imagines the flap of cloth falling aside, full view of your leg from knee to hip, drawers pulled tight over the mound between your thighs, a faint darker patch where heat and sweat have gathered.

His cock throbs in his grip at that. He grits his teeth, pushes his palm down hard, and his hips jerk, chasing the pressure.

“Yeah,” he growls softly. “That’s it. Dress up around your waist, showin’ all that sweet flesh. You holdin’ on to that wood like it’s gonna save you, eyes full of righteous fury while your body’s tellin’ on you.”

His fingers slip lower on the stroke, pausing to cup his balls, rolling them in his palm, feeling the tight, heavy pull there. The sensation punches another sound out of him. He goes back to his cock with renewed urgency, arm working harder now, hand pumping.

He lets himself wander further than any real moment has gone. Lets the memory of that tear turn into something else, something he can taste.

He imagines stepping in close before you can bolt, one hand catching your wrist, the other gathering your torn skirt up and out of his way. Imagines your gasp, that little sharp intake he already knows, your bare thigh hitting his hip as he pins you to the stall. Your panties stretched tight over the soft swell of your cunt, his fingers pushing up against the dampening cloth, feeling how hot you are through the barrier.

“Pretend you don’t want it,” he murmurs, throat rasping. “Try to act like you ain’t gettin’ wet for me while you fuss.”

The words sound vulgar and right in his mouth. His cock swells at it, the head aching now, sensitive with every pass. He squeezes at the top, thumb pressing just under the crown, and his whole body shudders, pleasure rushing up his spine.

“Be a good girl,” he hears himself whispering to the woman in his head, the one pressed to barn wood with her dress in tatters. “Spread ’em for me, let me see what you’re hidin’.”

His hand flies now, finding a quick, dirty rhythm. His breath comes rough, each inhale catching, each exhale spilling out in curses and half-formed praises.

“You’d flush right up to your hairline,” he pants, head rolling against the wall. “Act all offended while your thighs tremble and that pretty thing between ’em throbs. Might even cry a little, wouldn’t you? All sweet and scared and soaked.”

The image of you crying—eyes bright, lashes wet, lips bitten—while your body betrays you sends him right to the edge. His balls draw up tight, cock jumping in his fist, veins standing out under his skin. Heat coils at the base of his spine, that familiar pull gathering everything in, ready to snap.

He spits into his hand for more slick, doesn’t even bother wiping his mouth. The added wetness turns his strokes into something obscene, the sound echoing in the small room. His forearm snaps, muscles burning, chasing the crest bearing down on him.

“Come on then,” he grits. “Show me.”

He imagines hooking a finger under the edge of your drawers and pulling the cotton aside. Imagines the first sight of you bare between your thighs, folds swollen, maybe already glistening, all that heat finally out in the lantern light instead of tucked away in shadows and good manners.

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice breaking, hips jerking harder into his fist. “Knew you’d be pretty there. Knew you’d be soft.”

The wave hits with no ceremony; it slams through him like a mule kick. His whole body locks, stomach clenching, heels digging into the thin mattress, head thumping dully against the wall. 

A groan tears out of him, rough and strangled, half-swallowed behind clenched teeth. His cock jerks in his hand, once, twice, then again, spilling hot over his fingers and across his stomach in thick, pulsing ropes.

He rides it out, hand still working, strokes shortening but not stopping, milking every last drop. Cum coats his knuckles, drips over his fist, slicking his grip until his palm slips on the softening length. 

“Fuck,” he breathes when he can breathe again, voice low and wrecked.

His strokes slow, then ease off altogether, fingers loosening their grip. 

For a moment he just sits there, chest rising and falling, wrist slick and heavy, cock giving a few last, half-hearted twitches in his hand. Sweat cools on his forehead, a bead sliding down along his temple.

He looks down at the mess on his belly, streaks shining in the lamplight, dripping off the side of his hand. There’s no disgust in the way he examines it; if anything, there’s pride. A crooked smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and satisfied.

“Look what you pulled out of me, and you weren’t even here,” he murmurs, more pleased than ashamed. 

He wipes his hand across his stomach, smearing instead of cleaning, fingers drawing idle patterns through the stickiness before he drags them off onto a wadded-up shirt at his side. 

The cotton takes the worst of it, darkening where it soaks, but he doesn’t fuss about the rest. Let it dry on his skin. Let it sit there as a reminder.

He tucks himself back into his briefs, though he doesn’t bother fastening his trousers all the way, leaving the fly gaping a little for air. 

His body feels loose and heavy now, bones sunk deep into the thin mattress. The edge is blunted, that sharp hunger dulled to a warm, low thrum, but it’s not gone.

He leans his head back and lets his eyes drift half-closed, the lamp still burning low. 

In the quiet, he can almost hear you tossing under your own quilt up the rise, feel the echo of your indignation, imagine the way your fingers might trace absent circles over the mended seam of your dress while you tell yourself you hate him.

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, savoring that thought as much as any touch.

“Gonna see it torn again,” he says softly, not quite a promise, not quite a threat. 

The lamp flickers, a tiny flame fighting sleep. Outside, crickets scream and something small scurries through the grass. 

The little house settles around him with soft creaks and sighs. He closes his eyes fully at last, the picture of your bare thigh and your furious face smoothing together into one sweet, ripe ache he’s already wondering how soon he can taste again.

Most nights Remmick does his rounds like he’s supposed to, lantern swinging at his knee, gate latches checked, fence wire plucked and listened to like strings. 

But once he knows the map of the place in his bones, once he has counted every post and measured every path, his feet start wandering off the straight lines your daddy would like him to walk. 

He learns where the shadows fall thickest under the pecan tree by the side yard, where the dark under the eaves hides a man from anyone glancing out through lamplight. 

He learns just how far back he can stand and still see into the kitchen window when you’re up late, sleeves rolled, forearms wet to the elbow, talking to your mama while you scrub a pan. 

He learns that when you think everybody’s settled, you lean your hip against the counter and tilt your head a little while you dry your hands, and that little shift of weight does things to your dress you’d never let it do in town.

He finds out you like the back porch at night even more than you like it at dusk. That when the work is done and your parents are loud in their sleep, you slip out with a glass or a cup and sit with your legs stretched, ankles crossed, toes tracing idle circles on the board beneath them. 

From the fence line he can see the shine of lamplight on your bare shins when your hem rides up, can see the loose, tired way you soften back into the chair. 

He watches you tilt your face toward the dark yard like you’re asking it questions it hasn’t answered yet, listens to the little sounds you make—half-sighs, half-hums—that never show up when anyone else is awake. 

He leans on a post with a cigarette hanging from his fingers and looks until he’s had his fill, no hurry in him, nothing but a lazy, steady satisfaction in knowing you have no idea.

He learns your bedroom window, too. Where it sits in relation to the oak, how far up the slope he has to stand to see its square of light. 

The first time he notices the curtain isn’t quite shut, it’s by accident; he’s walking back late, boots slow on the path, when a slice of movement catches his eye. 

Curtain gapping, lamp turned low, you moving around your room in that soft circle people make before bed. 

He stops in the shadow of the tree without even thinking, shoulder to rough bark, the leaves above him murmuring in a wind that doesn’t get down into the yard. 

From there he can see you in fragments—an arm as you reach up to unbutton, a brief glimpse of the side of your neck, the line of your shoulder as fabric slips. 

He tells himself he’ll move when you’re done, that he’s only making sure you got in safe. He stays until the lamp goes out.

The night he sees you in the bath, there’s not even that thin excuse.

It’s late enough the frogs have worn down to a sleepy chorus and the crickets sound drunk. A low, warm fog sits over the fields, pressing scents in close: damp earth, animals settled in their pens, soap drifting thin from the open kitchen window where somebody forgot to latch it right. 

He’s finished his rounds early, all the work of the night sitting behind him instead of ahead, and he feels that restless itch under his skin again, that soft, prowling urge that has nothing to do with fences and everything to do with you.

The house is a square of softer dark against the sky, only a couple of windows holding light. 

He knows which is which now without having to think about it. Kitchen, front room, your parents’ room. The little back room off the side where the big galvanized tub sits when somebody’s been lucky enough to haul enough water. 

