We’ll Be Alright

So four days before he was due home, you did something you told yourself was completely unrelated to any of that.

You went to the shelter. Just to look.

You were very firm with yourself about the just to look part. You didn't need a pet. You had a boyfriend who traveled for a living and a schedule that was already a mess trying to accommodate his, and the responsible, sensible thing to do was to walk through, admire some cats through the glass, and go home to the too-quiet apartment exactly the way you'd left it.

And then you saw her.

She was small and tabby-striped, all warm browns and gold, sitting in the far corner of her enclosure with an expression that could only be described as deeply unimpressed, with the shelter, with the volunteers, with the entire concept of being looked at. Every other cat in the room was doing something to get attention, stretching, pawing at the glass, meowing pitifully. She was doing none of that. She looked, frankly, like she had better things to do.

You asked to hold her anyway.

The second she was in your arms, she went completely still, and then, like it cost her something, she curled into your chest and put her face against your collarbone like she'd done it a hundred times before.

You had absolutely no chance after that.

The days between the shelter and Joe's flight home passed in a blur of quiet, secretive domesticity. You changed the sheets. You went to the good grocery store, the one that had his favorite snacks, and stocked the fridge like he was coming home from war instead of six weeks on a tour bus. You did three loads of laundry you didn't need to do just to have something to do with your hands.

And in between all of that, you built a life around a cat you hadn't told your boyfriend existed.

There was a bed in the corner of the living room now, and a scratching post you'd had to assemble yourself at eleven at night with the instructions in three languages, none of which were helpful. There were two bowls by the kitchen counter, one for food and one for water, both already slightly chewed at the rim because apparently that was a thing cats did. There was a pink collar with a small bell that you'd bought without letting yourself think too hard about the price tag, because she'd needed it, obviously, and you weren't going to have a conversation with yourself about needed versus wanted over a two-dollar bell.

The night before Joe was due back, you sat on the sofa with her curled against your thigh, her tabby coat blending almost perfectly into the cushions, her purring a low, steady hum against your leg, and you looked around the apartment, at the bed, the post, the bowls, the small striped shape currently drooling slightly on your jeans, and thought, with real and mounting panic:

How exactly am I supposed to explain this?

You didn't think Joe would be angry. That wasn't the fear. The fear was smaller and stupider than that, it was just that you wanted it to be good. You wanted the reveal to be funny, to be sweet, to be the kind of thing you'd tell people about later. Not so I got a cat while you were on tour and didn't mention it for four days, said in a rush, apologetically, over the phone.

So you didn't tell him.

You told yourself it wasn't a lie. It was a surprise. There was a difference, you were pretty sure.

He got in late.

You'd known his flight landed around nine, but between customs and baggage and the drive back, it was closer to eleven by the time you heard it, the particular scrape and click of his key in the lock that you would know anywhere, that you'd been listening for, low-level, for the last two hours without fully admitting it to yourself.

You were off the sofa before you'd consciously decided to move.

The cat, unbothered, lifted her head, watched you go, and settled back down.

The door swung open and there he was: hair a mess from hours of recycled airplane air, bag slung heavy over one shoulder, still wearing what was very obviously the same hoodie he'd put on twelve hours and one time zone ago. He looked exhausted in the specific, bone-deep way that only touring did to him, the kind of tired that made his eyes look heavier, his shoulders lower, like the last six weeks had physically settled into him somewhere.

And then he saw you, and every bit of that exhaustion just dropped off his face.

His bag hit the floor with a thud he didn't seem to notice.

You didn't so much walk to him as launch yourself, and he caught you like he'd been braced for it the whole way home, arms wrapping tight around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground. You wrapped your legs around him without thinking about it, the way you always did, and he buried his face into the curve of your neck and just breathed you in for a second, like he was checking you were real.

"God, I missed you," he said, muffled against your skin, and the words landed somewhere low in your chest.

"I missed you too," you said, and you meant it so much it almost embarrassed you.

He pulled back just enough to kiss you, your cheek first, soft and quick, then your forehead, then, finally, properly, your mouth, slow and a little desperate in a way that told you exactly how long six weeks had felt to him too.

He did not, notably, put you down.

"Joe. Joe, I have legs, you can put me-"

"No."

"You've been standing for like fourteen hours-"

"Don't care."

He was, it turned out, extremely clingy for a man who'd get sheepish about it later. He carried you the two steps to the sofa and sat down with you still more or less in his lap, one arm looped firmly around you like he was worried you'd wander off if he let go, and you let him, because honestly, you'd missed this too, the specific weight and warmth of him, the smell of airport and travel and something underneath that was just Joe.

"You were only gone six weeks," you teased, settling into him properly now.

"Six weeks too long," he said, without a shred of irony.

He told you about the flight, a baby had cried for four hours, there'd been turbulence over the Midwest that he swore had taken ten years off his life, the guy next to him had tried to talk to him about crypto for forty-five minutes. You laughed, and asked if he'd eaten, and he made a face that already told you the answer before he said it.

"I had a sandwich."

"That's not dinner."

"It had protein in it."

"Joe."

"It was a good sandwich."

You were already mentally running through what you could make him at eleven at night, already halfway into getting up, when he pulled you back down against him, laughing, exhausted and grinning and clearly not ready to let go of you yet, not even for food.

"In a minute," he said. "Let me just-" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

He finally loosened his grip enough to pull back and look at you properly, and you could see it coming, the so, what have you been up to question forming, the easy catch-up conversation you always had after time apart.

Then he heard it.

A small, unimpressed meow, from somewhere behind you.

Joe went very still.

You went very still.

Slowly, very slowly, he looked over your shoulder, toward the hallway.

She was sitting right at the edge of it, tail curled neatly around her paws, tabby stripes catching the hallway light, staring directly at him with the same I have better things to do expression she'd given the shelter volunteers, like she was assessing whether he was worth the trip out of the bedroom.

Joe looked at the cat.

He looked at you.

He looked back at the cat.

"...Is that a cat?"

You tried, and failed, to sound casual. "Technically."

"Technically?" One eyebrow went up, slow and deeply skeptical.

And that was it, the dam broke, and you were talking before you'd fully decided to, the words tumbling out faster than you meant them to. You told him about the shelter, and how you'd only gone to look, you swore, you hadn't gone in with a plan. You told him about the corner she'd been sitting in, unbothered by everyone until you picked her up, and how she'd curled into you like she already knew you, and how you'd been so lonely without him and she'd been so lonely in that enclosure and it had just felt like-

Joe was fighting a smile the entire time. Losing, badly.

"Baby."

"What?"

"You adopted a cat while I was gone?"

You winced, sheepish, and nodded. "...Surprise?"

He wasn't angry. Not even close. If anything, he looked at you the way you looked at someone who'd done something completely, endearingly ridiculous, equal parts disbelief and fondness.

"You couldn't have texted me?"

You shrugged. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"So this-" he gestured at the cat, still watching them both from the hallway with total detachment, "-is my surprise?"

"Yes."

Right on cue, she meowed again, short and flat, like she had opinions about being talked about in the third person.

Joe pointed at her. "She sounds thrilled to meet me."

You laughed, and he was laughing too now, shaking his head like he couldn't quite believe this was the state of his life six weeks later, new bags under his eyes, a sandwich for dinner, and apparently a cat.

He slid off the sofa and knelt down slowly, holding one hand out toward her, palm up, patient in a way you hadn't fully expected. She approached with the exact same caution she'd shown the shelter volunteers, a few careful steps, a pause, a long assessing look, before finally closing the distance and sniffing at his fingers.

Joe looked back at you, delighted, like he'd just won something.

"Oh, she likes me."

You rolled your eyes. "She's been here three days and you're already trying to steal her."

"I'm not stealing her." A pause, as she pressed her head into his palm. "She came to me."

Whatever exhaustion had been dragging at him twenty minutes ago seemed to have been entirely rerouted into cat-related enthusiasm. He sat down properly on the floor, back against the sofa, and after a moment of consideration, she climbed into his lap like it was something she'd been planning to do the whole time.

Joe looked, genuinely, delighted.

He started talking to her in that low, soft voice he only ever used when he was being deliberately gentle with something, you'd heard it maybe twice before, once with his little cousin at a family thing, once with a bird that had gotten stuck in the venue rafters before a show. "Hi, sweetheart," he murmured, scratching carefully under her chin. "Hi. Hello."

Watching him, genuinely, unguardedly soft, jet-lagged out of his mind and completely absorbed in a cat he'd met four minutes ago, did something to your chest that you weren't fully prepared for.

Then came the questions. All of them, rapid-fire, like he needed the full file.

What was her name. How old was she. Where exactly had you found her. What did she eat. Did she sleep with you. Did she like being picked up. Did she have any weird habits, any tells, anything he needed to know.

You answered every single one, and he listened like it actually mattered, nodding along, occasionally glancing down at her like he was cross-referencing what you were saying against her face.

Then you got to the part about the collar.

Joe's expression shifted immediately into something more horrified. "You bought her that?"

"She needed it."

"She needed a pink collar with a little bell?"

"Yes."

"She's had you wrapped around her finger for four days."

You looked down at her, curled contentedly in his lap now, purring loud enough to hear from where you sat. "She's very persuasive."

"Clearly."

Eventually you managed to get him upstairs, suitcase and all, though unpacking was a generous word for what actually happened. He'd pull something out of the bag, get distracted, look around the room, and you'd catch him doing it, scanning for a small tabby shape that had, without either of you quite deciding it, become a permanent feature of the apartment.

"You're obsessed," you said, watching him abandon a t-shirt mid-fold to peer out into the hallway.

"She's cute."

"You called me clingy fifteen minutes after walking in the door."

"I'm not clingy."

"You carried me to the sofa."

"That's different."

She solved the argument herself by trotting into the room and jumping straight onto the bed, and Joe's face lit up immediately, all pretense of unpacking abandoned.

"See? She wants me."

"She wants the bed. You're incidental."

He didn't dignify that with a response, just climbed onto the bed after her, and within a few minutes all three of you had ended up there properly, Joe behind you, one arm slung heavy over your waist, his face pressed into your hair, and her curled up near your feet like she'd claimed that spot as hers on principle.

It was quiet for a while, the good kind of quiet, the kind you'd been missing without fully realizing it, before Joe spoke again, his voice lower now, less performative than it had been all evening.

"Coming home was harder than I thought it'd be," he admitted, into your hair.

You turned slightly, enough to see part of his face. "Yeah?"

"Tour was good. I loved it, the shows, the crowds, all of it." He paused. "But every night I'd get back to the hotel and I'd just, want to tell you something. Some stupid thing that happened. And you weren't there."

You reached back and found his hand, laced your fingers through his. "I know. I missed you too. The house felt weird without you in it. Too big, or something."

"That's dramatic."

"You're one to talk, you cried on FaceTime because the hotel gave you the wrong pillow."

"I did not cry-"

"You got very emotional about a pillow, Joe."

He huffed a laugh against your neck, and then, quieter: "That's why you got the cat?"

You considered it, actually thought about it instead of deflecting. "Yeah. Kind of. The house was too quiet and I just, wanted something in it. Someone in it, I guess."

He was quiet for a second, and you could feel him processing that, the way he did when something mattered more than the joke he was about to make.

"So you got yourself a little emotional support roommate."

You turned around fully to face him. "Basically."

"Good," he said, simply, and kissed you, slow, and warm, and a little like a promise, before you finally, all three of you, fell asleep.

Joe woke up first, still wrecked from jet lag, blinking against the early light coming through the curtains. You were asleep against his chest, one hand curled loosely against his shirt, and he didn't move, didn't dare, content to just lie there and watch you for a while.

Then he noticed she was awake too, sitting primly on the floor by the bed, tabby coat catching the morning light, staring up at him with an expression he was starting to recognize as her default setting.

"You live here now?" he whispered.

She meowed, short and matter-of-fact.

"Okay."

He reached a hand down, and she jumped up without hesitation, picking her way carefully across the blanket before settling, after a moment of consideration, against his stomach. He lay there for a minute just looking at her, and then, very carefully so as not to wake you, reached for his phone.

He took a photo. Not of you. Not of himself. Just her, curled against him in the early light.

He sent it to you, even though you were asleep right beside him.

Joe: our daughter misses you

You woke up a minute later to the buzz of your phone against the nightstand, squinted at the screen, and looked up at him.

"You're an idiot."

"Good morning to you too."

Over the course of the day, Joe kept noticing things, small evidence of the last six weeks he hadn't been there for. The scratching post in the corner of the living room he'd walked past four times without registering. A little felt mouse toy wedged under the sofa. The fact that your phone wallpaper, which had been a photo of the two of you at the beach, was now unmistakably a picture of the cat.

He teased you relentlessly about all of it. Pointed out the strands of tabby fur on your black leggings with theatrical disgust. Asked, completely deadpan, whether the wallpaper change was permanent or a phase.

But you caught him smiling about it more than once, when he thought you weren't looking.

Later, while you were cooking dinner, Joe hopped up onto the counter the way he always did despite your repeated requests that he not, and she wove figure-eights around your ankles, weaving in and out while you moved between the stove and the fridge. Joe watched the two of you, quiet for once, no jokes, just watching, and something settled in his face that you hadn't seen since he'd walked through the door.

You didn't ask what he was thinking. You didn't need to. It was written plainly enough across his face: this, the smell of dinner, your bare feet on the kitchen tile, a cat winding around your ankles, all of it, was what home actually meant. Not the apartment itself. You. And now, apparently, her too.

By that evening, Joe had clearly decided he was going to win her over properly, on principle, and he threw himself into the campaign with the same focus he usually reserved for setlists.

He gave her a treat from the bag you kept in the kitchen drawer. He dangled the little feather toy for a solid twenty minutes until his arm actually got tired. He announced, unprompted, that he was going to buy her something better than a bell, "something cool," and pulled up three different cat toys on his phone before you physically took it out of his hands.

By bedtime, he was fully convinced he'd made real progress.

Then she jumped onto the bed and curled up directly against you, completely ignoring the spot he'd very deliberately left open beside himself.

Joe looked personally offended. "Seriously?"

You laughed. "She's my cat."

"She's our cat."

"She liked me first."

He pointed at you, mock-betrayed. "That's unfair. I gave her a treat twenty minutes ago."

"She has no memory of that. She's a cat, Joe."

Eventually, after some consideration of her own, she got up, walked in a small circle, and resettled directly in the space between the two of you, an equal-opportunity compromise that Joe did not appreciate in the slightest.

He stared at her. "She's literally separating us."

"Maybe she doesn't like you," you whispered.

"Don't say that." He actually looked hurt for a second, glancing between you and her like he needed reassurance from one of you, it didn't matter which.

You reached over her to take his hand anyway, and he held on like that settled it.

Later, once the lights were off and the apartment had gone properly quiet, the good quiet, not the too-big quiet of the last six weeks, Joe spoke again, his voice low in the dark.

"I was kind of worried about coming home," he admitted.

You shifted closer. "Worried about what?"

"Not you. Just, tour gets weird. It's the same routine every day. Hotels, soundcheck, the show, back to the hotel. After a while I stopped being sure I'd feel normal again once it was over. Like maybe I'd forgotten how to just, be at home."

You didn't say anything right away, just let him get it out, your hand finding his under the blanket.

"But then I got here," he continued, "and you were waiting for me. And there was this cat I didn't know about, doing whatever she wants, completely unbothered by any of it. And it just-" He exhaled. "It felt normal again. Faster than I thought it would."

"I think I needed this," he said, quieter.

"The cat?" you asked, half-teasing, already knowing the answer.

He huffed a laugh in the dark. "You."

A pause.

"...The cat too."

You smacked his arm, and he laughed properly this time, pulling you in against his chest, and you let him, because you understood exactly what he meant, even dressed up in a joke like that. Some things were easier to say sideways.

A few nights later, you found yourself on the sofa again, in almost the exact spot you'd been sitting four days before Joe came home, wondering how on earth you were going to explain any of this to him.

Except now Joe was there too, asleep with his head in your lap, one arm hanging loosely off the edge of the sofa. She was curled up against his chest, tabby stripes rising and falling with his breathing, his hand resting on her back without him even seeming to notice he'd put it there, some instinct kicking in even in sleep.

You looked down at the two of them for a long moment, Joe, finally properly rested for the first time in weeks, and her, tucked contentedly against him like she'd always belonged there, and reached for your phone to take a photo.

"Did you just take a picture?" Joe mumbled, not opening his eyes.

"Maybe."

He cracked one eye open. "Send it to me."

"You're literally right here."

"I know."

You sent it anyway. A second later, your phone buzzed on the arm of the sofa.

Joe: best family photo ever

You looked down at him. "Family?"

He shrugged, sleepy and unbothered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Yeah."

He reached up and found your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and beneath his other hand, she started to purr, low and steady, filling the space where the quiet used to live.

You and Steve were still in what considered the beginning of your relationship, but you loved him too much to not have him on your mind every second of the day, and based on his presence, he felt the same way too.

You giggled at his words, while he still made no move to let you go. “Uh-huh, I just took a shower.” You replied, the fresh strawberry scent of your body wash wafting from your skin. “What are you doing here? Like right now?”

Steve sighed deeply, finally detaching himself but still holding you by the waist. “What, can’t a man miss his girlfriend?” He shrugged with puppy eyes. “I just wanted to see you…if that’s alright.” He finished with a whisper.

You shook your head fondly, leaning up on your heels to press a firm kiss on his lips. “Of course it’s alright, Steve. You’re welcome here anytime.” You took the flowers from his hand, admiring them for a second. “Now, why don’t you go up to my room while I place these in a vase?”

He nodded, instantly relieved. “Okay, but don’t take too long, I expect to be cuddled.” He wagged a finger jokingly at you.

You only rolled your eyes with a smile, listening as his footsteps grew distant. Oh, but Steve had no idea what he was going to find waiting for him.

He entered slowly, mind still in a daze from thinking about how good you smelled, barely taking a look around as he made himself comfortable on the edge of your bed.

That’s when he felt a piece of fabric tickling his hand, Steve's brows furrowed, but once he turned his head, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

“Holy shit.” He exhaled shakily, because right beside him, touching his hand, were your lacy, pale pink panties, with a little bow in the middle.

It was normal, right? All girls wore underwear, even his own girlfriend. But even just thinking about it and let alone seeing it with his own eyes made him swallow thickly.

Immediately, his face flushed, not knowing what to do and hearing you starting to come closer, Steve’s body flung up from where he had been sitting, taking his eyes off of your discarded underwear almost a second too late as you stepped into the room.

You stopped in your tracks with a frown, the calm demeanor that Steve had arrived with only minutes prior had completely vanished. He ran a hand through his hair, the other clenched at his side, and his face was a deep shade of scarlet, looking strangely embarrassed.

“Steve. Are you…okay?” You asked slowly, inching closer.

He blinked, clearing his throat loudly. “What? Yup—yeah—fine, I’m fine.” Steve rushed out, though his eyeline betrayed him, accidentally looking back down at your underwear again.

You followed his gaze, a horrifying expression crossing your features once you realized what he had spotted. The underwear you had carelessly thrown while getting undressed to shower was lying exposed atop your covers.

“Oh my god.” A heated blush crept up your neck as you scrambled towards it, quickly picking it up and standing in front of him awkwardly. “I’m so sorry, I uh, didn’t mean for you to find it, I swear, this is so embarrassing.” You averted your gaze.

Steve shook his head, placing a hand underneath your jaw to lift your chin back towards him. “No, it’s not. It’s not embarrassing.” He spoke honestly.

You finally looked up at him, ignoring the fact that your underwear was still clutched in your hand behind your back. “It’s not?” You repeated.

Steve’s tongue jutted out, licking over his lips. “It didn’t make me uncomfortable, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He paused. “More so the opposite, really. Cute panties, you know.”

Your heart stopped beating for a moment, processing his words. You were both still flushed head to toe, but the atmosphere felt charged with a different kind of tension.

“Oh—um, thanks.” You muttered, not knowing what to say, but instantly wanting to take back your stupid words.

Steve chuckled amusingly, raising a brow. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He smiled, though the corners of his mouth curled upwards into a smirk. “I wouldn’t mind it either, if you…showed me the pair you have on right now.”

Kurt’s room was stuffy, the shitty ceiling fan set to high doing very little to actually cool the room. His body was coated in a sheen of sweat, his sheets clinging to his bare back as he writhed on his small mattress.

You were kneeling between his legs, your hand relentlessly working at his aching cock for what felt like hours at this point. Kurt’s whines filled the room, the sounds like music to your ears as you brought him closer to yet another orgasm.

The whole thing started because he had been ignoring you, despite being the one to invite you over. He begged and pleaded for you to come hang out, stating that the two of you would have fun and that he missed you—just for him to completely ignore you once you were actually in the same room, in favor of his new video game he bought.

Once it had hit hour three of him ignoring you, you decided you had enough. You unplugged his PC straight from the wall, with Kurt’s offended and angry gaze meeting your irritated one as he shouted out a protest. The argument was cut short when you sank to your knees in front of him, as you tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants to pull him free and take him into your mouth.

When the two of you had moved to his bed, he was eager. His soft and desperate words about needing to be inside of you made a small smirk grow on your face, knowing he wasn’t going to get that tonight.

“I can’t do another, it’s too much.” Kurt cried out, writhing from the intensity. “Feels so fucking good, s’too much.”

Kurt had a white knuckled grip on his sheets above his head, his big eyes full of tears and holding a pleading look. You felt a sick sense of satisfaction as you eyed him, the noises of your hand around his cock sounding slick and filthy from how ruined he was. His stomach was covered in a sticky mess of his three previous releases as it clenched and heaved, while he begged for you to give him just a second. He had his cum pooling in his bellybutton, the hair on his lower stomach tangled in the mess. His face was flushed, his bottom lip raw and red from how hard he had been biting down on it. He looked so good like this, he always did.

“You’re so fucking messy, aren’t you?” You teased, your eyes taking in the view of him under you like this.

Kurt turned his face to the side, trying to hide in the crook of his arm. You tsked, grabbing his chin with your free hand and turning his face back so you could see him fully again.

“Come on. You know I like to see you like this.” You spoke, your fingers digging into his cheek. “Keep your eyes on me. Stay still.”

He whimpered again immediately, the sound shooting straight to your core as your body craved for him to be deep inside of you. But you had to hold strong. You wanted to punish him. You wanted to see just how much he could take before he fully cracked.

Kurt weakly tried to squirm away, his body desperate for a break in the immense amount of pleasure he was in yet still craving your touch so badly that it hurt. You placed a hand on his thigh, pressing down firmly as he squirmed on the unmade bed. “I told you to stay still, didn’t I?” You asked, a brow raising in question.

A shaky whine escaped him, panting while he gazed at you through glassy eyes. You paused the movements of your hand entirely when he didn’t reply, and Kurt’s eyes blew wide in protest as he looked at you with a fucked out and confused stare.

“Wh-“

“I asked you a question, Kurt.” You moved your hand away from his spent cock—Kurt’s eyebrows furrowed and his look of confusion melted into one of pleading yet again.

He nodded quickly, “Fuck, I’m sorry.” He shifted his hips the slightest bit—thrusting into the air and seeking the friction of your fist around his cock again. “I’ll be good, I promise.” He rushed out.

You hummed, the sound rumbling in your throat as you teasingly trailed the tip of your finger over the tip of his cock. “I don’t know, Kurt.” You dragged your finger down the side of his cock now while it twitched pathetically. “Are you sure?”

Kurt nodded again, his throat bobbing as he swallowed down a moan, “I’m sure, please, keep going.”

You dragged two fingers through the mess of cum on his soft lower stomach, bringing them to your lips as you sucked them clean. Kurt’s eyes remained on you, captivated by your every move. His cock bobbed helplessly, his tip glistening with his cum while he let out a pathetic whimper. He needed you so bad. Despite his previous pleas of it being too much and needing a break, he needed your hand or your mouth or your cunt around him. The thought of filling you with his cum nearly made his eyes roll back in his head while he pictured it, his mind instantly supplying him with thoughts of your pretty pussy leaking his seed as he marked you as his. He so badly wished he could stuff you full, that he could make you cum around him and feel so proud of himself afterward. He wanted to be good for you.

“Holy fuck, please.” He begged. “I’ll be so good for you, please. I’m good, I promise. I need you so bad.”

The begging from him made your pussy throb, your heart racing in your chest. You leaned down, meeting his lips in a messy kiss that was all tongue and teeth while your hand wrapped around his cock again and your teeth bit down on his bottom lip. Kurt moaned breathily into your mouth, a cry of relief escaped him when you began stroking him again while he twitched and trembled.

“Thank you, thank you..” He cried out. His breathing was heavy, the tears that had been pooling in his eyes began slipping freely down his rosy cheeks. “You feel so fucking good, I’m so close.”

Everything felt too pleasurable for him to even be embarrassed about it anymore, openly crying below you while you ruined him further. Kurt tugged at his sheets, one of the corners coming loose from his pull. You sat back on your heels, watching while Kurt’s back arched off the mattress and his jaw dropped open. He came again with another desperate cry, his cock weakly spurting out a few pathetic drops of cum onto the puddle on his tummy.

“There we go, good boy.” You praised him, your hand still moving as you helped him through the aftershocks of another orgasm. “I knew you could do it, baby.”

Kurt whimpered out your name desperately, “I wanna be inside of you so bad.” 

His eyes looked almost frantic, to the point where you almost felt bad for him. He truly looked like such a mess—his hair was sticking to his forehead from sweat, tear tracks staining his blotchy cheeks.

Still, though, you didn’t give in to his begging. This was his punishment after all—he didn’t deserve to be inside of you tonight. Not after him ignoring you for what felt like forever while you sat so patiently on his bed, simply just wanting to lay with him while you watched a movie together like originally planned.

“That’s too bad, isn’t it?” You replied, and he whined out again as he shook his head.

“No, please. I need to be inside of you so bad, I need to fuck you.” Kurt pleaded, his voice cracking. “I’ll be so fucking good for you, I’ll make you feel so good. Please, baby, let me fuck you.”

You ignored him in favor of dipping your head down to take him into your mouth again this time. Your tongue swirled around his tip, the taste of his cum coating the inside of your mouth and making you moan at the salty tang of it. Kurt’s hips bucked up, the tip of his cock suddenly hitting the back of your throat as you gagged softly around him.

The feeling of your nails digging into his thighs made him whine again, it being mixed with a sob from how overwhelmed he was and how good you felt. You let your eyes slip shut, your head bobbing. Your drool slid down the sides of his cock, as Kurt’s hand moved to tangle in your hair.

You made no move to correct him, only humming around him as if granting him the permission to guide your movements. You decided to let him have this one thing. His hand tightened around your hair immediately, and his thighs trembled with need. “Yeah, fuck, just like that..” He moaned, his own eyes slipping shut and his head tilting back.

He didn’t last long, he was already so sensitive and wound up that all it took was a few bobs of your head before he was spilling weakly into your mouth with a shaky moan. You swallowed around him, your tongue catching what managed to leak out as you pulled off and wiped your mouth.

Kurt’s body laid limp on the mattress, with heavy pants escaping him and his chest heaving again. “Holy shit.” He breathed out, his arms splaying out. The sight of him like this made you feel proud, knowing that it was all because of you. You had him wrapped around your finger, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You lowered your head, sticking your tongue out and licking his tummy and happy trail clean. Kurt’s breath hitched above you while you dipped your tongue into his bellybutton, collecting his cum that had pooled there. You swallowed it all, pulling back with a satisfied smile.

That was exactly how you felt as you shifted restlessly in the narrow bunk beside Joe, trying to find a comfortable position for what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes.

The bus was wrapped in darkness and silence, broken only by the low hum of the road beneath you and the faint sound of Wes' soft snoring somewhere nearby.

Normally, it might have bothered you, but right now, you couldn't care less.

You needed Joe. 

Seeing him on stage that night — sweaty and breathless, his hands wrapped around the microphone as he moved his hips back and forth in that effortlessly seductive way of his — had stirred something deep inside you. Even now, the memory sent a shiver down your spine, your panties getting more wet every second that passed. 

You squeezed your eyes shut but it didn’t help. If anything, the darkness made the memory clearer. 

Beside you, Joe slept peacefully, completely oblivious to the effect he’d had on you.

You sighed quietly and turned onto your side, giving him your back, one hand resting over your stomach. For a few seconds, you stayed completely still. Then, before you could change your mind, you slowly slipped your hand beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear.

You glanced over your shoulder. Joe hadn’t moved. His breathing remained deep and even, his features softened by sleep For one second, you felt almost embarrassed but you couldn't help it. You needed some kind of release and the image of him onstage wasn’t helping. 

Your hand continued its slow descent until it reached exactly where you needed it most. You touched your clit gently, barely applying any pressure at first, testing the sensation. Then you moved lower, your fingers sliding through your lips, collecting the wetness. 

You pressed your lips together and closed your eyes, concentrating on the pleasure building inside you, your body tense.

The bus suddenly felt unbearably small. Every tiny sound seemed amplified — the rustle of the sheets, the vibration of the road, your own uneven breathing.

You slipped one finger inside, then a second, imagining they were Joe’s cock stretching you open and started moving. You buried your face into the pillow, trying to muffle the moans threatening to escape your throat as you increased the pace. The last thing you wanted was for any of Joe's bandmates to hear you.

You knew you should stop. The thought of someone waking up should have been enough. But it wasn’t. If anything, knowing you weren't supposed to be doing this it made you even more wetter, your pulse beating faster. 

You buried your face deep into the pillow and quickened your pace as the orgasm inside you continued to build. Your breathing grew heavier, your skin warming as a thin sheen of sweat gathered along your neck.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying desperately to keep quiet as the pleasure became harder and harder to contain.  

You were almost there when a hand settled over yours, resting firmly over the thin fabric of your shorts. You jolted at the unexpected touch, immediately going still.

Joe moved behind you, shifting closer until his chest was against your back, warm and solid. You didn't turn to look at him, suddenly too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

He kissed the back of your shoulder.

“Having trouble sleeping, babe?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, rough with sleep and amusement.

You swallowed and nodded, your throat suddenly too dry to answer. Behind you, you could feel his cock pressing against the curve of your ass, already hard. 

His quiet laugh brushed against the back of your neck.

“Let me help you.”

Your stomach flipped.

His hand remained where it was for another second before moving away. He caught the waistband of your shorts and underwear between his fingers and slowly pulled them down to your knees, letting you take care of the rest as you quickly slipped them off with your feet.

“This is risky, Joe,” you whispered. 

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“You started it.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned back against his chest as he gently caught one of your legs, lifting it to open you up. His hand traveled slowly up the length of your thigh in a sweet, agonizing torture.

You instinctively rolled your hips, grinding yourself against the hard line of his cock, desperate to feel more, to feel him. 

“So needy, aren't you?” he murmured.

His fingers finally found your core, parting your folds with deliberate pressure.

“And so wet, too.”

“Please, Joe,” you begged him. 

Someone shifted somewhere farther down the aisle, the mattress creaking softly. Your entire body went rigid. For several seconds, neither of you breathed properly. There was another rustle, then the bus fell silent again. 

“Shhh, baby. You don't want the guys to hear us, don’t you?”

Even not seeing him, you could picture the mocking expression on his face. 

You wanted to tell him that you didn't care if they did, that all you wanted was to fuck him.

He pulled his hand away from you, making you shiver at the sudden loss of contact. But when you heard him fumbling with his clothes, you relaxed again. 

Joe shoved his boxers low enough to free his erection. Then he took himself in hand, stroking it, spreading your wetness along his length. 

You bit your lip at the thought of what was about to happen, heat pooling between your thighs.

Joe settled against you, rubbing your slick folds with his tip. Then he gently pushed in, letting out a low groan.

“Fuck, you feel so good, babe. So tight.”

You barely had time to react before Joe started moving inside you, slowly, stretching you open with every thrust. You moved against him, trying to meet his rhythm, while your fingers keep stroking your clit. 

You tipped your head back, your breathing growing heavier despite your best efforts to stay quiet. Every movement made you acutely aware of him, inch by inch.

Joe gradually picked up the pace as he pressed kisses and gave you bites along your shoulder and on your neck, trying to muffle his sounds against your skin. Your bodies moved together in perfect rhythm, the quiet, wet sounds of your movements filling the cramped space. 

It wasn’t only desire anymore. 

It was weeks of unfinished conversations and interrupted kisses and constantly having him beside you without ever having him entirely to yourself.

You needed this.

You needed him.

And judging by the way Joe held you, he needed exactly the same thing.

One of his hand slipped beneath your shirt, traveling upward until it reached your breast. He squeezed it firmly, making you arch your back. His hand moved down again, settling against your stomach and gently pulling you back against him.

You were so lost in each other, so completely absorbed in the moment, that nothing else around you seemed to exist. If one of Joe's bandmates had woken up or made a sound, you probably wouldn't have noticed. All you could do was hope they stayed asleep.

Joe's hand slid down your thigh. He shifted your leg higher around his waist, opening you up even more, and sinked deeper into you, leaving you both breathless as his cock hit that sensitive spot inside you. 