Tonight it’s that one glowing gentle behind its thin cotton curtain, lantern hanging somewhere just out of sight, making the fabric look like a pale, breathing thing.

He circles wide, slipping along the edge of the yard where the grass meets the packed dirt of the lane, where the shadows from the trees throw him one more thin cloak. 

The bath window is low, glass fogged a little from steam. The curtain is drawn but not all the way, left a thumb’s width open on one side—enough for light to leak out in a narrow spill. Enough, if a man stepped in close and angled himself just right, to see inside.

He comes up under the sill, breath slow, boots quiet, and lays his palm flat against the siding to steady himself. The boards are cool and rough under his fingers. He leans his shoulder into them and tilts his head, lining his eye up with that careless little gap.

Heat hits him first, a wet, sweet breath rolling out into the night. The lantern inside throws shadows high on the wall, flickering over the curve of the tub, over the length of you in it.

You’re sunk down in the water with your knees bent, one leg drawn up just enough for him to see the shape of it under the surface, the other stretched straighter, foot braced on the far side. 

The water glows around you, gone cloudy with soap, clinging in beads to your skin where it’s out of the tub. 

Your shoulders show above the rim, bare and slick, drops running down in slow trails. 

Steam curls off your chest, off the slopes of your breasts where they rise from the water, soft and heavy, nipples pebbled tight from the heat or the air or both. The lamplight loves them, catching on every curve, laying little gold crowns on each peak.

Your head is tipped back against the rolled towel you’ve wedged between neck and tin, eyes closed, lips parted just enough for breath. One arm drifts along the tub’s edge, fingers dragging lazy patterns through the thin scum of soap there, the other resting across your stomach.

He watches your ribs move with each inhale, the slight swell and fall of your belly under your palm.

You're so unaware of him that it feels almost holy.

He drinks it in like it’s what he came here for all along, no flinch in him, no apology. His gaze roams where it will. 

From the line of your throat down to the hollow between your collarbones, where a small puddle has gathered and overflowed in slow rivulets; down over the slick, shining hills of your breasts, the way they shift just a little with every breath, the way the waterline cuts across them. Lower, to where the curve of your stomach disappears under the opaque water, hinting at more, promising everything.

You shift, lifting one arm to drag the washcloth over your shoulder. The washcloth trails over the round of your shoulder, down the outside of your arm, across the swell of your breast, nipple tightening even more when the rough cloth skims past.

You don’t seem to notice the way your own body responds; you’re too busy chasing day-dirt away, lifting your arm to scrub your neck, tilting your head to give yourself better reach.

From his vantage, he sees everything. His hand tightens on the siding, knuckles going white, that buzzing hunger flaring up bright and hot behind his eyes.

He stares, not making a sound.

You work the cloth down your arm and set it aside, then slide both hands into the water, scooping and pouring over yourself. 

You lift your leg a little, knee rising higher, water spilling off in sheets, showing him the smooth length of your thigh all the way to the place where it vanishes back under the cloudy surface. The muscles there flex as you shift, your toes stretching, calf defined a moment before settling again. 

For a brief second, the water thins enough he can see the shadowed shape where your thighs meet, softened by the haze but there, real and mouth-watering.

His eyes go dark on it, pupils swallowing light. He leans in a fraction more, cheek almost touching the glass, breath fogging the edge of the pane where it meets the frame. 

Every small move you make sends little waves across your body, playing light over the parts he can see, hinting at the parts he can’t.

You sigh, the sound faint through the wall but clear. Your head tips a little to the side, cheek turning toward the window without quite facing it. 

One hand skims over your sternum, following the center line of your body until it disappears under the water. 

Your fingers paddle lazily there for a moment, moving along your own stomach, over the soft give of your lower belly. 

He imagines exactly where they’re drifting, what warm, slick places they’re brushing, even if you’re not thinking of it like that. Your face gives nothing away but relief, a tired little slackness, the expression of someone finally easing aches out of their bones.

“You ain’t got a clue,” he breathes, lips ghosting the words against the flaking clapboard. There’s satisfaction in it, not cruelty. “Bathin’ like Eve in a picture book with the curtain open and the devil on the outside lookin’ in.”

His hand, the one not braced on the wall, shifts restlessly by his side, brushing the front of his trousers. 

He doesn’t touch himself proper, not yet; this is looking time. He wants to be empty enough of the last time to fill up on this one entire. 

His fingers flex anyway, his palm pressing for a moment against the growing bulge, acknowledging it. His cock swells quick and eager, remembering the barn, welcoming the new fodder.

You lean forward to reach the soap, and the angle changes. 

For a breathless few seconds he gets the long line of your back, the way it curves from nape to waist, the hollow above your hips, the dimples that show when you move just so. Water slides off you in glittering trails, trickling down along your spine, pooling in the small of your back before spilling lower. 

As you sit back again, that same water slips over the round of your ass where it breaks the surface, catching the light along the curve, then vanishes under the cloudy bath.

He closes his eyes briefly, just to fix it, then opens them again. He doesn’t want to miss a thing.

You lather your hands, work the soap into your skin, fingers massaging into your shoulders, down along your collarbones. 

The more you scrub, the slipperier you become, water beading and running, foam clinging in thin streaks before melting away. 

When you finally slide your hands under the water, scrubbing lower, your elbows move in a rhythm that makes something low and obscene curl in his gut. 

He knows you’re only washing, just doing what needs doing, but to him it looks like a preview, looks like a rehearsal of things you haven’t yet learned to want.

He watches until the waterline creeps lower on the lantern as the bath cools and you sink down, chasing warmth. Watches as you finally let yourself relax fully, shoulders sliding under, just your face above the surface, eyes closed, breaths slow and even.

Only when you sit forward and reach for the towel hanging on the peg beside the tub does he ease back from the window. 

He knows if he lingers another second, if he sees you stand, water sheeting off every inch as you step out, he’ll plant roots under this sill and never leave. 

There will be other nights, he tells himself.

He peels himself off the wall, body humming, and slips back into the darker yard, breath still measured, strides easy. 

By the time he’s at the edge of the light, he has his lantern in hand again, held low, the picture of a man just passing through on his way to some small piece of work.

He doesn’t feel a lick of shame. What would be the use of it, when the memory of you in that tub is already lodged in his body like a polished stone, something he can roll under his tongue whenever he chooses. 

You’ll go to bed clean and soft, thinking maybe about chores and storms and the seam you mended this morning. 

He’ll go back to his little house with your wet skin behind his eyes and no confusion about what he plans to do with it.

The day’s been long, the kind that starts with a rooster and ends with your back feeling twice your age. 

By the time supper’s put away and the kitchen wiped down, your father’s in his chair with his boots off, socks so full of holes you don’t know why he bothers wearing them, radio mumbling low out of the corner. Your mother’s gone to bed early with a headache, door cracked just enough that you can hear her cough now and again.

You’re halfway through folding the dish towels when you remember.

Mama’s good jar of salve.

You can see it plain in your mind’s eye: small tin with the blue lid, the one she guards like treasure. 

She sent you looking for it just after dinner, when she noticed the raw place on your father’s wrist from rope burn and the darkening bruise on your own hip from where the stall rail caught you days ago. 

You’d gone to fetch more wood for the stove first, meaning to get the salve on your way back, and somehow it slipped right out of your head, chased off by smoke and scolding and the rush to get biscuits off the fire before they burned.

Your father’s already grumbled twice about the barn nail and told you if you’d been paying mind you wouldn’t have torn your dress, wouldn’t have bruises, wouldn’t have needed fussing. 

You can hear him in the morning if he finds that wrist still angry and your hip still tender. Can hear that disappointed click of his tongue.

You’d seen him hand the tin to Remmick earlier in the week, mumbling something about “keep this on hand, boy, in case you tear yourself up,” and watched the new hand tuck it into the pocket of his coat before heading down to the little farmhouse.

“That’s where it is,” you murmur, more to the quiet kitchen than to anyone. A little knot between your brows loosens when you place it. “Down there.”

You glance at the clock. It’s late enough the newsman’s gone off the air, early enough the world hasn’t quite tipped into the dead hours where the dark feels thickest. 

Outside the window, the yard is quiet, the barn a heavy shadow, the smaller house beyond it just a darker square against the field.