You were so wet that he struggled to stay inside you, slipping out.

“Fuck,” he groaned. 

He took hold of himself at the base and pushed back inside you, this time harder. He paused for a moment, letting you adjust to him before thrusting again, his movements becoming more urgent while never pulling completely out. Joe could feel your walls wrapping tightly around him, gripping his cock with every stroke.

"I can feel you’re close, babe. Let go,” he murmured against your temple.

You pressed your face into the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets as the tension inside you finally snapped, your body clenching around his cock. A wave of pleasure rushed through you, your legs trembling as Joe continued moving inside you, slower than before but more deliberately, each thrust deeper than the last. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, holding you firmly against him as he came inside you, his own release painting your walls.

You lowered your leg, and stayed like that for several minutes, with him still inside you while you both caught your breath. You could feel his cum slowly leaking out of you, but you didn't move, too exhausted to do anything and content to stay there with him. 

Joe pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head.

You turned your face toward him and kissed him. It was messy and sleepy and hungry all at once, your lips parting only to find each other again a second later. It felt almost as intimate as what you had just shared. When you finally pulled apart, it was only because you needed to catch your breath. You could feel his cock hardening inside you again. 

“I missed you, Joe.” Your voice was breathless. “I missed this.”

“Me too, babe. Next time you're having trouble sleeping, wake me up, okay?”

You nodded, too tired to speak.

Joe started to pull away from you, but you stopped him.

“No. Stay. Please.”

Joe didn't need to be told twice and slid back inside you.

You moaned at the sensation. “Uhmm. So good, Joe.”

Joe wrapped an arm around you, pulling your body securely against his chest. Then he gently kissed your temple.

“Now I'm the one who won't be able to sleep,” he whispered.

You smiled, your eyes already closing.

“Goodnight, Joe. I love you.”

His arm tightened around you.

“I love you too.”

A few minutes later, still tangled together and with Joe still inside you, you both fell asleep.

-

The next morning, everyone gathered around the small table on the bus for breakfast.

You sat beside Joe, still looking half-asleep and feeling pleasantly tired. He looked just as sleepy, nursing his coffee with both hands, his hair a complete mess. 

“Morning, guys,” Jake mumbled, dropping into the empty seat across from you.

You instinctively reached up to adjust the collar of your shirt, making sure it covered the faint marks Joe had left scattered along your neck the night before.

“Morning,” you replied.

Jake reached for a cup of coffee and looked around the table.

“Did everyone sleep well?”

You and Joe looked at each other. The memory of the night before flashed through your mind, and judging by the small, knowing smile on Joe’s lips, he was thinking about exactly the same thing.

You quickly looked away, suddenly very interested in the slice of toast in front of you, while Joe lifted his mug, hiding his grin behind it.

“Very well, thanks,” you both answered at exactly the same time.

I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think, I always love reading your comments under my posts and if you want to support me even more, reblog it. Thanks!

You didn't notice yourself getting sleepy so much as you noticed, distantly, that the words on your screen had stopped meaning anything. You blinked. Read the same sentence three times. The running water in the bathroom turned into a kind of white noise, steady and low, and your eyes felt heavier every time you let them close for a second, just a second, to rest.

You told yourself you were just going to lie down for a minute. Just tip sideways, just rest your head against the pillow you were already holding, just for a second, while he finished up.

You were asleep before you finished the thought.

Steve heard the water shut off before he registered that he'd actually shut it off, which told you everything you needed to know about how distracted his brain had been for the last ten minutes. He'd been running through the evening in his head,hat time you needed to leave, whether he should bring a jacket, whether Robin was going to give him grief again for taking twice as long to get ready as you did, and none of it had anything to do with his hair, not really. It never really did. His hair was just a place to put his hands when his brain wouldn't slow down.

He dried them off on the hand towel, flicked off the bathroom light, and pushed the door open with his shoulder, already halfway through a sentence.

"Okay, for real this time, I'm ready, I just need to find my-"

He stopped.

You were curled up on top of his comforter, half-buried under one of his pillows, one hand tucked beneath your cheek and the other loosely curled against your chest. Your phone had slipped from your fingers at some point and was resting face-down against the mattress, screen still glowing faintly at the edges. You'd kicked one shoe off but not the other, which struck him as extremely, painfully you, committed to comfort but never quite finishing the job.

He didn't say anything. He didn't move for a second, actually, just stood there in the doorway with a hand towel still looped over one shoulder and let himself look at you.

There was a version of Steve, the version from a few years back, the one who used to roll his eyes at Robin whenever she got sappy about somebody, who probably would've made a joke right about now. Would've said something about how you couldn't even make it twenty minutes without conking out, would've taken a picture to hold over your head later. That Steve still existed, technically. He still had the impulse. It just didn't win anymore, not when it came to you, not when you looked like this, soft and unguarded and completely at ease in a way you almost never let yourself be anywhere else. You ran yourself ragged most days. Work, and errands, and everybody else's problems before your own. He knew, better than almost anyone, how rare it was for you to actually rest.

So he didn't wake you up. He didn't take a picture. He just stood there for a second longer than he needed to, watching you breathe, and let something in his chest go warm and a little tight, the way it did more often these days than he ever would've predicted a few years ago.

Yeah, he thought. Okay.

He set the towel down on the dresser. Turned off the overhead light, leaving just the lamp on his nightstand burning low and yellow in the corner. Checked, out of old habit, that the window was locked, some things never fully went away, not even years later, not even when the version of the world that made that habit necessary had quieted down. And then, carefully, like the mattress might give him away if he wasn't gentle enough about it, he got into bed beside you.

You stirred the second the mattress dipped under his weight, but you didn't wake up. Your brow pinched for a moment, some small sleep-logic working itself out, and then your body did what it always did, it turned toward the source of warmth, toward him, some instinct that didn't need you to be conscious to know exactly where it wanted to go. You pressed closer, one hand coming up to fist loosely in the front of his shirt, your face tucking into the space just under his jaw.

Steve went very still for a second, the way you go still when something good is happening and you're afraid that moving will make it stop.

Then he settled an arm around you, careful, like you were something that might spook, and pulled the blanket up over both of you with his free hand.

"Yeah," he murmured, mostly into your hair, mostly to himself. "That's where you're supposed to be."

It wasn't a big statement. It wasn't the kind of thing he'd ever say to your face while you were awake and looking at him, because he'd probably get embarrassed about it, backpedal into a joke before you could make it into anything. But here, in the low lamp light, with you fast asleep and unaware and warm against him, it came out easy. Simple. True in the plain, unremarkable way that the truest things usually are.

He thought about waking you up. He really did, you'd talked about going out tonight, had plans, and some responsible corner of his brain was doing the math on how late it was getting. But you'd looked tired lately. Not sick-tired, not something-wrong tired, just worn down in the way that happens when you've been giving pieces of yourself to everything except sleep for too many days in a row. And he figured, plans could move. People could reschedule. This, though, this quiet, unbothered version of you curled against him like there was nowhere else you'd rather be, that felt like something he didn't want to interrupt for anything as replaceable as dinner reservations.

So he stayed. He reached over and turned the lamp off, plunging the room into the kind of dark that was really just gray, streetlight filtering faintly through the curtains. He let his hand rest against your back, feeling the slow rise and fall of your breathing even out even further, deeper, more certain. And somewhere in the process of listening to you breathe, of feeling the warmth of you soak into his side, he fell asleep too.

You woke up slowly, the way you do when there's no alarm forcing the transition, when your body just decides, on its own schedule, that it's had enough sleep and it's time to surface.

The first thing you registered was warmth. A lot of it, concentrated and close, the specific warmth of another person rather than a blanket or a pillow. The second thing you registered was that you couldn't move your arm, not because anything was wrong, but because it was pinned, snugly and thoroughly, beneath something. The third thing, arriving in a slow, mortifying cascade, was the realization of exactly how you were positioned.

You had one leg thrown over both of his. Your arm, the trapped one, was slung across his chest, hand curled loosely against his shoulder. Your face was pressed into the side of his neck, close enough that you could feel his pulse, steady and slow, against your cheek. Somewhere in the process of falling asleep, you had apparently decided that Steve Harrington made an excellent body pillow and had committed to that decision with your entire body.

You went rigid for a second, the specific rigidness of someone doing an internal calculation about how much of a mess they've made.

Steve, it turned out, was already awake.

"Morning," he said, and you could hear the smile in it before you even lifted your head to look at him. "Or, well. Evening, I guess, technically."

You groaned and pressed your face further into his neck, which did nothing to hide you and everything to make him laugh, low and warm, his chest shaking gently under your arm.

"Oh my God," you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and embarrassment in equal measure. "Did I fall asleep?"

"Just a little."

"How little."

"Little enough that you missed the entire, uh, getting ready portion of the evening. And most of the after that."

You lifted your head at that, finally, blinking against the dim light of the room, taking in his face properly, the soft, unbothered amusement on it, none of the irritation you might've braced for. You glanced past him at the window, where the light had shifted from late-afternoon gold to the deeper blue of early evening settling into night.

"Steve." You sat up slightly, guilt flooding in fast now that you were actually conscious enough to feel it properly. "We were supposed to go out. I completely, I fell asleep on your bed and you just, what, got in next to me and let me-"

"Yep," he said, entirely too pleased with himself.

"You could've woken me up."

"I could have." He tucked an arm behind his head, looking at you like this was the most reasonable thing in the world, like he hadn't just let an entire evening's worth of plans dissolve without a word of complaint. "Didn't want to, though."

"Steve."

"What? You looked exhausted. You've looked exhausted for like a week and a half, actually, and you keep saying you're fine, and I don't know, I figured, one night off from doing literally everything wasn't gonna kill anybody. Dinner reservations can get remade. You, apparently, cannot be convinced to rest unless you're unconscious first, so." He shrugged, like it really was that simple to him. "I took the opportunity."

You stared at him for a second, something warm and a little overwhelmed rising up in your chest, the specific feeling of being taken care of by somebody who wasn't making a big production out of it, who was just doing it because it made sense to him, quietly, without needing credit.

"You're ridiculous," you said, but it came out soft, nowhere near the exasperation you were going for.

"I've been told." He reached up, brushing a piece of hair back from your face with a kind of casual gentleness that still, after all this time, made something in your stomach flip. "You were really out, by the way. Like, dead to the world. I stood in the doorway for a solid minute just watching you before I even got in."

"That's not creepy at all."

"It was extremely normal and not weird, actually, and you would've thought so too if you'd seen how you looked. You had, like, a whole death grip on my pillow. It was very serious business."

"I don't grip pillows."

"You gripped that pillow like it owed you money." He was grinning now, clearly enjoying himself, and you swatted lightly at his chest, which only made him laugh harder, catching your hand before you could pull it back and just, holding it there, against him, his thumb tracing absent circles over your knuckles.

The teasing quieted into something softer after that, the two of you just lying there in the dim room, tangled together in a way that felt less like an accident now that you were awake and choosing it, and more like something you'd both settled into on purpose. You were aware, distantly, of your stomach growling, you'd missed dinner, apparently, and probably an entire evening's worth of the plans you'd made, but you found you didn't much care. Nothing about tonight had gone the way you'd planned, and somehow it had turned out better anyway.

"For what it's worth," Steve said after a while, voice quieter now, more careful, the teasing edge smoothed out of it, "I didn't mind. Any of it. In case you're sitting there feeling bad about ruining the night or whatever's going on in your head right now."

"How do you know something's going on in my head."

"Because I've known you for over a year and you get this specific face when you're spiraling about being a burden, and you're making it right now." He tapped a finger lightly against your furrowed brow, and you swatted his hand away, which only made him more smug. "I'm serious, though. I liked this. I liked just, being here. With you asleep on me like a very small, very determined koala."

"I'm not small."

"You attached yourself to my side like you were trying to merge with my ribcage. I stand by koala."

You laughed despite yourself, the sound coming out easier than you expected, some of the leftover embarrassment finally draining out of you and leaving something lighter in its place. You let your head drop back down against his shoulder, this time on purpose, this time wide awake and choosing it, and felt his arm tighten around you in response, easy and automatic.

"We should probably eat something," you said, though you made no move to get up.

"Probably," he agreed, equally unmotivated. "In a minute."

"You said that about your hair earlier too."

"Yeah, well." You could feel him smiling against the top of your head. "Some things are worth being late for."

Outside, the last of the light was fading from gold to navy, streetlights flickering on one by one down the block, and neither of you moved for a long while, comfortable in the quiet, in the warmth, in the simple, unremarkable fact of being exactly where you'd apparently always been meant to end up, tangled together in the dark with nowhere else either of you wanted to be.

Eventually, hunger won out over comfort, it always did, especially with Steve, whose stomach picked that exact moment to growl loud enough that you both dissolved into laughter, the kind that shook the whole bed and made it genuinely difficult to disentangle yourselves from each other. He complained the entire walk down to the kitchen about how you'd elbowed him in the ribs getting up, and you told him that was what he got for keeping you hostage in a blanket fort for two hours, and he said, completely deadpan, that he'd take that deal again in a heartbeat.

You believed him. That was the thing about Steve, he never really bothered pretending about the things that mattered. He'd let an entire evening slip away without a second thought, just to let you sleep, just because some part of him had looked at you curled up in his bed and thought, simply and without complication, this is exactly where I want you to be.

You thought, standing in his kitchen twenty minutes later while he burned the first attempt at grilled cheese and blamed the pan for it, that you couldn't really argue with that logic.

It was, you had to admit, a pretty good place to be.

You nod, biting back a grin.

For a moment, nothing happens. His brain seems to stall completely, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. His gaze flicks from the tiny letter to your face, then back again, as though checking both are still there. "...For me?"

You tilt your head. "Well," you say, trying very hard to keep a straight face, "I wasn't thinking of Scooby-Doo."

The laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It arrives all at once, loud enough that he has to cover his face with one hand, shaking his head as though you're the most ridiculous person he's ever met. "You are impossible."

"I've been told."

When he looks back at the tattoo, though, the laughter fades almost as quickly as it arrived. His fingertips hover just above your skin, suddenly hesitant. "Can I...?"

"You've had permission for years."

He smiles at that, then lets his thumb brush gently across the little letter.

It's such a small thing. Just one line, one curve, one permanent mark that hadn't been there a fortnight ago.

And yet he's looking at it with the kind of quiet wonder people usually reserve for engagement rings.

"You really did this," he murmurs.

The words aren't directed at you so much as the room itself.

"I really did."

He lets out a slow breath through his nose before looking back up at you, his expression softer than you've seen it all day. "I genuinely didn't think there was any part of you I hadn't memorised."

You laugh quietly. "I was hoping you'd say that."

His eyes narrow. "You planned this."

"A little."

"You wanted to see how long it'd take me."

"I had a bet with myself."

"And?"

"I gave you a week."

Steve's smile grows impossibly smug. "You lost."

"I did."

"It took me..." He glances towards the clock on the bedside table. "What? Forty-five seconds?"

"Approximately."

"I'd like that noted for the record."

"Oh, I don't think you're ever letting me forget it."

"Absolutely not."

He looks down at the tattoo once more, still smiling to himself with the quiet disbelief of somebody who has stumbled across an unexpected gift.

"You have no idea," he says, almost under his breath, "what you do to me."

He isn't looking at you when he says it.

He's still looking at the tiny black S, as though he can't quite believe it's real.

Steve tries, for all of a few minutes, to behave like a normal person.

It doesn't last.

Conversation resumes eventually, drifting towards dinner plans and whether either of you can be bothered leaving the house, but every so often his attention wanders. His hand finds your waist without thinking, his thumb brushing lightly across the tiny S as though checking it's still there. Every time he catches sight of it, the same incredulous smile returns to his face.

You let it happen for a while.

Then you catch him looking again. "...Steve."

"Hm?"

"You've been staring at that tattoo for the last ten minutes."

"I have."

"You've also kissed it an alarming number of times."

He doesn't even attempt to defend himself. "I probably have."

"You are aware I have other tattoos?"

"I know."

"And yet this one has apparently become your entire personality."

A laugh escapes him as he drops his forehead briefly against your shoulder. "I can't help it."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "Every time I look at it, my brain just..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you before giving up. "Short-circuits."

You smile to yourself. "It's one letter."

"I know."

"It's tiny."

"I know."

"It might actually be the smallest tattoo I own."

"I know."

You nudge him gently with your shoulder. "So why are you acting like I've just unveiled the Sistine Chapel?"

Steve's eyes lift to yours for only a moment before dropping back to the ink on your ribs. "Because..." He laughs quietly, almost at himself. "God, I don't even know how to explain it."

His fingertips skim carefully over your skin, tracing the outline so lightly it barely counts as touch.

"I've always loved your tattoos," he says. "I love that they tell your story. Every time you got a new one, I'd spend days asking what every little line meant."

You nod. "I remember."

"But this one's different." He falls quiet again, searching for the words. "It isn't because it's an S."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "It's because every time I see it, all I can think is..." He lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. "...you chose me."

The room grows unexpectedly quiet. The teasing slips away as quickly as it arrived. You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

You say softly, "I liked the idea that I'd catch sight of it sometimes and think of you."

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then he leans forward and presses another lingering kiss against the little black letter.

You sigh dramatically. "There."

"What?"

"That was number nine."

He looks up, entirely unashamed. "I've lost count."

"I haven't."

"I figured."

"You've got a problem."

"I definitely do."

You laugh, smoothing a hand through his hair.

"You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I don't think I'm ever going to stop."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

"I mean..." He smiles against your skin before stealing yet another kiss, softer this time, almost absent-mindedly. "You have no idea what you do to me."

You glance down at the top of his head. "Ten."

He looks up innocently. "What?"

"You made it about thirty seconds."

Steve considers that. "...Honestly?"

"Hm?"

"I thought I'd lasted longer."

You can't help laughing. "No, sweetheart."

His grin widens. "Worth a shot."

Robin notices before either of you does.

It's a few evenings later, and the three of you are wedged into your usual booth at the diner, halfway through the sort of conversation that has somehow drifted from films to conspiracy theories about why the jukebox only ever seems to play Fleetwood Mac when it's raining. You've just come back from refilling your Diet Pepsi and are sliding back into the booth when Steve reaches for you without even looking.

It's so automatic that he never seems to make a decision.

One hand settles lightly against your waist, his thumb slipping beneath the hem of your T-shirt just enough to find the tiny S, and before you've even finished sitting down, he presses a fleeting kiss against your side.

Then he carries on talking as though nothing has happened.

Robin doesn't even lift her eyes from her milkshake. "Oh my God."

Steve blinks. "What?"

"You did it again."

"What did I do?"

"You kissed the tattoo."

Silence.

Steve's head turns towards her with almost painful slowness. "...How do you know about the tattoo?"

Robin finally looks up. "Because I watched her get it."

His expression empties completely. "You... what?"

"I went with her."

Steve turns to you so quickly you almost laugh. "You took Robin?"

"I needed moral support."

Robin nods matter-of-factly. "And someone to remind her she wanted it every time she started overthinking."

"I overthink," you protest.

"You absolutely do."

Steve is still staring between the two of you, trying to catch up with a conversation that, apparently, everyone else has already had. "So..." He points vaguely at Robin. "You've known this whole time?"

"Mhm."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"She made me swear."

"You both conspired against me."

"It was less of a conspiracy," Robin says, taking another sip of her milkshake. "More of a birthday present without the birthday."

"I feel deeply betrayed."

"You'll survive."

"I don't know if I will."

Robin gives him a long, unimpressed look. "Steve."

"What?"

"You've been smiling like someone won the lottery ever since you found it."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

He opens his mouth to argue, catches sight of your amused expression, and immediately loses whatever point he thought he was making. His eyes drift, almost helplessly, to the little sliver of black ink peeking above the waistband of your jeans. A smile spreads across his face before he can stop it. "...That's still my initial."

Robin drops her head onto one hand. "We're aware."

"I just-"

"We know."

"I can't explain it."

"You've tried."

"I know."

"No, you've really tried."

Steve laughs quietly to himself, still looking at the tattoo with the same bewildered affection he'd worn the night he'd discovered it. "I just..." He shakes his head. "You have no idea what that does to me."

The words are softer this time, spoken only to you. You slip your hand beneath the table until your fingers find his, giving them a gentle squeeze. "I think," you say, unable to hide your smile, "I'm starting to."

Robin watches the exchange over the rim of her glass before letting out a theatrical sigh. "You two are actually disgusting."

Steve doesn't even pretend to be offended. He simply intertwines his fingers with yours, still smiling to himself in that quiet, hopeless way that makes it abundantly clear Robin has already lost the battle for his attention.

She shakes her head. "I miss when you were emotionally unavailable."

Without taking his eyes off you, Steve replies, perfectly content, "I don't."

Later that night, the house settles into its usual silence. Rain drifts softly against the bedroom window, the lights downstairs have long since been switched off, and the bedroom is lit only by the warm pool of the bedside lamp, leaving everything beyond it to dissolve into shadow.

You're lying on your stomach beside Steve, half-reading a book you've turned the same page of three times, while he flicks absent-mindedly through an old magazine that has long since stopped holding either of your attention.

The quiet between you is easy. It always has been.

At some point, without either of you noticing exactly when, Steve reaches across the mattress. His hand disappears beneath the hem of your sleep shirt, his fingertips wandering over your skin with the unconscious familiarity of somebody finding their way home in the dark.

He isn't looking. He doesn't need to.

He follows the same route he always does, tracing the flowers that curl around your ribs before drifting lower, his touch unhurried, thoughtful, as instinctive now as breathing.

Then his thumb settles over the tiny S.

It doesn't hesitate. It simply finds it.

You lower your book and watch him for a moment, amused. "You've already memorised it."

Steve glances up, momentarily confused. "Hm?"

"The tattoo."

He follows your gaze to his own hand, only then seeming to realise where his thumb has come to rest. "Oh." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I guess I have."

"You didn't even look."

He shrugs, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Well..." He brushes his thumb lightly over the little letter again. "...It's yours."

You shake your head. "No."

His brow furrows. "No?"

"It's ours."

For a moment, he simply looks at you. Then the softest smile you've seen all day spreads slowly across his face. "I like that better."

Something about the simplicity of the answer makes your chest tighten.

You set the book aside and roll onto your side to face him properly. "You know," you say, "for someone who insists he doesn't have favourites..."

Steve smiles. "I've been caught."

"You've called almost all of my tattoos your favourite at some point."

"I know."

"So what's so special about this one?"

He is quiet for a moment, his thumb still resting lightly against the little black letter. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than before. "The others tell me who you are." His eyes lift to yours. "This one's different."

"How?"

He studies you for a long moment, as though searching for a better answer than the one that first comes to mind. "When I look at the others," he says eventually, "I see all the pieces of your life that happened before me." His thumb brushes gently across the tiny letter. "When I look at this one..." He smiles to himself. "I remember that somehow, somewhere along the way, you decided there was room for me in it."

For a second, you can't think of anything to say.

Steve notices immediately. "What?"

"You got all sentimental."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I was making an observation."

"You were making a speech."

"It wasn't a speech."

"It was dangerously close."

He laughs, ducking his head with the sheepish smile you've always loved most, before leaning over to press one last kiss against your side.

It's brief. Absent-minded. The sort of gesture that has already become second nature.

When he settles back beside you, one arm slips comfortably around your waist, his hand finding its familiar place against your ribs without a second thought.

Outside, the rain continues to fall.

Inside, Steve's thumb remains resting over the tiny letter as though it has always belonged there.

dividers: saradika-graphics

Two days ago, your 6-year-old daughter had been asking you incessantly why some girls in the front row of her dad's show wore colorful beaded bracelets. On the first day, you explained that those were friendship bracelets and that some fans made them with their friends, putting favorite song names and things like that on them. That day, a fan gave a bracelet to some of the guys in the band, which made Amy even more obsessed with the object, staring at and grabbing the bracelet off Wes's wrist every time she ran into him. On the second day, you decided to head out around the city right after lunch to look for beads, so your daughter could make some bracelets herself. You remembered when you yourself were Amy's age and used to make bracelets with your little friends at school, so this would probably be a good experience for your daughter to have. Plus, she'd have a different way to pass the time, since the tour bus wasn't the most fun place for a six-year-old to spend several days in a row. You could already feel her mood shifting because of the few hours of boredom that popped up every now and then.

Joe had eaten lunch with you both at the hotel and gone off to do something else with the band. Rehearsal? Going over the songs? You hadn't really paid attention, because while he talked and kissed each of you on the cheek, Amy was smearing herself with pasta and red sauce beside you and you were doing your best to minimize the damage that was going to do to her clothes. All you remembered was agreeing to be at the venue an hour and a half before the band went on stage. After that, you went to the room to get Amy changed and headed out to look for the beads.

After going to three different stores and Amy starting to complain about her feet hurting, you finally stopped at a café that was practically empty. You ordered a black coffee, a slice of cake, and an orange juice for Amy. You opened the bags of beads, laying them out on the table as neatly as you could, opened the roll of elastic string and cut off a piece, setting things up so your daughter could put together her own bracelet, and watched chaos take over that café table, chaos that, unbelievably, made your whole world stop. Meanwhile, outside, cars drove by honking, people walked back and forth in an incredible hurry. But there, in the café, your daughter picked out, with her tiny little hands, the letters she wanted for her bracelet, then she chose the colors of the beads, putting them on one at a time, until she'd decide she didn't like it and take them all off the elastic string and start over from scratch. You, elbow resting on the table, stepped in only when needed or when she asked you to. By the fourth time she gave up on her project and started over, you began to worry you wouldn't make it to the arena on time to meet Joe.

"Sweetheart, do you want mommy's help?", you asked, finishing your coffee and sorting out some beads yourself. You could see the frustration taking over that little person's expression and how her mind was working hard to create something from scratch again. It was like the gears in her head became visible to you through her eyes. Just like her dad, Amy could convey every emotion to you with just a look. And you felt privileged to be able to read the two most important people in your life so easily.

"I want to make one for daddy, he's my best friend," she answered, sipping her orange juice through the straw, her eyes still fixed on the beads the whole time. You, on the other hand, were speechless. On one hand, because your six-year-old had just said her dad was her best friend, and that stirred up a tiny bit of jealousy in your mom heart. On the other hand, this was probably the cutest thing you'd ever heard come out of your daughter's mouth, who, up until now, only really talked about aliens, princesses, alien princesses, boogers, and… probably that.

"Do you already know what you want to write for him?", you asked, trying to hide all the feelings running through you at that moment.

"No, that's the problem, mommy!", she said, huffing a little, but still not taking her eyes off the beads, holding the elastic string between the tip of her thumb and index finger. Amy already knew how to write several words, mainly the ones that came up in everyday life, like her own name, yours, and Joe's, her uncles' names, Joe's bandmates' names, her grandparents'…

"What do you always call him, princess?", you asked, and she immediately went looking for the letters D, A, two more D's, and a Y. Without saying anything, she looked up at you smiling, taking another sip of her orange juice and now attacking a bit of the cake, as if the arrival of an idea had opened up her appetite.

"Okay, we've got our word!", you said, kissing her forehead and wiping a few crumbs of cake off her face.

"Now, which colors are we gonna use? What do you think daddy would like?", you raised your eyebrows, looking at Amy, as if giving her time to think it over.

"All of them!", she answered enthusiastically, her little arms up in the air, still holding the elastic string between her fingertips. And so, off you went! Within a few minutes, Amy had put together a friendship bracelet for Joe, always measuring the size against your wrist and adding a bit more room, since his wrist was probably a little bigger than yours. "Do we still have time?", she asked as you closed up the bracelet for her, making it secure to wear, with no risk of the beads falling off or the bracelet snapping.

"Yes! We've got a few more minutes… why?", you asked, figuring she'd want to eat something else or drink more juice.

"Because I want to make one for me, that says 'PRINCESS,' 'cause that's what daddy calls me…", she said, already eyeing the letters she remembered spelled the word. Your heart squeezed with love. Before getting pregnant, you never imagined it was possible to love someone the way you loved this tiny human being who amazed you more with every passing day.

You helped her when she asked you to check if the word was right, and off she went to make her little bracelet. That one took much less time, since Amy's wrist is small. With everything ready, you tucked the two bracelets into your bag, gathered up the beads, and caught a cab toward the venue. Because of everything that happened that afternoon and the city traffic, you ended up arriving a few minutes late, and Joe was already waiting for you both impatiently.

With one hand on his hip, he had the phone to his ear, and you felt something in your bag vibrate… he was trying to call you. But then he spotted you two. Amy was on your hip, arms wrapped around your neck and legs around your waist, almost falling asleep, because, according to her, she'd worked too hard that afternoon and was very tired. However, the moment she spotted her dad, who knelt down on the ground to get to his 6-year-old daughter's height, she stretched out her little legs, a signal to be put down, and as soon as her little feet touched the ground, she ran toward Joe. Joe lifted her up high, making her burst into happy laughter, and you smiled to yourself like a fool, thinking about how lucky you were to have gotten a family like this.

With Amy on his hip, propped against his side, Joe, with his other free arm, pulled you in by the waist and gave you a kiss, a longer kiss than usual, and when you finally looked at each other calmly, he asked, "What happened? You two nearly gave me a heart attack running late!"

Amy hid her face in Joe's neck and he immediately eyed her suspiciously, he already knew that when his daughter hid, especially in his neck, avoiding his eyes, it was because she'd been up to something. You watched her, laughing, pretending you were about to tickle her, just to make her laugh even more.

"Well, we were on a mission, daddy… weren't we?", you said, looking at Amy and winking at her. She nodded and reached her arm out for your bag. At that moment, you knelt down to open the bag and Amy got down off her dad's hip, Joe still asking what was going on and looking at the two of you with a mix of curiosity, anxiousness, and happiness. Amy rushed to search through your bag, telling her dad to wait just a little bit. When Amy finally found the two bracelets, she put hers on and handed the other one to Joe.

"Here, daddy… this one's for you. It's a friendship bracelet… and you're my best friend"

Joe had almost the same reaction you did, except he picked her up in his arms, also speechless, and pulled her into a tight hug, covering her in little kisses and repeating "I love you" over and over. Amy clung to Joe's neck and laughed loudly, the most beautiful laugh you'd ever heard in your whole life. Whenever Joe and Amy shared moments like these, you wished you had a camera filming everything, as some way to record these moments forever. Either way, you knew they'd stay etched in your memory. When they finished, Joe set her back on his hip and Amy put the bracelet on Joe, then immediately showed hers to him. You could see his eyes were welling up and you felt yours filling with tears too. When you two caught each other's eye, you smiled foolishly at one another, as if you couldn't quite believe the daughter you'd made together.

With his hand on your waist, pulling you in a little, he asked, "And mommy?"

You immediately pouted, trying to put on a little bit of drama for the two of them, even though, now, after seeing just how much they really were best friends, it didn't bother you anymore. Amy immediately reached for you, pulling at you to be picked up, and once you did, she hugged you and kissed your cheek, "Mommy's can say her nickname, Mommy, or 'Best Mom,' right, daddy?"

Joe kissed your cheek and then your lips, both of you smiling into the kiss.

You did not have to worry about waking anyone inside, though. The lamp by the door was already on. And when you finally got the door open and stumbled into the entryway, toeing off one shoe before you'd even shut the door behind you, you could hear the low murmur of the TV drifting from the living room, just a few steps away.

Joe was still up.

Of course he was. He always was, when you went out without him, not because he didn't trust you to get home in one piece, but because he liked being the one you came home to. He'd never said it in so many words, but you knew it anyway, the same way you knew most things about him: not because he announced them, but because you'd learned to read the quiet parts of him a long time ago.

You found him on the sofa in old sweatpants and a T-shirt soft enough that you knew it was one of his favourites, one knee pulled up, the blue light of some show he clearly wasn't paying attention to flickering across his face. He had that particular slouch he got late at night, comfortable and unhurried, like the whole apartment belonged to him and he had nowhere else to be. The second he heard you in the hallway, he twisted around to look, and you watched the exact moment his face changed, the small, private smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, the way his eyebrows lifted just slightly.

He didn't need you to say anything. One look at you, the too-bright eyes, the crooked way you were standing, the fact that you were still holding one shoe in your hand like you'd forgotten what to do with it, and he already knew exactly how the rest of the night was going to go.

"Joey!"

His name came out of you like it was the most wonderful discovery you'd made all evening, like you hadn't fully expected him to be sitting right there, in your own home, exactly where you'd left him. You dropped the shoe, it landed somewhere near the shoe rack, more by accident than design, and crossed the living room in a handful of uneven steps before all but throwing yourself into his lap.

He caught you easily, huffing out a laugh as your arms looped around his neck and your face pressed into the side of his throat. "Hi," he said, amusement warm in his voice, one arm coming around your back to steady you, the other bracing against the sofa cushion so neither of you toppled sideways. "Hi, hi. Okay."

"I missed you," you told him, muffled against his skin, entirely sincere, like you'd been gone for a week rather than a handful of hours.

"You've been gone since seven," Joe said, but he was grinning as he said it, and his hand had already started moving in slow circles against your back, the way it always did when you weren't feeling well or feeling too much of something. "It's barely midnight."