“Where’s that boy?” Your father mutters around his cigarette, not really expecting an answer. “Ain’t heard him come in for coffee. He out checkin’ fence or sleepin’ on my dime?”

“Out, I reckon,” you say, folding the last towel with a sharp little snap.

Truth is, you haven’t heard his boots either. You haven’t seen his lantern bob by the window. It’s been a soft, blank stretch of night, no sign of him.

You tell yourself that means he’s at the far end of the pasture or walking the ditch line. Exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“I’ll fetch Mama’s salve,” you add, already untying your apron, tucking it over the back of a chair. “She’ll want it first thing in the mornin’.”

Joe nods, smoke curling out of his nose. “Don’t you linger,” he says, not looking up. “Get what you need and bring your tail back in this house. I don’t want you down there visitin’ like it’s social hour.”

You bite back the urge to say you’d sooner visit the pig pen. “Yes, sir,” is what comes out instead.

The night air catches you on the porch, damp and soft, smelling of cooling dirt and a hint of something sweet blooming out by the fence. 

You step down barefoot, skirts whispering around your calves, the boards’ splinters familiar against your soles. The big house’s light spills just to the bottom of the steps, then gives up, letting the yard roll out into dark.

The little farmhouse sits a ways off, past the well, past the worn track where the wagon turns. All its windows are black. No orange seam under the curtain, no silhouette rising and falling against the glass. The barn is quiet too, doors thrown shut, only a thin line of moon-silver along the roof.

You latch onto the sight of that dark little house like proof. He’s not there. He’s out somewhere with a lantern and a bad attitude. 

You’ll be in and out before he knows you’ve even left your room.

You wrap that thought around yourself like a shawl and start across the yard.

The grass is cool and a little slick with dew under your feet, clinging between your toes. Crickets saw at the edges of things, frogs mutter down in the low spots. The well’s stone lip rises out of the ground like something old and patient; you ghost past it, keeping your eyes on the squat shadow of the farmhouse.

Up close, it looks smaller, somehow meaner. The door is shut, the porch bare save for his boots lined up neat off to one side. You take in that detail with a little flick of relief—boots off means man in bed, not loose in the yard—before another thought slides in behind it: or just inside.

You hesitate only a heartbeat.

The want to not get scolded in the morning, the want to have Mama’s salve where she can lay hands on it, outweighs the whisper of sense telling you this is foolish.

You lay your palm on the door and push.

It gives with a small, tired creak, the smell of the place rolling over you in a warm wave: wood, straw, tobacco, sweat, and that faint metallic thread you’ve started to think of as his alone. There’s a lamp turned low on the table just inside, wick pinched till the flame is barely more than a coal in a glass throat, enough to lay out the shapes of things and nothing more.

“Remmick?” you call, voice barely above a whisper, more habit than hope. When nothing answers—not a word, not a shift of boards—you let your breath out slow and step over the threshold.

The door eases halfway shut behind you, not latched. You don’t bother with it; you don’t plan to be here long enough to worry about what’s open and what isn’t. 

The room is small and spare, just like your daddy said it was. Bed against one wall, blanket rumpled from someone sitting, if not lying. Chair with a coat thrown over the back, shirt draped careless on top. Table with the lamp, a chipped cup, a folded knife. A shelf holding a few tin plates, a jar of coffee, the heel of a loaf.

You move quick but careful, eyes trying not to linger on the smaller things that say a man’s been living here—his belt coiled on the chair seat, his hat hanging from the peg, the empty space on the floor where his boots were. 

You head straight for the coat, remembering your father’s hand dropping the salve tin into its pocket.

You pinch the fabric between your fingers, easing it aside, but the weight you expect to tug at the hem isn’t there. The coat hangs light. You pat the pockets; they’re empty, save for a wadded rag and a stray button.

“Damn,” you breathe, annoyed, under your breath.

Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it out so the tin wouldn’t fall and get lost when he shrugged the coat on.

You cast your eyes around the room, searching high shelves, low boxes, any place someone might set a small, important thing.

The table catches your attention next. You circle it, gaze skimming over the knife, the cup, the lamp. 

There, near the edge, half in shadow—a squat little tin no bigger than your palm, blue lid dulled with age.

You smile in spite of yourself and reach for it. “Got you,” you murmur, closing your fingers around the cool metal.

You pop the lid just enough to see the salve inside, pale and thick, smelling faintly of herbs and camphor, then press it back down with a soft click. The job’s done. Simple as that.

You turn, already thinking about the path back to the house, about slipping this into Mama’s hand and letting yourself be proud she won’t have to wonder where it is in the morning.

You don’t make it two steps.

There he is.

Standing in the doorway that leads to the small back room, shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been leaning there a while, like he grew right up out of the wood.

He’s shirtless, skin slicked faint with sweat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and easy. Suspenders hang loose against his hips, clipped to his trousers but fallen off his shoulders, framing the cut of his torso in dark lines. 

The lamp’s low light paints him in gold and shadow both, dipping into the hollow between his collarbones, skating over the plane of his stomach, catching on the trail of hair that runs down from his navel into the waistband of his pants. 

His arms cross over his chest, veins standing faint along the backs of his hands where they rest against his biceps.

His feet are bare. His eyes are not gentle.

“Find what you was lookin’ for?” he asks, voice soft, too soft, the scrape of it wrapping around the words like a touch.

Your heart gives one wild jump, slamming up against your ribs hard enough to hurt, then starts to run. 

You hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard the back door, hadn’t heard the floor protest, hadn’t heard anything but your own little fussing search and the tiny pop of the salve lid.

For a foolish second you think about hiding the tin, tucking it behind your back like a child caught in a pantry. You don’t. There’s nowhere to put it he wouldn’t see, and you refuse to give him the pleasure of watching you scramble.

Instead you hold it up just enough that he can see the blue lid glint in the lamplight. “My mama’s salve,” you say, surprised at how even your voice comes out. “Daddy gave it to you. He forgot where he put it. I came to fetch it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at the tin for more than a passing glance. His attention stays on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulder blades. He rakes his gaze from your face down to the salve, then lower, slow as a man looking over a field he’s about to plow.

You suddenly know exactly how your dress is sitting—where the fabric pulls across your chest from turning too quick, where the skirt clings to your thighs from the damp in the grass, where your collar gapes just a breath more than it should because you didn’t bother with the top button in the heat. Your skin prickles under each place you picture his eyes touching.

“You always just walk yourself into a man’s house without knockin’?” he asks after a beat, one brow ticking up.

“This ain’t a house,” you reply, chin lifting a shade. “It’s a shack my father stuck you in so you’d be closer to the barn.”

Something like amusement flickers across his mouth. “Still mine for now,” he says. “Door was shut, wasn’t it?”

“You left the lamp on,” you shoot back. “Anybody with decent sense would take that as invitation in case of emergency.”

He uncrosses his arms then, letting them drop to his sides. The motion makes muscles jump in his chest, the lines of his shoulders shifting under skin. “And what’s the emergency, miss?” he asks. “That your mama’s medicine was sittin’ ten yards farther than you like it?”

His tone isn’t mocking. It isn’t kind either. It’s something in between, something testing. Like he’s poking at you with words just to feel where you’re soft.

You swallow, the salve tin suddenly heavy in your hand. “I said why I came,” you answer. “I’ll be goin’ now.”

You move to head toward the front door, the one you came in, but the room is small, and he doesn’t move. One pace brings you close enough to smell him. Another pace would put you near enough to brush him if you misjudged your route.

He shifts his weight to fill the doorway more fully, one hand lifting to rest on the frame to the side of him. It leaves his ribs bare, that patch of hair under his arm catching the lamplight. There’s a faint scar along his flank, pale against the warmth of his skin, old and ugly, like something tore him open once and he lived anyway.

“Seems a shame,” he says, looking at you. “You comin’ all this way just to snatch up a tin and run.”

Your pulse hammers harder. “It ain’t far.”

“For you,” he agrees. “For me it’s a long, lonely walk most nights. I might be grateful for a little company.”

“You got company,” you say, words a little sharper than you intend. “You got every cow, every dog, every fence post on this land. You don’t need me.”