"Still missed you." You pulled back just far enough to look at him properly, swaying slightly even sitting down, your hands migrating to either side of his face like you needed to hold him still to look at him properly. Up close, he looked impossibly soft in the low light, hair messier than usual from where he'd clearly been running a hand through it, a little furrow of fond concern between his brows that hadn't quite smoothed out yet. "Did you miss me?"

"Terribly," he said, completely deadpan, and then laughed again when you made an offended noise and swatted weakly at his chest. "I did. I missed you. Did you have a good night?"

That was apparently the exact right question to ask, because you launched immediately into an account of your evening that had absolutely no regard for chronological order. One sentence you were telling him about the bar you'd started at, the next you were three stories deep into something that had happened to your friend's cousin, and somewhere in between you seemed to remember an entirely different anecdote and pivoted without warning, leaving Joe to piece together the actual sequence of events through context clues alone.

He didn't seem to mind. He never did. He sat there with you curled half in his lap, nodding along, asking exactly the right follow-up questions to keep you talking, not because he needed the information, you suspected, but because he liked watching you like this, loose and happy and entirely unfiltered, your hands gesturing wildly enough that you nearly caught him in the jaw twice. Every so often his eyes would crinkle at the corners in a way that had nothing to do with anything you'd actually said and everything to do with simply looking at you.

"and then Priya said the bartender said it was on the house, which, obviously that's not true, bars don't just give away drinks, but she was so convinced, and I didn't want to be the one to tell her-"

"Naturally," Joe said gravely.

"-so I just let her think it, and honestly? I respect the confidence. I would've believed him too."

"You believe most things people tell you when you've had a few," he pointed out, not unkindly.

"That's not true." You considered this for a second, swaying slightly. "Okay, it's a little true."

He laughed, properly laughed, the sound rumbling under your ear where your head had drifted back down to his shoulder somewhere in the last two minutes without your noticing, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head before nudging you gently upright. "Come on. Let's get your coat off before you fall asleep in it."

You informed him, with great dignity, that you did not need help, that you were an adult woman fully capable of removing your own coat, and then proceeded to get one arm stuck in the sleeve so thoroughly that you nearly toppled off the sofa trying to free yourself. Joe caught you by the elbow before you could go down, biting back a smile so hard his whole face was fighting him on it.

"Fully capable," he agreed, already working the coat gently off your shoulders while you huffed and grumbled about traitorous sleeves. "Completely independent. Not falling over even a little."

"I'm not," you said, and immediately proved yourself wrong by listing sideways into him the second the coat came free.

He didn't laugh at you, not really, not in any way that stung. It was fonder than that, softer, the kind of teasing that only ever made you feel more looked after rather than less. He got the coat draped properly over the arm of the sofa, then crouched down in front of you to deal with the shoe you were still wearing, one hand braced warm against your ankle as he tugged it loose.

"You're too good to me," you told him, watching him with the kind of unguarded affection that only ever came out after a few drinks, when every soft feeling you had was suddenly right there on the surface with nowhere to hide.

"I'm really not," Joe said, glancing up at you with a smile that said otherwise. "I just like taking care of you."

He asked if you'd eaten somewhere in the process of steering you toward the kitchen, one hand resting light against the small of your back like he wasn't quite trusting you to walk the ten feet unassisted. You told him yes, of course you had, you'd had, and then paused for a beat too long, visibly searching your own memory for evidence, some chips. At the bar. Definitely.

"Chips," Joe repeated, deeply unconvinced.

"Bar snacks count as a meal."

"They really don't."

You opened your mouth to argue the point further and then seemed to lose the thread entirely, distracted instead by the effort of hoisting yourself up onto the kitchen counter, which took two attempts and Joe's hand steadying your hip before you managed it. Once you were up there, legs swinging, you looked entirely too pleased with yourself, like scaling the countertop had been some great personal triumph.

Joe shook his head, but he was already moving toward the fridge, already resigned to the fact that you were getting fed whether you thought you needed it or not. He pulled out eggs and bread, a block of cheese, moving around the kitchen with the easy, unhurried competence of someone who'd made this exact meal a hundred times before, for you and for himself, on nights that called for something simple and warm rather than anything complicated.

You watched him from your perch on the counter with your chin propped on your hand, tracking every small movement, the way he cracked eggs one-handed without looking, the little frown of concentration when he checked the pan wasn't too hot, the sleeves of his T-shirt pushed up his forearms.

"You're so pretty," you said, apropos of nothing, entirely matter-of-fact, like you were commenting on the weather.

Joe huffed a laugh without turning around. "Thank you."

"I mean it. Like, genuinely. You're so pretty it's kind of unfair." You tilted your head, studying him with the exaggerated seriousness of someone conducting very important research. "How do you just, look like that. All the time. Even in old sweatpants."

"I don't know what to tell you," he said, glancing back at you over his shoulder, clearly fighting a losing battle against his own smile. "Genetics, I guess."

"Lucky genetics." You sighed, long and dramatic, letting your head fall back against the cabinet behind you. "I'm so lucky. Do you know that? I'm the luckiest. I get to just, come home to this. To you. Every day. That's crazy. That's actually insane, if you think about it."

He did turn around properly then, spatula still in hand, something in his expression going soft and a little overwhelmed in the way it always did when you said things like that, things that were easy for drunk-you to say out loud, things sober-you felt just as deeply but usually kept folded up smaller, tucked away where they were safer. He crossed the kitchen just to press a kiss to your forehead, quick and warm, before he went back to the stove.

"I'm the lucky one," he said, quiet enough that you almost missed it under the sound of eggs sizzling.

You made a small, pleased noise and let your legs swing a little harder against the cabinets, entirely too warm and soft-focused to argue the point, though you privately thought he was wrong. You always thought he was wrong, on this particular subject. It was one of the very few things you two disagreed on with any regularity.

The moment the toast popped, you were reaching for it, fingers already halfway to the plate before Joe caught your wrist without even looking, steering your hand gently back toward your lap.

"Wait," he said. "It's not ready."

"It's toast. Toast is ready the second it's toast."

"It needs butter."

"I can wait for butter after I've had a bite."

"You cannot," Joe said, with the weary patience of a man who had had this exact argument before, on other nights, in other states of sobriety, and lost it roughly half the time. He nudged your hand away again when you made a second attempt, this time going for the cheese directly off the cutting board, and you huffed at him, wounded, cradling your rejected hand against your chest like he'd committed some grave injustice.

"You're mean to me."

"I'm feeding you," he said. "There's a difference."

By the time he finally set the plate in front of you, eggs, cheese, toast properly buttered, all of it simple and warm and exactly the kind of thing your stomach actually wanted, you'd forgiven him entirely, mostly because the smell of it made you realise how hungry you actually were underneath all the not-hungry you'd insisted on in the cab. Joe pulled a stool up beside the counter and sat with you while you ate, one hand resting on your knee, watching with quiet satisfaction as you worked steadily through the plate.

He didn't rush you. He didn't say much at all, really, just let you eat at your own pace, occasionally reaching over to push a stray piece of hair back from your face, or to steal a very small piece of toast off the edge of your plate when you weren't looking, which you caught him doing exactly once and threatened, with great solemnity, to never forgive him for.

By the time the plate was mostly empty, the adrenaline of the night had worn off entirely, and what was left in its place was a heavy, pleasant kind of tired that made your eyelids feel three times too heavy. You set your fork down, and without any real decision behind it, your head found his shoulder, tucking in against the curve of his neck like it belonged there.

"Tired?" Joe asked, voice low, one hand coming up to rest against the back of your head.

"Mm," you agreed, which was really all the answer you had left in you.

He noticed the exact second you started to properly drift, your breathing slowing, your weight going soft and heavy against his side, one hand losing its grip on the edge of the counter, and gently eased you back before you could tip sideways off your perch entirely.

"Okay," he murmured, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone until your eyes blinked back open, bleary and unfocused. "Bedtime. Come on."

"I can walk," you told him, with the misplaced confidence of someone who had, several hours ago, been capable of walking in a straight line.

You made it approximately two steps off the stool before your ankle rolled slightly on absolutely nothing, and you pitched sideways directly into Joe's chest, who had clearly been anticipating this exact outcome, given that his arm was already there to catch you before you'd fully started falling.

"Floor's uneven," you informed him, with the deep offence of someone wrongly accused.

"Sure it is," Joe said, not even bothering to argue, already looping an arm firmly around your waist, tucking you into his side in a way that meant you couldn't list too far in either direction. "C'mon. Bed's right here."

He walked you the short distance down the hall at a slow, careful pace, one hand splayed warm against your hip, patient through every wobble and every moment you stopped dead to lean your full weight into him and declare that you needed a break, actually, right here, in the hallway, this was fine. He didn't argue with that either, just held you steady until you decided on your own that continuing on was, in fact, the better plan.

In the bedroom, he sat you down on the edge of the bed and disappeared into the closet just long enough to find your pyjamas, the soft set, the ones you always reached for when you weren't feeling great, because he knew you well enough to know that even drunk-and-happy counted, on some level, as not quite feeling great, and laid them out beside you before stepping back toward the door.

"I'll be right outside," he said. "Yell if you need help."

"I don't need privacy from you," you said, squinting up at him, faintly scandalised by the very idea. "You've seen me naked like a thousand times."

"I know." His mouth twitched. "Still gonna give you a minute. Yell if you need me."

You did, in fact, yell for him, not because you'd fallen or gotten stuck, but because you'd gotten distracted three sentences into changing and forgotten what you were doing, and needed him to come back and remind you. He came back laughing, helping you the rest of the way into your pyjama top with the practiced patience of someone who'd done this before and would happily do it again.

He sat you in front of the bathroom mirror after that, running a warm washcloth gently over your face to work through the last of your makeup, careful around your eyes, quiet and unhurried the whole time. You watched him in the mirror rather than watching your own reflection, the concentration on his face, the softness in the set of his mouth, and felt something warm and a little overwhelming settle in your chest, the kind of feeling that was too big and too simple to put into words even when you were sober, let alone now.

"You're really good at this," you told him.

"At washing your face?"

"At all of it." You gestured vaguely, encompassing the bathroom, the washcloth, the entire evening. "Taking care of me. You're really good at it."

"Lots of practice," Joe said, setting the washcloth aside and brushing a strand of hair back from your face with gentle fingers, tucking it behind your ear.

He walked you back to the bed after that, pulled the duvet back for you, and while you settled in he moved around the room finishing the small things, a glass of water on your nightstand, your phone plugged in and charging on the dresser, the lamp dimmed rather than switched off entirely, because he knew you liked a little bit of light on nights like this. Only once all of it was done did he finally climb in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight, and you immediately gravitated toward him, seeking out his warmth like it was instinct.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled against his chest, already half somewhere else, your fingers curling loosely into the front of his shirt. "For making you look after me. Like this. You shouldn't have to."

"Hey." His voice was gentle but firm, one hand coming up to rest against your back, holding you close. "You have absolutely nothing to apologise for. Okay? Nothing."

"But-"

"Nothing," he said again, quieter this time, pressing a kiss into your hair. "I like taking care of you. I'd rather be doing this than anything else tonight. So stop apologising."

You didn't have the energy left to argue with him, not really, and some small, sober-adjacent part of you recognised that he meant it anyway, that this wasn't a performance of patience he was putting on for your benefit, it was just Joe, being exactly who he always was with you.

Once you were both properly settled, the lamp low, the duvet pulled up around your shoulders, his arm looped around you like it belonged there, you went quiet in a way you hadn't been all night. The rambling energy that had carried you through the last few hours had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer and slower in its place. You curled fully into his chest, one hand still fisted loosely in the fabric of his shirt like you needed something to hold onto, and pressed your face into the warm curve of his neck.

"I love coming home to you," you murmured, the words slurred soft at the edges but entirely sincere. "Like, always. Every time. But especially tonight."

Joe's arm tightened around you, just slightly. "Yeah?"

"Mm-hm." You nuzzled closer, chasing his warmth, your words starting to blur together the way they always did right before sleep pulled you under. "You're my favourite person. Did you know that? Like, out of everyone. In the whole world. You're it."

"I did not know the whole world was under consideration," Joe said, voice thick with quiet laughter, but his hand had started moving in slow circles against your back again, the way it always did when he was trying not to let you feel how much something had gotten to him.

"It was. You won." Your eyes were barely open now, your voice dropping to something closer to a whisper. "You're my safest place. 's not even, it's not a metaphor. I mean it, like, literally. Safest place I know."

He didn't say anything for a moment, and when you cracked one eye open to check, you found him looking down at you with an expression so unguarded, so completely undone, that it made your chest ache in the nicest possible way. He looked, in that moment, like a man who had just been handed something he intended to keep forever.

"Stay awake with me," you mumbled, already losing the battle against sleep even as you said it. "Till I fall asleep. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," Joe said, and he meant it the way he meant most things, quietly, completely, without needing to say more than that.

You hummed, satisfied, and pressed a small, clumsy kiss to his collarbone, then another slightly higher, aimed vaguely at his jaw and missing by an inch. "Love you," you mumbled between them, the words disjointed, half-finished thoughts strung loosely together. "Love you so much. 'm so glad you're- you're just. Here."

"I love you too," Joe said, brushing his lips against your forehead, holding you like something precious. "So much. Go to sleep, okay? I've got you."

You made a small, agreeable noise against his skin, one more sleepy kiss landing somewhere near his ear, and then, mid-sentence, mid-thought, really, some fragment of a story you never finished telling him, you went slack against his chest, your breathing evening out into the slow, steady rhythm of actual sleep.

Joe stayed still for a long moment afterward, just looking down at you, at the way your face had gone soft and unguarded in sleep, at the way your hand was still curled loosely into his shirt like even unconscious you didn't want to let go of him. He smiled to himself in the dim light of the lamp, pressed one last kiss to your forehead, and reached down to pull the duvet a little higher around your shoulders before finally letting his own eyes close.

You couldn't wrap your head around the fact that the moment had finally come.

After years of table reads and endless shoots, of friendships formed in trailers and on freezing sets at three in the morning, Stranger Things was ending. There were still interviews to do, of course, press days ahead of you, screenings and weeks before the final season actually belonged to the audience but tonight, the last premiere, marked the end of an era. 

The realization sat somewhere beneath your ribs, heavy and tender.

You didn't know how you were supposed to say goodbye to something that had given you so much.

A career.

Friends who had become a second family to you.

A life you never could have imagined when ten years ago you'd walked onto set for the first time.

And Joe.

Especially him.

Your husband, you reminded yourself. Even months after the wedding, the word still occasionally appeared in your mind with the same strange little spark of disbelief. Every once in a while, one of you would say husband or wife in conversation and the other would smile like an idiot.

You hoped that part never went away.

Your eyes lifted to your own reflection again before looking down.

While one chapter was ending, another — one far bigger than either of you or Joe had ever imagined — had already begun.

You couldn't have been happier, yet you couldn't remember the last time you'd been this nervous.

Slowly, you turned sideways, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your hips before your hands instinctively found the gentle curve of your stomach. It had become second nature over the past few weeks ever since the two of you had found out you were expecting a baby. You tilted your head, studying your reflection from every angle, trying to decide if anyone else would notice what your eyes seemed determined to find every single time.

“Honey?”

Joe's voice carried from the other side of the suite. A second later, he appeared in the doorway, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket.

"You ready? The car's already—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes landing on you immediately. For a moment, he simply stared, a soft smile slowly spreading across his face.

"Wow."

Heat immediately crept into your cheeks as you tried not to smile. 

“Thanks. That was very... articulate."

"Give me a second."

He walked farther into the room, still looking at you.

"I'm processing."

"Oh, are you?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "I mean, have you seen yourself?"

You laughed under your breath.

His smile widened at the sound. Then his expression softened.

"You look beautiful."

Your shoulders relaxed despite yourself.

No matter how many times he looked at you like that, it still managed to steal your breath away every time. 

"Thank you," you murmured, smiling shyly. He came to stand behind you, his hands finding your hips almost automatically. You looked at the two of you in the mirror and for a second, some of the tension in your chest loosened. Then you turned sideways again.

"Are you sure you can't tell?"

His brows pulled together.

"Tell what?"

You looked at him through the mirror.

"Joe."

"I'm kidding."

“You’re not helping."

"I know."

You pressed your palm gently against your stomach.

“It seems bigger tonight.”

He studied your reflection.

"It's not.”

"You're legally obligated to say that."

"I don't think that's part of the vows."

"It was in the fine print."

“Damn, I should've read those."