He lets that roll over him like water off a duck’s back. “Maybe I’m tired of talkin’ to things that can’t talk back,” he murmurs. His eyes flick down to the salve again, then to your hand, to your wrist where your pulse beats visible in the hollow. “You tore yourself up any today, or you just borrowin’ this for show?”

“Bruise on my hip,” you admit before you can remind yourself you owe him nothing. The words come out stiff. “Ain’t your concern.”

“Everythin’ that happens on this farm’s my concern when it means workers showin’ up busted in the mornin’,” he says. “You do work, don’t you? Or are you just here to keep the place pretty.”

Heat flashes through you, quick and mean. “You've seen me work,” you say. “You've seen me at that pump, at that stove, out in the yard. Don’t you stand there half-dressed and ask if I do my share.”

His mouth twitches at half-dressed. He doesn’t bother to hide the way his gaze drops, quick, down the front of himself and back up, as if to say he knows exactly how much he’s wearing and how much you’re seeing. It’s deliberate, that small, shameless acknowledgement of his own body.

“Believe me,” he says, voice dropping lower, “I’ve seen you.”

The words land between you, heavy and thick. They mean more than they say. Every peek he’s stolen presses into the space they open up: your bare leg in the barn, your shoulders shining in the bath, your tired posture on the back porch, one strap slipping careless down your arm before you hitched it back up.

You don’t know about most of that. What you do know is enough to make your throat go dry.

“I ain’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” you say, trying to wrestle the conversation back onto some ground that feels steadier. “My father told you that when you got here. Told me too.”

His eyes gleam at the mention of your father, some dark amusement sparking there. “He told me to show you respect,” he says. “And I have. Haven’t laid a hand on you that you didn’t walk too close to yourself.”

Your mind trips over the memory of his fingers catching your arm in the barn, steadying you when your mare spooked. The way his hand hovered near your torn dress, heat just shy of your hip. The way he stood in the yard with his eyes on your mouth and called you miss like it was something he wanted to lick.

You draw yourself up as tall as you can manage in the little room, salve tin tight in your grip, refusing to yield the step he’s trying to take without moving his feet. “Then you’ll move,” you say, voice low but steady. “So I can go on home and keep livin’ my life with all that respect you’re so proud of.”

For a moment, you think he might laugh in your face. His lips part, teeth catching on his bottom lip, eyes glinting.

Instead he just looks at you.

It’s worse than if he’d laughed. He looks like a man deciding how honest he feels like being tonight. Like he’s weighing whether to keep playing at politeness or lay something sharper on the table between you.

The lamplight flickers, shadow jumping along his jaw as he tilts his head. “You walk out that door,” he says finally, nodding toward the porch, “and I’ll let you. I ain’t gonna drag you nowhere you don’t step first.”

Relief and something colder flick through you at the same time. “Good,” you start to say, but he isn’t done.

“But,” he adds, and that one little word lands heavy, “you come walkin’ into my place after dark again, all alone, dressed like that, lookin’ at me like you don’t know whether you wanna slap me or cry on me—well.” His gaze drops to your mouth and back. “That’s you steppin’. And I’ll take it as such.”

Your heart stutters, one hard misstep in its rhythm. “You overestimate yourself,” you snap, even as your fingers twitch on the tin.

He smiles then, slow and wolfish, the expression finally reaching his eyes in a way you haven’t seen yet. 

“We’ll see,” he says.

For a long, tight second, nobody moves. The walls feel closer, the air thicker, the lamplight too intimate. You hear the frogs outside, the creak of the house settling, the little wet sound of your own swallow. His bare chest rises and falls, steady, like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then he steps to the side.

The doorway opens up behind him, a narrow slice of night visible over his bare shoulder. It’s more space than you expected him to yield, less than you’d like.

You duck past, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest, the heat pouring off him making your skin prickle. You feel his eyes on the side of your face, on the line of your throat, on the way you have to hitch your skirt just a little to keep from tripping as you step over the threshold.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says softly, right by your ear, breath warm as it ghosts over your neck. “You be careful now. Dark’s full of things you don’t know about.”

You don’t trust your voice not to shake, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing it. You just walk, bare feet hitting the packed earth hard, fingers biting into the salve tin so tight the metal cuts a little crescent into your palm.

Rough wood presses into your hips, edge digging a little where your nightgown’s ridden up, breath catching in short, shallow pulls because he’s got one big hand flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there, and the other is on your ass, fingers clawed into the thin cotton, bunching it up and away from your thighs. 

The lamp in the corner throws a low, mean light over the kitchen, just enough to show you the knot in the tabletop and the chipped plate someone left on the shelf, just enough to catch the shadow of his arm when it moves.

You came down here hot with it. Anger, mostly. 

At him for looking at you how he does, for crowding doorways and talking low in your ear. At yourself for feeling anything besides disgust when he does it. 

For weeks that feeling has sat under your skin like a burr under a saddle, rubbing everything raw—every brush of his eyes, every sly comment, every late-night glimpse of his lantern out in the yard when you should’ve been sleeping. 

Tonight it tipped over. Tonight you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and saw his bare chest in that little house instead, heard his voice saying we’ll see, felt your own body answer in a way that wouldn’t quit.

So you got up after the house went quiet, barefoot on the boards, heart in your throat. 

You didn’t bring a lamp. You told yourself you were just going to tell him off, to say plain that you didn’t want him looking, didn’t want him speaking to you sideways, didn’t want the innuendo and the smirks and the way he made you feel peeled without ever laying a proper hand on you. 

That was the story you wrapped yourself in as you crossed the yard, nightgown clinging to your knees.

He opened the door before you could knock, like he’d been standing right on the other side with his palm on the handle, listening.

You remember the way his eyes moved over you, slow, no shirt, just those loose trousers hanging low on his hips, lamp behind him making his shoulders look broad and his face unreadable. 

You remember his mouth forming your name, quiet and satisfied, like he’d been waiting to say it like this. 

You remember the way all that anger and want surged up together in your chest, wild and tangled, and how you said something too sharp, voice shaking, about him needing to keep his eyes to himself if he wanted to stay on your daddy’s land.

Now here you are with his hand on your back, pressing, holding you down exactly where you came—over his small scarred table in his small farmhouse kitchen—your own fingers gripping the edge in a white-knuckled clutch.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to be down here visitin’,” he drawls above you, breath warm near your ear, words rolling over your spine. “That what you told me?”

You glare at the knot in the wood like it did you personal harm. 

Your face is hot, your body even hotter, a slow, heavy throb deep between your thighs that started halfway across the yard and hasn’t done a thing but grow. 

“I ain’t visitin’,” you say, the words a little muffled by the way he’s got you folded. “I came to talk sense into you.”

His laugh is low and pleased, hand on your back sliding a little, fingers spreading, thumb settling along your spine. He presses down just enough to remind you who’s holding you where you are. 

“Is that what you call it,” he says, “showin’ up in your bed things after dark, sneakin’ through my door with your hands empty and your eyes wide? Talkin’ sense?”

His other hand cups your ass through the thin fabric, palm wide over you, squeezing like he’s testing a piece of fruit at the market. 

The nightgown has twisted up, hem caught high over your hips, leaving the bottom curve of you bare to his touch, only the cotton of your drawers between his fingers and your skin. 

Heat floods that spot, a sharp, shameful pulse that makes your breath catch.

“You been walkin’ around twitchy as a cat for days,” he goes on, hand kneading, thumb digging into the give of your flesh there. “Snappin’ at me, snappin’ at your daddy, gettin’ that look on your face every time you see me like you don’t know whether to spit or spit somethin’ else.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, mortified at how true it feels in your bones. 

You shift your hips, trying to wriggle away from that hand, and all it does is grind you back against his palm, soft cotton dragging over the swell of you, catching on the seam that runs right over the place you’re trying not to think about.

He makes a sound at that, low in his throat, rough and appreciative. “Yeah. There she is,” he says, words coming a little thicker now. “All that fire. You walked your own self down here, girl. Nobody dragged you.”

“I came to tell you to stop,” you manage, though the way your voice climbs at the end takes the bite out of it. His fingers curl, grab a little handful of your ass cheek through the cloth, and you feel the ache spike hotter. “Stop lookin’. Stop talkin’ like that. Stop—stop–”

“Stop makin’ you feel all twisted up?” he supplies, not unkind, just plain. 