Joe smiled, but when you didn't, the teasing faded from his face. He stepped closer, his hand slipping over yours. The warmth of his palm covered your fingers where they rested against the small swell beneath your dress, and something about the gesture made your throat tighten unexpectedly.

Four months.

It still sounded unreal when you thought it.

Four months pregnant.

Even now, there were mornings when you woke up and forgot for three or four seconds. Then Joe would roll toward you in his sleep, or you'd feel the strange new heaviness in your body, or your hand would drift instinctively downward, and the reality of it would rush back all at once.

There was a baby.

Your baby.

A tiny person somehow growing quietly in the middle of your otherwise ridiculously busy life.

The bump was beginning to show now, still subtle enough to be mistaken for a little bloating or a few extra pounds, but noticeable enough that you had started paying attention to how certain clothes fell over your stomach. Having been around Hollywood long enough, you were acutely aware of how the machine operated. The moment anyone spotted the slightest shadow of a rounded stomach, the pregnancy rumors would start flying. But you weren't ready for it to become something everyone else could talk about yet. Which was exactly why you and Joe had been so careful and had decided to keep the pregnancy private for a little while longer. Only your families and a handful of close friends knew.

“Hey.”

Joe's thumb moved once over your knuckles.

“When I look at you, I only see the most beautiful woman I've ever met."

You couldn't help smiling.

“Joe... I’m serious.”

"So am I."

He turned you gently so you were facing him rather than the mirror.

"There is nothing to worry about."

"You don't think people will notice?"

"No."

His answer came so quickly that you didn’t believe him.

"Joe."

"They won't."

He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before cupping your face. You searched his eyes, trying to figure out whether he was sincere or was simply saying whatever he thought would calm you down.

He smiled, impossibly soft.

"Everyone will be way too busy staring at how gorgeous you are to notice anything else."

A quiet laugh escaped you as you rolled your eyes.

"That's a terrible attempt at distracting me."

“But is it working?” You shook your head with a fond smile, feeling some of the tension finally leave your body.

“Maybe. Just a little."

"I'll take it."

Joe leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. It wasn't that you wanted to hide the pregnancy. Quite the opposite. But this wasn’t the right timing to break the news to the entire world.

This week wasn't yours. Not really. It belonged to the show. To all the cast. And to the incredible job they'd done in the last ten years. 

When your relationship with Joe had gone public years earlier, the internet had exploded. The reactions from the audience had been overwhelmingly positive. Fans had spent months rooting for your characters, convinced their chemistry couldn't possibly be fake and seeing the two of you finally together off-screen had felt, to many of them, like fiction bleeding into real life.

You had been grateful for the support. You still were. People had been overwhelmingly kind about the two of you. But you also remembered sitting beside other cast members during interviews and feeling the conversation change inevitably toward you and Joe.

When did you know?

Who made the first move?

Was it difficult playing a couple before becoming one?

Did everyone on set know?

And every interview became the same conversation.

Every headline revolved around the two of you.

Every appearance without the other turned into endless speculation about your relationship.

But tonight the last thing you wanted was to cast a shadow over anyone else's hard work or hijack the entire night by dropping the news of your pregnancy.

"I just don't want tonight to turn into something else," you murmured.

Joe's hands settled more securely at your waist.

"I know."

"It's their night too."

"Our night," he corrected gently.

"You know what I mean."

"I do."

You looked down at the space between you.

"I don't want everyone spending the next week asking us about this instead of asking about our job."

“I know.” 

He leaned in and pressed a kiss near your temple.

"They won't."

You tipped your head back.

"You absolutely cannot promise that."

"No," he admitted. "But I can promise we’ll do our best to keep this hidden. And if, somehow, someone notices and starts asking questions..."

He shrugged lightly.

"We lie.”

“We lie?”

“Yeah, we lie to them. We’re actors, after all, remember?”

You laughed as he pulled you closer until his nose brushed yours. His eyes dropped briefly. His hand followed, resting carefully against your stomach. The touch was so tender that it made something inside you ache. His thumb moved slowly over the fabric.

“Our little secret.”

Your smile softened.

For the first time since getting dressed, you felt your shoulders loosen completely.

Joe held out his hand.

"Ready, Mrs. Keery?"

You nodded. “Ready.”

You slid your fingers through his and followed him out of the room, this time without looking back at the mirror. 

-

The car ride to the premiere passed in a blur.

Joe stepped out first, then turned back and offered you his hand.

The second your heels touched the carpet, the flashes began, hundreds of them going off in rapid succession as photographers called your names from behind the barricades.

“Joe! Over here!"

"Together!"

"Look this way!"

You smiled automatically, falling into the rhythm you'd known for years.

There had been a time when red carpets had terrified you. You'd never quite known what to do with your hands or where to look, and you'd always worried that someone would catch you doing something awkward. Joe had been the one to make it easier, usually by whispering something ridiculous in your ear right before a photo. His hand settled at the small of your back as you moved into position beside him, and the familiar pressure grounded you instantly.

"You good?" he murmured.

You looked at him.

“Yeah."

Joe smiled at you, his expression softening in a way that made your chest ache. He could be standing in front of hundreds of photographers, surrounded by people calling his name, and somehow still look at you as though you were the only person in the room. It was one of the things you'd fallen in love with long before either of you had ever admitted it — back when you were still pretending you were just friends.

Others cameras turned in your direction.

"Look at each other!"

"Joe, closer!”

“Can we have a kiss? Just one.” 

"One more!" a photographer called.

You turned toward the cameras again.

Joe moved closer, his arm slipping around your waist. You leaned into him instinctively. And then his hand shifted.

Lower.

It was such a familiar movement that neither of you registered it immediately.

Until his palm rested directly over the small curve of your stomach.

You froze for a heartbeat, your body going rigid against his. Joe’s eyes shot downward, a sudden flash of understanding crossing his face as he realized where his hand was resting and pulled it back to your waist. Your eyes locked in a silent panic, though you didn't even have time to wonder if anyone had seen it, or if the photographers had caught the moment — the cameras immediately started going off louder and faster than before.

Click.

Click.

Click.

You forced yourself to keep smiling and acting with nonchalance, as if nothing had happened. 

The rest of the evening went almost exactly as you'd imagined, making you forget everything for a moment, and eventually you made your way inside for the screening. By the time the final sequence ended, your vision was so blurred with tears that you could barely make out the screen. Beside you, Joe silently held out a tissue that you took it without looking. "You okay?" he whispered.

You nodded, dabbing carefully beneath your eyes, trying not to destroy whatever remained of your makeup.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

He studied you for another second, clearly not entirely convinced.

"Are you sure?"

A small laugh escaped you as you leaned closer to him.

"Yeah. It's just the hormones," you murmured, lowering your voice. “Everything feels… bigger.”

Joe reached for your hand, his expression changing instantly and the teasing falling away.

"You need anything?"

"No."

"Water?"

"I'm okay."

"Food?"

"Joe."

"I'm just asking."

You smiled and rested your head against his shoulder.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. Around you, people were wiping their faces, hugging one another, laughing through tears.

It struck you suddenly that this was really it.

The end of an era. 

You remembered your first day.

The first scene you and Joe had filmed together, back when kissing him had been part of the job and not yet something your body knew instinctively.

The first time you'd kissed when there wasn't a camera pointed at you.

You looked down at your fingers, the wedding ring pressing lightly against his. 

Joe followed your gaze.

"What?" he whispered.

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

He gave you a look that said he knew better.

You smiled, sighing. 

"It's just weird."

"What is?"

"All of this ending. I’ll miss it.”

He was quiet. Then you felt his head rest lightly against yours.

“Yeah." 

Your free hand moved unconsciously toward your stomach.

Joe noticed.

"I don't know whether to be devastated or happy," you whispered.

"You can be both."

You looked at him.

"I think I am."

"Me too."

He lifted your joined hands and kissed your knuckles.

You stayed like that until the lights came up.

-

You woke to pale morning light and the vague sense that something was wrong. Not physically. For once, your stomach was behaving. The room was quiet, the curtains only half-closed, a thin stripe of sunlight stretching across the carpet.

You turned your head. Joe was still asleep beside you, one arm stretched across the empty space between you, his face buried halfway into the pillow.

You smiled.

He looked completely peaceful. 

Careful not to wake him, you reached for your phone on the nightstand. 

Your brows furrowed as you stared at the screen. 

There were hundreds of notifications. Texts. Missed calls. Messages. Social media alerts.

That wasn't unusual after a premiere, especially one as big as this.

You unlocked your phone and opened the first message.

Your stomach dropped.

Have you seen Twitter?

Don't panic.

And then another, this time from Maya.

You two need to wake up. NOW!

You sat up slowly and opened Twitter. The first post you saw was a photograph of you and Joe on the red carpet with his hand resting on your stomach.

You stared at it. For several seconds, you couldn't move. Then you started scrolling.

There were thousand of posts like that.

Is Joe's hand on her stomach?

Guys...

Am I the only one seeing this?

She's been wearing looser dresses lately.

Could they actually be...

You swallowed.

I'm calling it now. She and Joe are expecting.

Your heart began beating faster. You kept scrolling even though every sensible part of your brain told you to stop.

There were zoomed-in versions of the photograph, side-by-side comparisons with photos from previous public appearances and fans analyzing the way you'd stood, how the dress fitted on you, your posture. 

It was exactly what you and Joe had feared.

Everyone was talking about you and your alleged pregnancy. 

You locked your phone and dropped it onto your lap. For a moment, you simply sat there, staring at the ceiling of your room. Then you glanced at Joe. He hadn't moved an inch, still fast asleep and completely oblivious to everything.

The sharp vibration of your phone broke the silence. Another notification. This time from your publicist. Call me when you're awake. No emergency, but we need to talk about this before today's press.

Beneath there was a link, your finger hovered for a second before clicking it. 

BREAKING NEWS: JOE KEERY AND WIFE SPARK PREGNANCY RUMORS AFTER STRANGER THINGS PREMIERE

You exhaled slowly and turned toward Joe, calling his name to wake him up; when he didn't stir, you reached over and gently shook his shoulder.

"Joe."

He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a hum and buried his face deeper into the pillow.

"Five more minutes, please.”

Despite everything, a laugh almost escaped you. Normally, you would have let him sleep but this time, you couldn't.

“Joe,” you tried again. 

“Three minutes."

"No."

"One and a half."

You shook his shoulder again, harder this time. 

“Babe, you need to wake up. Now.”

The urgency in your voice finally reached him.

Joe's eyes flew open and he pushed himself upright.

“What's wrong? Are you okay?”

The question came out sharp with panic. His eyes immediately searched your face, then dropped instinctively toward your stomach.

You shook your head quickly.

"No, I'm fine.”

"Is the baby?"

"No," you said softly. "The baby is fine too."

He let out a breath, his shoulders finally dropping as some of the tension left his body.

"Okay," he murmured. "You scared the hell out of me."

"I'm sorry. It's not that."

His brows furrowed.

"Then what is it?"

You hesitated before turning the phone toward him.

"Look."

Joe squinted at the screen, still trying to wake up properly. He stared at the photograph for a few seconds before a sleepy smile appeared on his face.

"Oh, we look good."

You gave him a look.

"Joe."

"What?" He looked at you, genuinely confused. "We do."

"Look at the picture.”

"I am."

"No. Look at it. Better.”

He glanced back at the screen, his eyes moving over the photograph again. Then they stopped, his smile slowly disappearing as he finally realized what you were really showing him.

"Oh."

"That's the one."

"Yeah."

"The picture."

"Yeah."

He sat up a little straighter, taking the phone from your hand, and started scrolling, his eyes moving rapidly over the article.

"How many-"

"A lot." He kept scrolling. 

"Shit." You watched whatever remained of sleep leave his face. “I know. I woke up to four hundred notifications.”

Joe sighed. 

"I knew they got pictures. I just..." He rubbed a hand over his face. "I didn't think anyone would care."

You gave him a look.

"About a photograph of your hand on my stomach?"

"When you say it like that, I can hear how stupid it sounds."

"A little."

He looked back at the phone.

"I mean, I touch you all the time."

"I know."

"My hands are constantly somewhere."

You raised an eyebrow.

He glanced at you.

"That came out wrong."

Despite yourself, you laughed.

His mouth twitched briefly before his expression fell again. He handed the phone back to you and dragged a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry, babe. I really screwed this up."

“No, Joe, you didn’t."

"I literally put my hand directly on—“

"You weren't thinking."

"Exactly."

"Joe."

He looked at you.

"I'm not mad, okay?”

His expression softened, but the worry didn't leave his eyes. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Joe looked at you, then slowly lowered his gaze toward your stomach. He leaned back against the headboard, rubbing both hands over his face.

“Fuck, we were supposed to tell them when we were ready."

You sighed. ”I know. And now they're going to spend the next week asking questions and trying to figure it out while the focus should be on something else.”

“I know, babe. I’m sorry.”

He looked genuinely upset now.

Not because the secret had potentially been exposed but because he knew what came with it.

The questions.

The photographs.

The speculation.

The feeling of having something deeply personal turned into public property.

You reached for his hand.

"Hey."

He looked at you.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out."

His fingers tightened around yours.

"What do you want to do?"

The question caught you off guard. You looked down at your intertwined hands, your thumb slowly brushing over his knuckles.

”I don't know. I just… I just don't want this week to become about us.” You picked absently at the edge of the sheet. "And I know how this works. If we confirm it now, this is what will happen.”

You swallowed.

"I don't want Maya or Natalia sitting in an interview talking about the show and getting asked whether they knew I was pregnant or every article —”

“Hey. Calm down.”

His hand tightened around yours.

"We don't have to confirm anything if that's not what you want,” he said softly.

You looked up at him.

"And if people ask?"

“We just keep talking about the show. Or… we lie.”

"Stop suggesting that. You're terrible at lying."

His eyebrows lifted.

"What? I'm an actor."

"Yes, and you're an excellent actor but a terrible liar."

“That’s not possible.”

“It is.”

You smiled despite yourself. Joe shifted closer until his knee pressed against yours beneath the blanket.

"Let them think whatever they want,” he said after a moment. “Let them speculate. This is our baby. Our life. We don't have to give anyone a piece of it just because they think they've figured something out. It's something only you and I know, and we get to decide when or not we're ready to share it.”

You felt your eyes sting. Annoyed, you blinked rapidly.

“You’ll make me cry.”

His mouth curved.

"I can be mean if that helps."

"Please."

He thought for a second.

"Your feet are freezing me."

You stared at him.

"That's the best you can do?"

"I love you. It's limiting."

You laughed under your breath, but the tears arrived anyway.

Joe's expression softened immediately. He leaned closer, brushing his thumb gently beneath your eye. You closed them for a second, lingering in the warmth of his touch.

"Come here."

You moved into him without hesitation, letting him pull you against his chest and his arms wrapping around you carefully. You tucked your face into the space beneath his chin. The familiar smell of him, his skin and the faint trace of whatever cologne had survived the night before, surrounded you. 

He kissed the top of your head. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek, steady and familiar. You let yourself sink into the warmth of him, allowing some of the tension that had been sitting in your chest since you woke up to finally ease.

Later, there would be interviews, cameras, questions and rumors waiting for you downstairs.

But right now, none of it mattered.

For now, it was just you, Joe, and the little secret growing quietly between you.

Before it became a headline, a question or something for the rest of the world to speculate about, it was yours.

As always, let me know what you thought! If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear from you in the comments or see you reblogging the fic.

His eyebrows lifted, then a slow, amused smile appeared across his face. “What?” You asked, with a frown.

He leaned back slightly, lowering his instruments. “I think I found some…evidence of our fun.” He mused.

You went to sit up, but Steve kept a steady hand on your shoulder. “What kind?” Your heart raced a little faster, watching as Steve’s eyes darkened in a way you knew too well by now.

“Bruises. On the roof of your mouth, baby.” He grinned, all teeth. You felt your face go hot, a string of weak stutters leaving your lips, remembering exactly how you got those marks.

“I—uh, um,” you avoided his eyes that were watching you like a hawk now, biting on your bottom lip when the words couldn’t seem to form on your tongue.

“Let’s make sure they don’t fade, hm?” Steve stood up with a loud clink of his stool, beginning to unbuckle his belt slowly. You let out a wavering breath, this wasn’t the first time where you pleasured each other in his office—but there was always a sense of thrill from getting caught that you couldn’t help but love.

“Steve, I—” your eyes widened when you finally spotted him pulling his cock out, already hard and the mushroom tip dripping a pearly liquid that had your mouth salivating.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Steve let out a low laugh. “The doors locked, they couldn’t stop us even if they tried.” He then gave a rough pat to your cheek, hissing once your tongue grazed his slit ever so lightly. “What did I tell you about keeping your mouth wide open for me? That’s a good girl.”

Without wasting any more time, you lifted a hand to wrap around his base, rubbing him back and forth as you brought his cock into your mouth, starting to suck him gently.

“Ahh—fuck.” Steve grunted, watching you intently with hooded eyelids as you attempted going deeper. Though at this angle, while lying down, it made breathing even harder, forcing yourself to take in gasps of air when you could.

“That’s it, pretty.” He cursed once you hollowed your cheeks in, practically choking his dick. “Just keep doin’ that, god, you always make it so fucking hard to last.”

You took it as a compliment, and inhaled harshly before deepthroating him, your face glued to his pelvis while you withered on the dental chair.

Steve caught the sight of his cock bulging in your throat with each thrust, letting out a sound of a mix of a moan and a laugh, wrapping his large hand securely around your neck. “Look at that.” He panted. “My cock’s so big it doesn’t even fit in your throat, baby.” Steve shook his head.

You tried responding with words, but it only sounded like a weak whimper, sending vibrations right through him and causing Steve to quicken his pace. “Mmf—‘m gonna cum right down this tight little throat, made just for me.” You could feel his desperation, tears beginning to leak out from the corners of your eyes and your spit getting everywhere. “And you’re going to swallow. Every. Last. Drop.” He enunciated each word with a thrust.

All it took was for you to choke on his girth once more, before Steve buried himself in your throat and orgasmed loudly, gripping your hair tightly. You rushed to swallow as much as you could, continuing to milk him even as he came down from his high.

He jerked, pulling out of your mouth. “Ah, ah,” Steve gasped from the overstimulation, though his expression changed to satisfaction when he caught you licking the remnants of his cum off your lips.

Smoothing your hair down with gentle hands now, he bent lower to give you a chaste kiss. “Did so well for me, sweetheart. Always so good for me.” Steve praised with a smile, your eyes lighting up at his reassurance.

he’d gotten back from tour the night before and had been attached to your hip ever since. not that you minded. you’ve spent the last month settling for mid day facetimes with joe showing you around each venue, constant streams of texts throughout the day, and late night phone calls after he’d gotten off stage and tucked himself away into his bunk, telling you softly about the show and how much he missed you.

a month spent on the road, playing to thousands of people, belonging to them each night. but now, joe could belong to just you again. at least for a little while, until duty calls once more.

you carefully shift in his arms, turning to face him. the lack of sunlight coming from outside left the room cast in shadows, but you could still make out every detail of joe’s face. you could do it with your eyes closed.

you bring a careful finger up to ghost over his freckled cheek. he looks younger while sleeping, all the stress melted away from his face. scruffy stubble lined his jaw and trailed above his mouth and you followed it with you finger. maybe you could convince him to grow out his mustache during his off time, you thought to yourself.

joe’s nose twitches slightly and his eyes slowly flutter open. they land immediately on you and a sleepy smile pulls onto his face. his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer until both your chests were pressed together.

“good morning,” you whisper through a smile, settling your palm against his cheek.

“mmm, mornin’,” he murmurs in his sleep heavy voice. joe leans in and presses a lazy kiss to your lips. then two. then three. when he pulls away, he doesn’t go far. he rests his forehead against yours and lets his eyes shut again briefly in bliss.

“i’ve missed this,” he whispers. “i’ve missed you being the first thing i see when i wake up.”

you blush, even after all this time together. “you’re so corny.”

“if being honest is being corny i will gladly take that title.”

you snort and bury your face into the crook of his neck, breathing deeply. his scent fills your nostrils, his natural muskiness, the clean smell of his body wash, the faint traces of amber and fig lingering from his cologne. it was your favorite scent. if you could figure out how to combine all of it together in a candle, you would.

“i want a joe scented candle.” you mumble against his warm skin. it was his turn to snort.

“you want to melt me down into a candle? how romantic.”

“not all of you, the smell of melted down flesh and bones can’t smell all that good.”

joe laughs, pressing a kiss to your head. “i’ll see what we can arrange.”

you finally pull back enough to look at joe, who’s already smiling softly at you.

“you want some breakfast? i’ll make you anything you like.”

joe shakes his head, pressing his face into your chest. “nah, i just wanna stay here.”

“you’re a growing boy, you gotta eat breakfast.” you tease. “c’mon, i’ll make you pancakes then we can cuddle on the couch.”

joe considers your offer for a moment before he pulls away to meet your eye. “blueberry pancakes?”

you smile, chuckling a bit through your nose. “anything for my favorite rockstar.”

even then, it takes some coaxing to get joe to unravel his arms from around your body. when you finally are able to sit up, you lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.

“you stay here and rest. i’ll call you when it’s ready.”

joe hums and watches as you slip out the bed, his tshirt you slept in falling over your bare thighs. your hair was still mess from sleep as you stepped into your slippers and walked out the room. you were gone for five seconds before joe decided that your absence was absolutely unacceptable leading to him throwing the covers off of him and following after you.

you hadn’t even made it to the kitchen yet when joe’s arms latched back around your waist. you let out a small ‘oof’ as you braced yourself against the added weight.

“joe,” you laugh, stopping on the threshold between the living room and kitchen.

“hm?”

“let go.”

“can’t.”

“do you want breakfast or not?”

“i will physically crumble to the ground and shrivel up and die if i let go of you.”

“you are so ridiculous.”

you shuffle into the kitchen with joe clung to you like a koala. you start the coffee before moving to the pantry to gather what you need.

“can you make yourself useful and get the blueberries and milk?” you ask over your shoulder, earning an offended, scrunched up face from joe.

“please, baby?”

joe groans but drops his arms, trudging over to the fridge to grab your requested ingredients. while he did that, you got to work on the batter and heating the pan. joe sets the cartons containing the milk and the berries down on the counter and resumes his position behind you, this time wrapping his arms little looser around your waist.

it took slightly longer than usual, but you managed to get the pancakes finished. with two heaping plates and two steaming cups of coffee, you and joe settled on the couch, shoulders pressed against each other.

“mm, so good baby. thank you.” joe hums around a mouthful, syrup gathering at the corner of his mouth. you smile, swiping your thumb to wipe away the syrup on his mouth. you bring your thumb to your lips and lick off the syrup and joe gives you a cheesy smile.

after breakfast, the two of you stayed cuddled up on the couch for a bit. the rain outside hadn’t let up, hitting rhythmically on the windows. you tangled together beneath two layers of blanket and joe turned on some movie you’d both seen countless times. not that it mattered though, your attention was solely on each other.

joe plays with your hair while he retells stories from tour, all of which you already heard at some point over phone calls, but you listen anyway.

“and then wes just like, wipes out. we tried to warn him the floor was wet but he didn’t hear us in time. he hit the ground so hard he had this huge bruise on his ass,” joe recounts with soft enthusiasm, making you giggle.

“you guys are such boys,” you tease softly, playing with the chain around his neck. joe chuckles, dropping one hand down from your hair to your waist to give it a playful pinch.

“okay, baby, you have two suitcases of clothes that need to be washed. if i don’t start ‘em now they’ll just keep taunting me,” you say as you try to unwind yourself from joe’s hold but he groans dramatically, pulling you back in.

“leave them. i’ll do them tomorrow.”

“no, you won’t. you’ll keep saying that until a week has gone by and you have even more clothes piled up. just let me go start one load real quick.”

you try once more to untangle from his hold and this time he lets you. but as you stand, he stands too. you look up at your boyfriend and give him a questioning look.

“i’m coming with you.”

“baby, i’m going ten steps into the hallway.”

“so? i’d miss you too much.”

“i’m gonna get you a spray bottle,” you joke flatly as you head toward the small closet containing your stacked units. joe is hot on your trail, watching as you turn to one of the suitcases waiting in the hall and open it up.

“really, baby, i can do this later,” he murmurs as he reattaches himself around your waist, watching as you load some of his clothes into the washer. you ignore him and throw the detergent in before starting the cycle. once the load is started, you turn in his arm.

“see? that was so easy,” you turn, wrapping your arms around his neck with a lazy grin.

“so easy. and now that we were productive, i vote we go back to bed.”

“oh, we were productive, were we?” a soft chuckle escapes your lips. joe rolls his eyes and slides his hands from your waist down to the backs of your thighs before in one quick swoop, he hoists you up.

you let out a surprised yelp and anchor your legs around his waist. “jesus, joseph. give a girl a warning next time.”

joe grins cheekily before starting down the hall towards your bedroom. when he reaches your shared bed, he plops you down onto the sheets still rumpled from the morning.

he quickly follows, crawling over you and caging your head in between his arms. he peppers a few kisses across your face before he drops all of his weight on top of you, making you groan.

“joe!”

“no more getting up. you’re forbidden from leaving this bed for the rest of the day.” joe’s voice comes out muffled against the pillow beneath your head.

“you’re like a parasite.” you teasingly huff.

“am i cute parasite?” joe grins as he lifts his head up to look down at you.

you roll your eyes. “you’re a barnacle.”

“ew. that means i’m crusty. pick a different one.”

“no.”

“would you still love me if i was a barnacle?”

you snort. “hm, i suppose.”

“and you’d let me attach myself to you for the rest of our days?”

“you’re such a dork. forget i called you a parasite.”

“why? does talking about me being a barnacle not set the mood? are you not turned on?”

“joe, you’re actively killing any chance of there being a mood.”

joe immediately drops the subject, burying his face in your neck. “got it, no more.”

his breath fans over your neck before soft, wet kisses follow in its wake.

“missed you so much.” he murmurs between kisses. you fingers lace through his shaggy locks, pulling him closer.

“i missed you more. i don’t think i can physically be away from you anymore.” your voice is soft and dazed from his kisses. “like, i just wanna live in your skin.”

joe halts his trail of kisses on your neck and pulls back, a look of amusement.

“oh and i’m the ridiculous one?”

“what? so you can be a barnacle stuck to me but i can’t live inside your skin?”

joe laughs, pecking your lips. “no baby, if i’m a barnacle, you can live in my skin.”

“good. you can continue.”

joe smiles down at you in utter amusement. he looks completely lovestruck as he lets out a chuckle.

The black, elastic band snapped against your fingers as you tied it around the end of your braid. Your dark hair was a perfect addition to the look you were going for. Hot, badass, but not cringe. Pretty much your entire costume was thrifted, which in your opinion made it all the cooler. Kaki shorts, black top, couple of belts and a slick, effortless make up look that screamed natural beauty.

Lara Croft was ready for Halloween in New York City.

✨ Friends ✨

You: Guys what’s your ETA? Heading out now. Should be there in 20.

Court: We were supposed to already be on our way but my loser boyfriend is still doing his make up.

Jules: Same here. They really are helpless baby birds.

Javi: It’s not my fault your eye pencil tried to blind me.

Court: Eye pencil? That’s adorable.

Jules: Eyeliner babe…

Jake: I only got access to the bathroom 15 minutes ago, blame Court. We’ll be there soon.

Joe: I’m already here. I’ll keep your beer cold and your corner empty.

You shook your head. The ongoing joke of your friend group really was annoying sometimes, but it’d been such a staple it inevitably became part of your personality. You liked your circle small, quality over quantity or whatever they say. Ironically enough, your friend group consisted of a couple of the most sociable, artsy people you’d ever laid eyes on, which in turn, forced you out of your bubble.

Naturally, the term wallflower became a staple term of endearment.

You’d known about Joe for close to a year before you actually met him. Schedules never aligning somehow before finally meeting him at some dive bar in Bushwick.

Since then, his name had been saved as “Joe (Wes’ friend)” until he gradually became more than just Wes’ friend. 

During that one night in October when the beer was flowing and the karaoke tunes were borderline bursting your eardrums, something had shifted. People talk about sparks flying as if it doesn’t sound ridiculously dreamy and over the top, but ever since then, you knew what those dreamy, over the top people meant. The banter, the lingering eye contact, the arm thrown around your shoulder as you both gave your best rendition of Hungry Eyes. Honestly, you couldn’t have thought of a more cheesy night than that one. If it was anyone else, you would’ve bolted for the door and deleted their number. But not Joe. He somehow stuck around, and you let him.

There was the summer his AC broke and he’d shown up at your door at around 11 pm with a six pack and zero shame. Both of you had ended up sprawled out on your fire escape, watching the city lights flicker in the dark of the night. His shoulder was pressed to yours, close enough that you were sure he could feel your pulse jump every time his voice dropped to that familiar octave.

“You know this counts as a booty call right?” You told him half joking.

“Does it?” He’d turned his head, close enough that his breath stirred a couple of hairs framing your face. “I just came for the AC.”

“Sure you did. That’s why we're sitting outside in the heat.”

He’d pursed his lips at that, knowing you were right but refusing to admit it.

“You offering something better?”

“Depends what you’re asking for.”

He hadn’t answered. Just let his eyes drop to your lips for one second before looking away, towards the skyline he’d grown to love so much. Like he hadn’t trusted himself to stick to the invisible boundaries you’d both put up for yourselves.

And then, there was that time just 2 months before the Halloween party, when you’d both ended up doing shots at a bar Wes had dragged the group to, and Joe had steadied you with a hand on the small of your back when you stumbled off the barstool, his lips right at your ear.

“Careful,” he’d said, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the other intoxicated people singing along to Forever Young as it blared through the speakers. “Keep looking at me like that and I’m going to stop behaving.”

You’d turned your head just enough that your mouth was almost at his jaw. 

“Who said I wanted you to behave?”

For a second, his hand tightened at your waist, just barely, just enough that you felt it, and his eyes had gone dark in a way you hadn’t seen before, like the joke immediately hit bullseye.

“Say that again and we’re not making it back to the group tonight.”

You hadn’t said it again. Wes had called it a night and the moment slipped away before you had a chance to turn it into something you both craved.

You’d thought about it, more than you ever felt comfortable admitting to yourself.

The building you were heading to had a rooftop, one of those Manhattan luxury apartments where the outdoor space cost more than most people’s rent, and every year a friend of Wes threw a party up there that half the borough seemed to hear about.

The twin holsters around your thighs, the black boots and the shorts that kept riding up made you feel like a new woman. Your posture, your attitude, there was something more edgy to your persona, which was only amplified by the small mask on your face. It’d been a little twist the host came up with. Everyone had to wear a mask. It didn’t really do much for your outfit, but you’d obliged.

You spotted Joe near the string lights, and for a second you didn’t recognize him. Broad shoulders in a leather jacket that was just too tight, a skull mask glowing faintly under the rooftop lights, the collar dusted with flecks that were probably supposed to be ash but looked more like old toothpaste splashes. Ghost Rider. Of course he’d gone with something dramatic.

"Look who it is," he said, voice muffled slightly by the mask, but you'd know it anywhere. "Croft."

"Rider." You grabbed the cold beer bottle from his outstretched hand. "Didn't know you owned leather."

"Don't know a lot of things about me." He tilted his head, and even through the mask you could feel him looking at you in a way that made the noise of the party fall back a little. “I like your braid.”

“Out of all things, you decide to comment on my braid?”

He’d opened his mouth to reply, but got interrupted by the chaos of your friends finally arriving, forcing you to let the moment go.

About three hours in, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder at the drinks table, masks discarded somewhere throughout the night. 

"You know," he said, pouring you a drink you hadn't asked for, "Lara Croft could probably kill a man twelve different ways."

"Fourteen," you corrected. "I've done my research."

"Should I be worried?"

"Depends." You took the cup from him,letting your fingers overlap his just a beat longer than necessary. "What are you planning on doing?"

He didn't answer right away. His eyes dropped to your mouth, unhurried, like he wasn't bothering to hide it anymore. "Nothing yet." 

"Yet." You held his gaze, let the silence sit there instead of filling it. "You’re staring, Joe.”

"Am I?"

"You are."

He stepped in, close enough that you had to tip your head back slightly, his voice dropping to something quieter, meant only for you. “You’re letting me."

“Maybe I am.”

Later, near an empty corner on the dance floor, half tucked away by one of the huge speakers he pulled you in by the wrist. He didn’t ask, he didn’t have to, he knew you’d follow.

His hand settled low on your back, warm through the thin fabric of your top, and when you looked up at him you realized how close you actually were.

"This isn't how we usually dance," you said, voice pitched higher than usual under the music.

"No," he agreed, not an inch of space between you. "Should I stop?"

You answered by curling your fingers into his jacket instead of letting go.

“Mr. Keery, don’t make me pull my guns on you.” You said in his ear as you noticed his hand traveling further and further down your back.

“Hmm, I wouldn’t mind seeing them up close, they look pretty dangerous on you.” His hand traveled a couple of inches further down in response to the choked breath you let out. 

“Do you kiss your mother with that suggestive mouth?” 