His hand on your back softens, spreads, rubbing along your spine like he’s soothing a spooked animal even as the other keeps kneading at you. 

“Stop remindin’ you there’s more to be had in this world than hymns and beans and mendin’?”

You suck a breath in through your teeth. “You ain’t the only man alive,” you snap. “You ain’t special.”

His grip tightens, a hard squeeze that makes you gasp. “No,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the only one you marched down here to cuss out in your bare feet and nightclothes, so I’d say I’m doin’ something right.”

You hate how your body answers that, how something low in you liquefies at the thought of it, at the truth you don’t want to name. You hate the way your thighs press together of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking relief, even as you hold yourself rigid under his hand.

He feels it. His palm slides down, fingers curling under the heavy curve of you, thumb dragging along the crease where your ass meets the top of your thigh. 

You’re hyper-aware of every inch, every callus on his skin, every place the old wood digs into your hips. When his hand moves inward, fingers bumping close to the center of you, you flinch.

“Don’t—” you start, panic and want knitting together, but the word thins out when his touch presses just a little firmer over the damp cotton there.

“You’re soaked,” he says softly, no mockery in it, just raw, hungry wonder. “Walked through my door mad as sin, all full of pretty speeches, and your cunt’s already cryin’ for somethin’ to hold on to.”

Shame scorches up your neck. “Don’t call it that,” you choke, mortified, the word hitting you deep and low and making everything worse.

He hums, thumb tracing a slow circle over that swell, pressing right where the cloth is clinging. The pressure is perfect, unbearable. 

“What you want me to call it, then?” he asks, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. 

“Your virtue? Your purity? That sweet spot between your legs that ain’t nobody touched?” His thumb moves again, firmer, and your hips jolt against your will. “’Cause I see it all over you, darlin’. You came here wantin’ me to stop, but your body came here wantin’ somethin’ else entirely.”

You shake your head, even as your toes curl, even as your lungs drag in another sharp breath that tastes like him and the lamp smoke and the hot, close air of this little house. 

“You’re—you’re foul,” you say, but it comes out thin, breathy. “You been lookin’ at me, watchin’ me, talkin’ to me like—”

“Like I know what to do with you,” he cuts in, a hint of impatience threading through his heat. “And I do. You think I don’t see what’s eatin’ at you every time you glance down at my hands, or my mouth, or lower?”

His fingers slide along the seam of your drawers, finding the little ridge where cloth meets cloth and pressing right there. 

It sends a jolt through you big enough you can’t muffle the small sound that drops out of your throat. 

His hand on your back pushes down, keeping you bent, letting you grind into that touch without rising off the table.

“Listen here,” he says, voice roughening, patience fraying. “You came. You’re here. You can tell me to stop and I will. I ain’t gonna take what you don’t hand me. But don’t stand there in my house, drippin’ on my floor, and try to lie about what you’re feelin’.”

The room seems to shrink around those words. 

You know he’s right. You also know how far you are from where you were supposed to be, from the girl who said she’d never let a man like him get close, from the girl who swore she’d keep herself intact till some tidy, respectable husband came along with a ring and a house and his hat in his hands.

You think about those men. Faces you’ve seen in church, in town, men who look at you when they think you’re not noticing with a hunger they don’t know what to do with. Men who’d apologize if their fingers brushed your wrist too long.

Then you think about this man, bare-chested behind you, hard and unashamed, his hand pressed between your shoulder blades, the other on you like you’re his to handle. 

You think about his eyes in the barn, on your torn dress. About the words he said in this very room, about stepping. About how you’ve been walking around with your jaw clenched and your thighs pressed together ever since.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, thumb pressing a little harder, his other fingers spread wide over the swell of you. “You want me to let go of you and send you back up that hill with your temper, you say it. I’ll move. You can go pray extra loud come Sunday.”

The lamp crackles softly, a tiny sound in the heavy dark.

“And if I don’t?” you hear yourself ask, voice small but steady. “If I say I don’t want you to move?”

His hand stills on your back for one beat, then both of them tighten—one pressing you down, one grabbing a handful of your ass like he’s staking a claim. A breath leaves him in a long, shuddery exhale that ghosts hot over your neck.

“Then I’m gonna take real good care of what you brought me,” he says, tone gone hoarse and thick, the restraint in it the only thing keeping you from shaking. “Gonna give you somethin’ to think about next time you lay awake in that bed of yours. Gonna fuck you on this table till you don’t remember what you came down here mad about.”

The word fuck lands hard in you, a punch and a promise all at once. 

You grip the edge of the wood like it’s all that’s keeping you upright, though you’re already bent, already braced.

“Say it,” he murmurs, leaning in until his chest brushes your back, bare skin hot where it touches the thin cotton. 

The admission sits in your throat like a hot stone. It feels enormous. It feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I want—” The word catches, but his thumb flicks over you again, sharp and sure, and your hips roll without permission, a little helpless grind that betrays every fight you’ve been waging with yourself. “I want you,” you gasp, shame and relief crashing together. “I want you to—to do somethin’ about it.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a groan, almost a laugh, almost a curse, his body crowding you tighter, his weight a solid wall of heat at your back. “That’s my girl,” he says, and the possession in it makes your knees wobble, makes that core of you clench hard around nothing.

His hand leaves your back long enough to grab a fistful of your nightgown at the hem, yanking it up in one rough motion that leaves it bunched around your waist. 

Cool air hits your drawers, the bare backs of your thighs, the soft part just under your cheeks, and then his palm is there, skin to skin at last, cupping you hard. 

His fingers dig in, thumbs pressing outward, spreading you slightly, mapping the give.

“You’re shakin’,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ain’t even touched you proper yet.”

“You’re takin’ your time,” you manage, though the words shake too.

He chuckles, low. “First time’s never good when a man rushes,” he answers, matter-of-fact. “And I know you ain’t had nobody in you yet, feelin’ the way you do under my hand.”

Before you can answer, his fingers hook into the waistband of your drawers and tug. The fabric resists for a second, elastic biting into soft flesh, then slides down, dragging over your hips, over the swell of your ass, down the backs of your thighs until they tangle around your knees. 

He leaves them there, trapping your legs just enough you can’t kick or close up, just enough that you’re open and vulnerable and aware of it.

Cool air kisses you everywhere the cloth just left. 

You feel filthy, bare from waist to mid-thigh, bent over his table with your nightgown rucked up, your cunt exposed to the room, to him. It makes your head swim.

Then his hand is back, and there is no room for anything else.

He cups you from behind, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds, and you hear a sharp breath hitch out of him. “Oh, hell,” he says, reverent.

You make a broken, helpless sound that doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. 

No one’s ever been there before, not like this, not with fingers spreading you, rubbing through you, middle finger catching on that aching bud you’ve only ever touched in the dark with guilty hands. 

The sensation is lightning-bright, stabbing up your spine.

“Easy,” he murmurs, palm flattening across your low back again, his body curving over yours, caging you. “I got you. Gonna make it good for you before I stretch you around me. Don’t want you too scared to enjoy your first fuck.”

The way he says first fuck, like he’s staking a flag there, like he’s carving his name into it, makes something fierce flicker through you, a strange pride knotting up with the fear. 

You push back against his hand without meaning to, chasing more.

He feels it. “That’s it,” he encourages, fingers pressing deeper between your lips now. “Ask for what you want with that pretty body. Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you pant, honesty ripped out of you on a wave. “It hurts everywhere.”

He laughs, breath hot against your neck, mouth close enough you feel the shape of it. “That ain’t hurt, girl,” he says. “That’s need.” 

His fingers finally find your entrance, slick and hot and clutching, and he presses the pad of one inside, just the tip, testing. Your whole body clenches around that intrusion.

“You relax for me,” he tells you, tone sliding into something commanding. “Breathe.”

You suck in air, lungs burning. 

He slides the finger in a little further, thick and probing, opening you. 

The stretch is sharp, uncomfortable, but there’s an undercurrent of relief in it. He works it in and out slowly, letting you get used to the feel, letting your body learn the shape of him.

“That’s good,” he murmurs when he feels you soften around him, the praise lighting up something small and hungry in your chest. “See? You take my finger just fine. Gonna take my cock too when I’m done with you.”

He adds a second finger before you can brace, and this time the stretch makes you gasp loud, muscles clamping down. It burns, a deep, insistent ache, like you’re being pried open.

“Shh,” he soothes, his index finding that little bundle of nerves again, circling steady, sending sparks to chase the hurt. “I know. I know. We gotta loosen you up some or you’ll split yourself on me.”

The blunt truth of it makes you squeeze your eyes shut, face hot against your forearm. 

You can feel him behind you, solid, his chest glued to your back, his arm moving between your legs. When you manage to breathe past the initial shock, the burn eases, replaced by a full, pressurized feeling that fills your head with nothing but sensation.

He moves his fingers, slow at first, pumping them in and out of you in short strokes, stretching, coaxing. 

Your body starts to answer despite itself, hips rocking back in tiny motions, seeking that deep, sweet drag. 

Every thrust brushes against something inside you that makes your legs tremble, makes your breath hitch. 

“Listen to that,” he says, voice thick, and it takes you a second to realize he means the wet sound loud in the little kitchen as his fingers work in and out of you. “You hear yourself takin’ me in? That’s you wantin’ it.”

It’s filthy and true and you can’t deny it. 

There's a coil tightening low in your belly, every nerve in your body funneling to where his hand is. Your grip on the table edge goes slippery with sweat.

“Remmick,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re asking for, only that you’re strung too tight.

“There you go,” he groans, fingers driving a little deeper, curling just right.

It hits without much warning. One second you’re climbing, the next you’re over the edge, everything snapping. 

Your body seizes around his fingers, clenching so hard it almost hurts, that coil unspooling in a rush of pleasure so intense it blanks your mind.

A breathless moan tears up your throat. Your thighs shake, knees nearly buckling, if it weren’t for his hand on your back and the table under your palms you’d be on the floor.

“That’s it,” he groans, riding you through it, fingers still working, still moving until you’re whimpering, too sensitive, twitching with each little aftershock. 

You sag against the table when it finally lets you go, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your neck. He eases his fingers out of you slow, gentle for the first time since you walked in, his hand sliding up to rest on your hip. You can feel his other hand at your back again, rubbing small circles, keeping you grounded.

“First one’s always a little wild,” he says, sounding almost fond. “You doin’ all right?”

You nod, or try to. Your head feels full of cotton, floaty and heavy all at once. “I—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re more than fine,” he says, and there’s a smile in it. “You’re perfect.” He shifts behind you, and that’s when you feel it, really feel it—his cock pressed up against the back of your thigh through the fabric of his trousers. 

He’s been hard this whole time, you realize dimly, all that while he was working you open. The blunt head drags over your skin when he adjusts, the thickness of him obvious even through cloth.

Your stomach flips, fear and anticipation knotting together. “You’re really—”

“Oh, I’m really.” He sounds almost amused. “You wanted me to take you on this table, remember?” 

His hand leaves your back and you hear the soft, familiar sound of a belt coming loose, a buckle clinking, the rasp of leather through belt loops. Then buttons, quick and practiced, fabric shifting.

You suck in a breath, every sense straining.

A moment later, something hot and slick—not his fingers this time—nudges against your entrance. He slides the head of his cock through your slick folds slowly, up and down, coating himself in you, bumping your clit on the downstroke, making you twitch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You feel that? How you’re grabbin’ at me already and I ain’t even in?”

You do feel it, and it’s terrifying. Your body recognizes him as something it’s meant to hold, meant to take, even as your mind stumbles over the size of him, over what this means.

“I—wait,” you say, panic flaring for a second, the reality of it looming. “Remmick, I’m—”

“I know,” he says, and for once there’s no teasing in it. “You listen to me. It’s gonna burn at first, then it’s gonna feel like you never should’ve gone without it this long. You trust me?”

You hesitate. He feels it in the way your muscles tense around the head of him. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat from behind, thumb tipping your chin just a little. The touch sends a different kind of shiver through you, sharp and grounding.

“I ain’t gonna break you,” he says quietly, close to your ear. “I want you comin’ back to this just as bad as I want you right now.” His hips roll just enough that the blunt tip presses hard against your opening. 

The hand at your throat, the tone in his voice, the memory of his fingers and the way your body just came apart on them thirty seconds ago—they all crash together, and you find yourself nodding before you know you’re doing it.

“Go,” you whisper, the word trembling, but there.

He makes a sound then that’s half-growl, half-groan, all man. His grip on your throat tightens just a hair, his other hand clamping down on your hip.

“That’s my girl,” he says again, rough with need. “Hold on.”

The head of him breaches you with more resistance than his fingers ever met. 

Your body tries to clamp down, to keep him out, muscles fighting the stretch. He doesn’t slam in, but he doesn’t baby you either. He works himself in slow, steady pressure, teeth gritted, hips driving forward inch by thick inch.

The burn is real. It’s sharp, like you’re being split open from the inside. You gasp, nails scraping at the wood, whole body bowing. For a second it’s too much.

“Breathe,” he grunts through his own strain, hand at your throat sliding up to your jaw, thumb pressing at your cheek. “Breathe through it. You’re takin’ me. Look at you. You’re takin’ me.”

He isn’t wrong. Beneath the pain, there’s this breathless awe—at the size of him, at the way your own body yields, at the feel of being filled in a way you never have before. 

You force yourself to inhale, exhale, again, again. Your muscles flutter around him, protesting, then slowly easing.

When the broadest part of his head passes the tight ring of your entrance, the rest slides in easier, still stretching, still burning, but less violently. 

He sinks deeper, stopping only when his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed to your backside, balls snugged up against your cunt. You can feel him everywhere, heavy and solid in your core, pulsing faintly.

“Christ,” he rasps, the words hot against your neck. “I can barely think straight. Sweet girl, you just swallowed every inch of me.”

You exhale shakily, overwhelmed. Full doesn’t begin to cover it. You feel stuffed, stretched to the point of coming apart, and yet under the ache, something else is already starting—a low, thick pleasure that moves like honey, spreading outward from where you’re joined.

He holds still for a long moment, breathing hard into your hair, chest rising and falling against your back. His hand at your hip rubs little circles, the one at your jaw softening its grip.

“You tell me when it stops hurtin’ so sharp,” he says. “I ain’t in no rush, even if my cock’s yellin’ otherwise.”

You try to focus. The worst of the burn ebbs, leaving a throbbing soreness, but the sense of him—deep, impossible, yours—is starting to bloom into something almost good.

“Move,” you whisper, surprising yourself. “Just a little.”

He laughs, breath short. “Greedy already,” he says. “Alright.”

He pulls back, just an inch, maybe two, dragging that thick length along your walls. The friction is intense, raw and tender and electric all at once. Then he pushes in again, slower, watching for any flinch. 

Your fingers dig into the table, but you don’t cry out, don’t tell him to stop. Your body clutches at him on the way out, sucks at him on the way back in.

He does it again. And again. Each shallow thrust smooths the hurt a little more, replaces it with deeper sensation. The initial sting fades into a deep, stretching fullness that makes your knees weak, that makes heat lick up your spine in waves.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand sliding from your jaw back down to your throat, wrapping around it more firmly this time, not cutting your air, just pinning you, reminding you where you are and who’s holding you. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

He lengthens his strokes, pulling back farther, pushing in harder. The wet slap of his hips meeting your ass starts up, quiet at first, then louder, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the still night. 

Every push drives him deeper, nudging at something inside you that makes your breath jump, that sends little shocks through your belly, like he’s bumping the edge of something tender and secret and his.

Your body has learned the shape of him, stretching you from the inside. 

You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way the fat head spears through the tight clutch of you and then disappears into that deep, hot place that was empty your whole life and now is nothing but him.

His hand at your throat tightens, just a little. Not enough to cut your air, but enough to make each breath a thing you have to pull for, chest heaving against the table edge. His palm is broad and warm, thumb resting under your jaw, fingers curved along the side of your neck. 

Every time his hips snap forward, that grip reminds you he’s there; it pins you in your own skin so you can’t float away from what’s happening, can’t pretend it’s anything but what it is: you getting fucked open on a man’s cock in his kitchen like you were meant for it.

Then his hand drops. It slides down the column of your throat, over the dip of your collarbone, fingers spreading wide as they drag lower, rough palm grazing the top swell of your breast through the thin cotton. 