“Why? Are you going to school me on Halloween party etiquette when you’re dressed like that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my outfit. Have you seen the playboy bunnies near the DJ booth?”

That got a laugh out of him, but his eyes remained dark.

“In all transparency, I’d love to see those guns up close, they look pretty cool.”

You couldn’t tell if he was actually being his nerdy actor self or if he was just being suggestive as fuck, but you didn’t have to wait long to find out, his hand already moving towards one of the gun straps on your thigh.

His finger traced the fabric, making sure not to make contact with your skin as he traveled back and forth over the inside of your thigh. The pressure shot straight to your core and you could tell he noticed. His serious, focused expression turned into a knowing grin and he couldn’t help but smirk as he pulled the strap away from your thigh, before releasing it, making it snap against your skin. The yelp you let out was sharp, not having expected the sudden action and he laughed. He had you right where he wanted you.

All thoughts left your brain when you pulled him in, your hand on the back of his neck, his eyes already closed, knowing he’d given you that final push. His lips were soft and tasted like the red velvet cupcakes you’d had earlier. The kiss turned more heated as you fought for dominance, but he was putty in your hands when you took his bottom lip between your teeth, biting down slightly. The moan he let out was nothing short of breathtaking and both his hands now cupped your ass, squeezing with need turned into desperation.

He begrudgingly broke the kiss but gave your ass a reassuring slap.

“I think we need to take this somewhere more private.” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and while you’d find it endearing in any other situation, now, it set you ablaze.

His hands left your backside, one of them grabbing your wrists as he pulled you towards the elevator, not caring to say bye to any of your friends.

Your eyes widened when you saw where you were going. The restrooms on the 14th floor.

“This is what you consider less public?” 

He squeezed your hand reassuringly.

“Any room with a lock on the door will do right now.”

A giggle escaped your lips as he pulled you into the restrooms.

“Someone’s eager.”

He groaned when you instantly palmed his crotch through his leather pants as he closed the door behind you before pushing you up against it.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this. Always giving me those flirty remarks and fuck me eyes,” he paused, observing your expression, “and stop biting your damn lip.”

You giggled again, his sexual frustration proving to be not just extremely hot, but also quite entertaining.

“Whatcha gonna do about it?” You challenged him, gliding your middle finger over the cold leather of his jacket.

“Well first I was thinking I’ll have an entree, then we can have our main and then because I’m just that nice, I’ll let you have dessert.”

“Only you would start talking food just before we fuck.”

“I don’t hear any complaints.”

He shuffled you towards the spotless looking sink, perks of a high end building, and lifted you up on the marble top.

Goosebumps appeared on the exposed skin of your thighs and he slowed down, fingertips ghosting over the peach fuzz as he looked into your eyes.

“Do you want this?” His voice sounded sincere, lust momentarily shoved to the side to create a pocket of safety in between needy touches and louder-than-necessary gasps.

“I’ve wanted this ever since you bought me that ring pop in the back of O’Leary’s during comedy night.”

He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes as a lopsided grin took over.

“Weird kink but alright.”

Your hand slapped his leather coated chest as you pulled back.

“You’re lucky you have a pretty face.”

“Yeah?” He leaned in, kissing your cheek affectionately before whispering into your ear.

“You wanna see it between your legs?”

The reaction was instant, his hips felt the squeeze of your legs trying to close around him. Anything to feel some sort of friction.

He didn’t wait for a reply, your body doing the talking way before you could as he lowered himself down.

“Up.”

You lifted your hips at his command, so eager you’d feel embarrassed if it wasn’t for his puppy dog eyes begging to make you feel good.

He pulled your khaki shorts off together with the gun straps and they fell to the ground with a harsh thud. Neither of you batted an eye at the sound. You, too obsessed with his dark brown eyes flicking from your underwear to your eyes and back, him, too occupied with the pressure of your legs squeezing his head in anticipation and the glistening, soft skin of your core peeking through your panties .

“Think I can make you come without my fingers?” He asked while slowly taking off your underwear.

Your eyes met and you bit your lip again but he shook his head. 

“I just told you not to do that. No fingers it is, I guess.” He scolded you before lifting his hand, index finger tapping your lip. The second he felt your lips part, his finger entered your mouth and you couldn’t help but close your lips around him as you started sucking lightly.

His groan almost sounded pained if it wasn’t muffled from him starting to kitten lick your sensitive bud. The sensation sent bolts of pleasure throughout your body and you accidentally bit down on his finger, which earned you another groan from him.

The licks turned more intense, added pressure, moving in circles while he explored every single part of you before heading down towards your entrance and dipping his tongue in.

“Joe please.” Your voice was airy, you weren’t gonna last. The built up tension from the last months accumulating to this made you more than ready for him.

“No.” He pulled away as he started feeling you contract.

“The only way you’re gonna come is around me.”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the thought and you pulled him up by his collar. “Off.”

He obliged, his jacket falling to the floor before you started grabbing the ends of his shirt, pulling it over his head.

Meanwhile, his hands were all over your boobs, kneading them as he kissed you before he unbuckled his pants and slid it down together with his underwear. You nearly started drooling at the sight of him. Hard, pointing upwards with an angry red head that begged to be covered in you. 

You tried to pull him closer by wrapping your legs around him, but he resisted, his hand grabbing your chin softly.

“We can’t go back after this.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d wanna go back. Unless you want to.” 

The sliver of insecurity in your voice was easy to miss if he hadn’t been his attentive self.

“Not in a million years.” He beamed, a content smile with a mischievous glint in his eyes painting his face. 

He pulled you in for a kiss while his hand grabbed a fistful of your top, exposing your black lace push up bra.

“It unclasps at the front.” You breathed in between kisses and he nodded approvingly.

“So ready for me you even dressed for the occasion.”

All words left your brain when he attached his lips to your neck, suckling just below your ear while you felt him get rid of your bra, both hands now on your boobs as he moved even closer to you, the head of his cock catching on your clit.

“You wanna do the honors baby?”

He was out of breath, air was an afterthought the second he’d felt your lips on his.

He twitched in your hand while you pumped him a couple of times, not that he needed it, you just wanted to feel him before he stretched you open.

Your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth opened into an o shape yet no sound came out. Too overwhelmed by him entering you to do anything but be consumed by the fire he lit inside you. Every ridge, every vein massaged your walls in just the right way. You could feel him everywhere and it was the hottest thing you’d ever felt.

“God dammit.” His voice reduced to a whisper, trying to make eye contact as he cupped your cheek.

“Open your eyes baby.” His thumb stroked the soft skin just under your eye, trying to pull you back to him.

With great effort, you looked into his big brown eyes and a breathy laugh followed.

“Never in a million years.” You confirmed back to him and he smiled, having forgotten about the little moment.

“Never.” He nodded happily as he pulled back and snapped his hips into you again, this time with more force, it made you move a couple of inches up onto the cold, stone surface.

As he picked up his pace, he hid his face in your neck again, craving to be close to you, craving to breathe you in as your braid tickled his cheek.

Abruptly, seemingly out of nowhere, he pulled out causing you to whine in protest as he pulled you forward, off of the hard surface that was now slippery with your slick.

He didn’t say anything, instead, he grabbed your hips and turned you around, facing the mirror. His hand rested firmly on your shoulder for leverage as he pushed back into you. Bottoming out instantly, walls immediately welcoming him back.

He hit deeper than before, and with every thrust, he punched the air out of you, involuntarily little grunts left your lips as you took everything he gave you.

His hand crawled down your back and grabbed your braid, wrapping it around his hand once before yanking on it, pulling you up with it.

You yelped at the force, back arched as he made you look at yourself in the mirror.

“You should braid your hair more often. Looks good on you.” He nipped at your earlobe while his other hand wrapped around your tummy and pressed down slightly, making you arch into him even more as you felt the pressure of his hand add a new sensation with each thrust, intensifying the feeling of his cock deep within you.

That, along with the dark eyes and suggestive whispers sent you toppling over the edge, not able to stop the moans as he punched into you even harder to allow you to ride out your orgasm.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” His eyes observed you as you came, fully taken aback by the reflection in the mirror. The way your eyes turned glassy, your little gaps, the way he watched your abs flex and your hand claw at his for support. The way he felt you squeeze him, the way you pulsed around him like sound waves obliterating everything in their path. He knew he was royally fucked. He knew it with every fiber of his being.

“Where do you want me?” 

“I’m on the pill.” 

You didn’t specify which made him focus on your face. Your fucked out gaze told him everything he needed to know and he rolled his eyes in response. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You laughed lightly, still riding out your orgasm while Joe’s thrusts intensified. The breaths you took in sync with his pounding, since the only time you felt able to breathe was when he pulled out to give it to you harder. His hands went back to your boobs squeezing them hard as he rolled his fingers over your nipples.

“Come on baby. Give it to me.” The way you said it pushed him over the edge, groaning loudly as he felt your walls contract post orgasm. His head fell onto your shoulder, too fucked out to keep upright as he released inside of you.

The silence was all that was left while you both took a minute to compose yourselves, the events that just took place settling somewhere deep between you. You couldn’t help yourself, your hands gently cupping his, still on your boobs. A sign of tenderness, a sign that you were completely okay with what had just transpired.

His voice was muffled when he spoke.

“I’m gonna pull out now okay?”

You nodded, he couldn’t see you, but he felt the movement next to him as his head hadn’t moved from your shoulder.

He heard you wince and he immediately looked up, apologetic expression painting his features.

“Your make up’s a disaster,” Joe murmured, thumb tracing under your eye where the black liner had smudged. 

“I’m sure yours would’ve been too if you’d actually bothered to put some on.”

“You know I hate Halloween, plus I was committed to the concept of a costume. Execution’s a separate skill. Why do you think I got a mask.”

“That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

He leaned over, reaching past you to get some tissue paper before cleaning you up. Silent apology on his face when you winced before pulling your underwear and shorts back up.

When you were both fully dressed again, he grinned and pulled you into a loose hug, one hand splayed warm against your back, his chin tucked over your shoulder. Neither of you said anything for a moment. 

“So what happened to dessert?” You joked, trying to keep the mood light. The last thing you wanted was awkwardness.

His expression turned surprised. “You can’t get enough can you.”

He observed you as you shrugged and slowly walked backwards towards the door.

“Dessert’s my favorite.”

Before you could even reach for the door handle, the white, wooden door swung open without so much as a knock, exposing Jake standing there with a bewildered expression, not having expected you in the men's restroom.

"Jake?" What are you doing on the 14th floor?” Joe’s voice was shaky, awkward even because not only did he just realize he never locked the door to begin with, he also knew what this looked like.

“Someone barfed all over the upper floor restrooms.”

You scratched the back of your neck awkwardly when you felt him take in the sight. You, looking like you’d just come back from an expedition, hair completely tangled and make up halfway down your face, Joe, looking like a deer caught in headlights, face flushed red and leather jacket still on the ground, a couple of feet from your pistols laying lost on the marble tiles as if they were thrown carelessly, no interest in where they’d land as if they were an afterthought (which they were in the moment).

His eyebrows unfurrowed as he put two and two together, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

“Shut the fuck up.” His tone was light, half shocked, half relieved.

“I can’t believe you guys finally had the balls to do something about it.”

“About what?” you asked, trying to seem oblivious to the whole situation.

“The sexual tension between you guys since like… forever.”

Joe opened his mouth to protest, but Jake already turned on his heel. 

“Please don’t let me stop you, I’ll go to the 12th.”

You watched him walk away and turned your head towards Joe.

“They’re gonna be insufferable tomorrow.”

Joe dropped his forehead against your shoulder, shaking with quiet laughter.

“We’re never gonna hear the end of this. For what it’s worth, it was worth it though.”

You shoved him, but you were laughing too. He caught your hand instead, lacing his fingers through yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything, just grinning like idiots in a bathroom that Jake was definitely, right now, telling the entire party about.

“So… Your place?”

It first happened about four months into your relationship. The two of you knew each other through school, but never actually interacted until Dustin forced the both of you to help him track down Dart on that fateful fall day. Little did either of you know, the two of you would be pining after the other until you both decided to admit it and start dating after all of the ‘end of the world’ business actually ended itself. 

It was four months of loving kisses, nights spent in each other’s beds, calling each other no matter the time, healing each other’s wounds, and all of the ‘lovey dovey yucky’ stuff as Robin calls it. Steve had the truck for a while at this point, but the two of you have yet to ‘break it in’. Steve’s words, not yours. So, he picked you up on a friday night and the two of you took off, Steve finding a nice spot on a cliff that overlooked the lake. 

It wasn’t long before you were in his lap, hands tangled in his hair and his playing with the hem of your shirt. The hum of the radio played throughout the truck, Steve had decided to just let the WSQK play, thankful that Robin was no longer working at the radio station for one reason only, he did not want to hear his best friend’s voice while he was trying to make love to his girlfriend. A familiar tune played throughout the car and you broke away from him, lips lingering against his as you started to sing along. “Jenny, I've got your number! I wanna make you mine!” You sing. “Jenny, don’t change your number, eight six seven five three o’ nine.” 

Steve smiled up at you, singing along and placing kisses all across your face. It was endearing, and he adored you at the moment. Little did he know, that quirk would become his downfall. 

–

By the time it was your first year anniversary, it had happened a multitude of times after the first. The second time, Steve was almost about to slip your shirt off when you started to belt out the lyrics to In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins, followed by a dramatic imaginary drum act. Steve just watched with a small smile on his face as you enjoyed the song, his hands still on the hem of your shirt. 

The second time, it was in his room. He had played the makeout playlist that you always loved, and right as you were unbuckling his belt, you lit up at the familiar beat that was playing throughout the room. “Monday you can hold your head, Tuesday, Wednesday, stay in bed, Thursday, watch the walls instead, it’s Friday I’m in love.” You sang along, grabbing Steve’s face with your hands as he huffed out a laugh, a little annoyed at the interruption.  

By the sixth time, Steve Harrington had had enough. A couple of days prior, the two of you were in his kitchen, about to start kissing after breakfast when one of your favorite songs came on, Time after Time by Cyndi Lauper. It didn’t take long before you had a spatula in hand and were performing your own headlining concert on top of the island for Steve, and said man had his arms crossed, insanely annoyed and slightly infuriated by your inability to just make out with music in the background without breaking out into song. 

The next time, Steve decided he would try to trick you. He brought a mixtape that he knew had songs that you wouldn’t know. At first, it was working. These songs were borderline rock music, and you were mainly a pop girl. Steve knew that, he knew that you knew that he knew that, so imagine his complete shock as you started to sing along to the KISS song playing over his stereo. “I was made for loving you baby, you were made for loving me.” Safe to say, Steve did not get laid that night, as you decided to talk to him about how you really didn’t mind rock all that much. 

There was another time that Steve had planned to not even listen to music the whole night, silently begging that you wouldn’t start singing along to anything while he was trying to love his girl. It failed, miserably, as when you got into the car, you immediately turned the radio on and started singing along to Every Breath You Take by the Police, and then once the song was over, you started to go into detail about how the song is sorta of creepy, digesting the lyrics and giving Steve less and less hope of actually getting any action that night. 

So, when your one year anniversary came along, Steve just decided that he would take his time, he would be patient, and he would let you do whatever you decided to do. He would let you take the reins for the night, and after dinner, he took you back to the spot where it all started. It was going well, six songs played through the radio without you singing along to a single one. Steve had successfully taken off your shirt and bra, as well as his own shirt. You were sitting atop his lap, his body stretched out on the bench seat of the truck. Your hands were in his hair, his hands were on your hips. It was all going according to plan. The latest song faded into the background, and right as Steve moved one hand from your hip to one of your breasts, the next song started to play and you let out a gasp of his name, “Steve.” 

The smirk on his face could probably be seen from miles away, and he responded, “Yeah? You like that, baby?” But his smirk didn’t last long before you were singing along and dancing to the song playing through the radio. 

“Why, why? Tell ‘em that it’s human nature. Why? Why? Does he do me that way?” Your hips move against his, moving along to the beat of the song. “I like livin’ this way, I like lovin’ this way.” The instrumental of the song and Michael Jackson’s voice continue to fill the truck as you smile down at Steve. 

“You’re impossible.” He utters, accepting defeat and deflating against the seat. You let out a small giggle, hiding it behind your hand. 

“Oh, stop being dramatic, I know you like being serenaded by me.”

“Not when I’m trying to show you my love.” You smile this time, leaning down and pressing kisses against his jaw, hands reaching up to his hair as you start to suck on his pulse point. Steve lets out a small, airy, breath and it’s your turn to smirk. 

“It’s my turn to show you my love.” You whisper in his ear, sneaking your hand down south.