He cups you from behind, big hand wrapping around the weight of it, lifting, squeezing. The nightgown bunches under his fingers as he kneads, thumb rolling over your nipple until it stiffens hard, the fabric rasping just enough to make you whine.

“There,” he mutters, voice gone thick, like he has to taste every part of you. “Knew these’d feel good in my hand.”

He squeezes once more, harder, the pressure sending a sharp line of sensation straight down to where he’s buried in you, your nipple trapped between his thumb and the heat of his palm. 

Your back arches, pushing more of your tit into his grip even as his cock grinds deeper. 

For a second you’re caught between the drag inside and the rough, greedy hold on your breast, pleasure ricocheting between the two.

Then his hand is moving again, leaving your aching nipple peaked under the cotton, skimming back up over your breastbone, returning to your throat like it owns the place. His fingers curl back into their collar around your neck, thumb settling under your jaw, holding you where he wants you while his hips keep driving.

“Listen to you,” he groans, and you realize he doesn’t just mean your voice—wrecked and breaking on every inhale—but the wet, filthy noise your body’s making, the slick drag of his cock pulling out of you, the obscene squelch when he pushes back in, the slap of his balls hitting the curve of your cunt. “You hear that? That’s this pussy lovin’ every inch I’m givin’ her.”

The word makes your stomach flutter and your cunt clench down around him so tight he curses, hips stuttering. 

There’s no room for modesty now; everything between your legs is wide awake and telling on you. 

Every time he pulls back, your inner muscles chase after him, hugging, clinging, like you’re frightened of losing that fullness, like your body’s praying he’ll push right back in—and he does, like he’s answering a call.

He adjusts his stance, feet shifting on the rough floor, and angle changes. The next thrust lands different, deeper, the thick head of him driving up and forward to grind against a spot inside you that makes your vision white out around the edges for a beat. 

You jolt, a strangled noise ripping out of you, fingers scraping along the tabletop as your whole body goes tense.

“There it is,” he pants, catching that reaction, chasing it. 

He does it again on purpose, hips rolling instead of just snapping, driving that same path, making sure he hits that spot with the crown every time. 

“You feel that? Right there? That’s what you been needin’, girl. That ache way up high you ain’t never had a name for.”

He's right on it now, relentless. 

Each stroke is a steady assault, steady enough your body starts to learn the pattern, tension building with every collision. The soreness from taking him the first time smooths into a deep, hot throb that wraps around the pleasure, one feeding the other. 

Your toes curl, your thighs tremble, your stomach ripples around the intrusion like you’re trying to swallow him even deeper.

He slides the hand from your hip back around your front, into the slick heat between your thighs, and finds your clit like he’s been doing it all his life. 

His fingers are slick with your own mess, rough pads moving in tight, ruthless circles over that swollen bud. It sends lightning directly up your spine, straight to the base of your skull. 

You choke on a sound that isn’t quite a word and jerk against his hand; his arm around your throat holds you in place.

“Goddamn, you’re twitchy,” he groans, grinding his hips down so the bone of him presses your ass, so his cock bruises into that soft spot inside while his fingers roll your clit. “You gonna fall apart on me again? You gonna let me feel you squeeze all over my cock proper this time?”

Your answer is a breathless, broken, “Please,” your voice ragged, half sob, half prayer. 

The table shudders under the force of his thrusts now, the legs complaining in small creaks that match the rhythm of his hips. The lamp flame jumps in its glass, throwing wild shadows against the wall—a tangle of your bent body and his frame hunched over you, shoulders rolling as he works inside you like he’s plowing up hard ground.

Spit slicks your lips; you realize at some point your mouth fell open and just forgot how to close, breath dragging in ragged, wet pulls. 

You couldn’t be bothered to care if you tried; everything is narrowed to the hot place his cock is sawing through and the bright, brutal pulses from his fingers on your clit.

He can feel you climbing, feel your body drawing in tight around him, feel your channel starting to flutter. He growls, low and guttural, the sound pressed against the back of your neck. “That’s it. That’s it, squeeze me.”

His hand at your throat tightens a hair more, narrowing the world to his breathing and yours, the rush of blood in your ears, the drag of wood under your palms. 

The smallest bit of pressure makes every sensation hit harder; your body goes light and heavy at the same time, limbs tingling, cock-deep pull inside you the only thing that feels solid.

He pistons into you now with a steadier, punishing rhythm, cock dragging from the fat base at your entrance all the way to that deep end that makes your belly flip, then back again. 

Your ass jiggles from each impact, flesh rippling under his grip. His fingers at your clit don’t falter.

You can hear yourself now, high and ruined, begging without even knowing what for. “Don’t stop—don’t—Remmick, don’t—oh—oh God—”

“Mhm, use my name,” he hisses, hips crashing into yours, the wet slap echoing off the close walls. “You say it when you can’t hold yourself together no more.”

He leans forward, the sweat on his skin slick against the thin cotton of your nightgown bunched at your waist. 

His mouth finds the side of your neck, teeth scraping over the delicate skin there, then biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He sucks, draws blood closer to the surface in a hot sting that only makes your cunt flutter harder around him.

Between the choke of his hand, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the relentless grind of his cock, and the ruthless attention on your clit, you don’t stand a chance.

The orgasm slams into you hard enough your knees buckle, your body trying to curl in on itself while he holds you stretched over the table. 

Everything constricts at once—your throat around his hand, your belly around the deep ache, your cunt around his cock. You clamp down on him with startling force, walls seizing, milking, clutching like you’re trying to suck him straight out of his skin.

You cry out. There’s no pretty word for it. Sound rips out of you high and raw, your voice cracking on his name. 

Your vision goes fuzzy with white at the edges, the kitchen shrinking to the rough wood under your hands and the thick, unyielding length splitting you and the brutal roll of pleasure ripping through you in waves.

“Fuck—fuck,” he grunts at your ear, the feeling of you spasming around him cutting through every ounce of control he has left. “That’s it, that’s it, girl, grip me—Jesus—”

He doesn’t stop moving, not really; he grinds through it, forcing his cock to keep sliding, short, deep thrusts, using the vice of your orgasm to wring everything he can from you. 

You’re shaking all over, thighs trembling so hard your feet skid a little on the floor, toes digging uselessly for purchase. 

Another rush of slick gushes around him, soaking his cock, dripping down over his balls, sliding warm along the inside of your thighs.

Your body keeps clenching in pulses, the pleasure cresting and breaking over and over until it tips toward something sharp, too much. You whimper, the sound small and shredded. His hand leaves your clit finally, stroking shaking skin instead, but his hips don’t stop.

The rhythm goes ragged, less measured, more frantic. His thrusts turn into short, hard ruts, like his body’s the one begging now. His fingers flex around your throat, then loosen just a little, thumb stroking your jaw instead as his breathing unravels.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, voice pitched low and rough. “You want that? You want me shootin’ deep in you, huh? Want to feel me leakin’ out you all the way back up to that house?”

The words, filthy as they are, punch right through your oversensitivity and light up something molten in your gut. 

Your sore, flooded cunt tightens around him involuntarily at the thought of carrying him inside you, his spend rolling down your thighs later when you climb into your own bed. 

You can’t shape the answer into full words; what comes out is some strangled mess that sounds like y-yes and a choke.

“Yeah, you do,” he snarls like he heard it. “You greedy little thing, comin’ down here pretendin’ you just wanna talk when your cunt’s hungry as hell.”

He drives in hard, once, twice, three more times, each thrust bottoming him out, pelvis grinding against the round of your ass. 

The slap of his hips is loud now, sloppy, wetter, your combined mess making the impact slick.

Then his whole body locks.

His stomach clenches tight against your back, jaw clamped against the side of your neck. A sound tears out of him, not quite human, something between a growl and a groan. His cock jerks inside you, swelling even thicker for a heart-stopping second, and then you feel it—hot, heavy spurts of him spilling deep, pounding against your cervix, flooding that space that’s been empty your entire life with a hot, liquid fullness.

He curses low and hoarse on each pulse, hips rocking in tiny, helpless movements as he empties himself, his own climax dragged out by the way your slick, oversensitive walls keep squeezing and fluttering around him. Every time your cunt milks him, another rope of cum kicks out of him, painting you inside.

“God—damn—” he grits, shuddering, one hand sliding from your throat to slap down next to your own on the table, fingers splayed wide, knuckles white on the wood. “You feel that? Feel me givin’ it to you?”

You do. You feel all of it. Every pulse, every twitch, every deep throb of him lodged inside, filling you, staking a claim. Your whole body feels stuffed, weighty, like he’s poured something molten into your bones.

The shakes take him then. You feel them where his chest is plastered to your back, quivers running through him in waves as his orgasm tapers off. 

His cock softens a little inside you but doesn’t slip free; your swollen entrance and the spent thickness of him keep you plugged together. Each small movement sends a slow, slick ache radiating outward.

For a long moment neither of you says anything.

He slumps more of his weight onto you without meaning to, and you sag under it, cheek pressed to the tabletop, breaths coming in harsh, uneven pulls. 

Sweat has glued your nightgown to your ribs where it’s still covering your upper body; where it’s bunched around your waist, the fabric clings damp to your skin with a mixture of your own wetness and his.

Eventually, he finds his voice, though it’s wrecked, scraped raw at the edges. “Jesus,” he mutters, words ghosting hot over the shell of your ear. 

For the first time since he pushed into you, he eases his hips back.

You gasp, a little shocked moan slipping out as his softening cock drags along your raw walls. 

When his head slips past your entrance, your muscles clench on instinct, reluctant to let him go, but gravity wins. He slides free, leaving you empty in a way that feels sharp, unfinished, even with his cum already starting to seep down, warm, from inside you.

Something thick and wet trickles out immediately, a slow, viscous roll that slides over your swollen folds and down the curve of your inner thigh. You feel it clearly, a hot trail in the cooler air of the kitchen. The knowledge of what it is, whose it is, makes your face burn and your belly tighten all over again.

He sees it too.

“Look at that,” he says softly, voice full of rough, satisfied awe. 

His hand leaves yours and slides down, palm cupping the underside of your ass, thumb catching one of those white streaks, spreading it lazily over your sensitive skin. You flinch, a little gasp escaping before you can stop it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, breath still stuttering. 

He makes a pleased sound at that, thumb dragging one last lazy stripe through the mess before he rubs his hand off on his own thigh. 

He straightens slowly, the absence of his weight making you sway for a second. His hands, empty now, come to your waist, smoothing down the bunched nightgown. He tugs it back into place over your hips, hiding what he’s done as best cloth can hide it.

Then he crouches a little, fingers catching the waistband of your drawers. They’re still tangled around your knees, sticky with your slick. 

He coaxes them up, guiding the cotton over your tender flesh, covering your cunt, trapping his spend where it is. 

The pull of the fabric against your oversensitive skin makes you hiss and bite your lip, but it also feels lewd and intimate in a different way—his cum pressed up against you, soaked into the cloth that sits right over your entrance.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, sealing you up like that. It shows in the way his thumb lingers a second too long at the gusset, pressing lightly, as if to make sure the material is snug, as if to feel one more time that he’s right there even with clothes between you.

“Gonna be walkin’ home with your panties stickin’ to you and a piece of me tryin’ to leak right back out,” he murmurs, voice a dark purr. “You’ll be thinkin’ of me every step.”

You make a weak noise, somewhere between a protest and something softer. Your legs feel unsteady when he finally helps you pull them fully into place, when he urges you upright with hands at your waist. 

When you stand, it’s like your bones have gone wrong—heavy at the hips, light at the knees, a deep, interior throb that makes you aware of your own body in a way you’ve never been.

He turns you gently, so your hip leans back into the edge of the table instead of your chest, so you’re facing him. His hair is damp and rumpled, a curl fallen low over his forehead, chest and stomach slick with sweat. 

His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the mussed nightgown, the bite marks blossoming at your throat and shoulder where his teeth worried your skin, the slackness of your mouth, the glassy shine to your eyes. 

Confidence sits easy on him; he looks like a man who’s put in a long night’s work and is proud of the job he’s done.

“You’re gonna cuss me tomorrow,” he says, voice low and a little smug. “When you sit down. When you walk. But you ain’t gonna regret it.”

You swallow, throat thick, his words settling warm and heavy between your ribs.

“No,” you admit, even quieter than before, and there’s no sense lying now. “I don’t… regret it.”

His mouth curves. “Good.”

You look away, suddenly aware of the time, of the silence of the big house up the hill, of how your mama and daddy are sleeping through something that’s gone and rearranged their daughter from the inside out.

“I need to go,” you say, voice small but steadying. “Before my father wakes up for water, or Mama starts callin’ and finds my bed empty.”

His hands fall from your waist, though not without one last, slow sweep along the curve of you, like he’s committing it to memory. 

“Go on,” he says. “Before I talk you into layin’ down on that bed in there and not leavin’ till the rooster screams.”

Your body responds to the image with an exhausted throb, a clench around nothing. 

You push off the table and take a careful step. Your thighs rub, slick, the damp cotton of your drawers pulling against you; you feel a fresh little leak of him inside you, a warm ooze that soaks into the fabric and clings. It makes you stutter a little, the soreness set deep in your core.

Remmick watches the way you move, jaw flexing, something like pride and hunger both tightening his face. 

He reaches for his trousers, tucking himself away, but he doesn’t bother with a shirt yet, doesn’t bother pretending he’s anything but what he is: the man who just fucked you on his kitchen table and filled you til you’re walking crooked.

You make it to the door on legs that still shake. Your fingers land on the frame as you pull it open, the cool breath of the night spilling in. 

Before you step out, you glance back. His eyes are on you, unreadable now, dark and steady in the lamplight.

“You come down here again,” he says, voice quiet, sure, “don’t pretend you’re just here for salve or scoldin’. You knock on my door after dark, I know what you’re askin’ for.”

You hold his gaze, the soreness between your thighs, the fullness inside you, the ache in your muscles all speaking louder than any denial you could muster. 

His eyes follow you out into the dark, low and pleased, and as you cross the yard barefoot, nightgown brushing your knees, his cum warm and sticky between your legs, you know he’s standing there in that doorway shirtless, watching you go with no shame at all, already planning just how he’ll take you the next time you come scratching at his door.

This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.

You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.

It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.

And that's never your call to make.

Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.

He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"

"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."

"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.

"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"

"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."

"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."

"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."

"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"

"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."

Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."

"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"

"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.

Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."

There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.

Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.

Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?

It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.

You'd drift in, drift out.

Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.

In, out.

All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.

So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.

Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.

When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.

What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?

What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?

What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.

It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.

That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.

No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.

Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.

Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?

Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.

You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.

Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.

Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.

That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.

Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.

The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.

That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.

You can only tread water for so long, though.

"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"

Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.

"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."

And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."

His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.

Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.

What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?

Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.

Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.

"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."

He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."

"God, you're such a bitch."

"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."

"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"

"I meant the van, asshole!"

Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.

Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.

You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.

"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"

Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.

His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"

You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.

Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.

"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.

"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"

He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."

Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.

She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"

You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.

"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"

Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."

"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.

In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.

Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."

"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."

So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.

Fantastic.

"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."

Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.

"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"

"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"

Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.

Well, can't say you didn't try.

Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."

You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.

You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.

Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."

"Language."

"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.

"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."

So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.

There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."

Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling the flu.

You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.

"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."

You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."

Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.

"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"

"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."

Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.

Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.

"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."

Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.

"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."

There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.

Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.

He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".

"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."

Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."

Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."

Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."

That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.

Together.

Alone.

"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"

A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.

It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.

Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.

"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"

"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"

Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?

"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."

Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."

"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.

"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.

There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.

Unless…

There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.

You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.

"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."

But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"

"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."

"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."

"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"

His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.

"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"

"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."

"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."

He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"

Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"

"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"

You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"

"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"

"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."

"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"

"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."

"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."

"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.

Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.

The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.

If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.

Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.

The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.

Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.

Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.

Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.

He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.

And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.

So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.

He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.

By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.

Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?

What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.

To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.

To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.

The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.

The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.

He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.

Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.

You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.

Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.

It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.

Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?

In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.

There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.

"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.

You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.

"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.

When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.

"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.

It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.

Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.

Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.

"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.

Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.

And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.

Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.

He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.

Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."

"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."

"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."

The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"

"M'yeah, s'kay."