ace🖤

Deep breaths fill your nose with the smell of mountain thyme and the beginnings of petrichor, blowing in from the thick storm clouds on the horizon. They were still a ways away, allowing you a little more time to sit out with the sheep. You're stooped on a wooden crate, scratching tenderly at the chin and head of a sweet lamb, only a week old—born the day after your night with Sir Steven. She stands next to you on uncertain legs, tilting her head here and there to get the most satisfaction from your touch.

"Such a pretty girl," you coo at her softly, the smile on your face evident in your voice. Her head nudges your knee, and she bleats a little response. You like to imagine she's thanking you.

"A girl so sweet needs a name," you insist, looking out on the horizon as you ponder. The world she came into was one of possibility. You always had the belief that you could make something of yourself if you were only allowed, the encouragement from Sir Steven finally made this belief accessible. The final push needed to close the distance between yourself and a real future.

"Sigrid, maybe?" you suggest. "It means beautiful victory. I've had one of those of my own recently, I'd be rude not to share the wealth."

She bleats again.

"I like it, too," you giggle. The fast-moving clouds above you both let in occasional bursts of sunlight, glowing through her pink ears. As you start to gently brush the sides of her neck, once distant footsteps draw closer to you, combining with the subtle clink of a sheathed sword against a thin, steel leg brace. Steven. Your Steven, as he signs every note to you. Yours, he whispers against your neck every chance he gets lately. The afterglow of the days that followed your union has been blissful, and thrilling. You both sneak away at any chance you can to meet in secret corners. What were once shared glances across great rooms during obligations have turned into longing stares. He kisses you like a man starved. When you tell him this, he says it's because he is.

"New friend of yours?" he asks as he approaches, his hands landing on your shoulders. A kiss is pressed to the side of your head.

"Mhm," you reply, turning to look up at him. "I finally had enough time to meet her. This is Sigrid."

"I like it," he says, kneeling next to your crate. You catch a sharp inhale as his knees meet the ground, and you turn back to see a tense furrow in his brow.

"What's wrong?" You ask, your eyes going a little wide.

"It's really nothing," he insists. "One of the squires, Lucas, he's close to finishing training, and he got a little too into it when we were sparring yesterday. I'm alright."

You tilt your head as your eyes narrow slightly. Steven sighs before he pulls up the side of his shirt, revealing a large bruise on his ribs. It's big—about the size of your hand, and deep purple, with jagged edges that were just starting to turn bluish-green. It's clearly painful, given away by the stiffness and wincing any time he moves. Your hand reaches out to lift the shirt for him, hoping to alleviate any pain.

"A little too into it?" you repeat in disbelief. "Were you wearing armor?"

He pulls his lips into his mouth.

"Steven," you scold.

"No, but I never do when it's just training," he says dismissively. "I've been teaching them how to fight since they were 10, I forget how strong they are now. Guess I did my job a little too well."

"This looks painful," you say, frowning a little. "Please tell me you aren't training again today."

"No, I finished training an hour ago," he says, oblivious to what you're actually asking of him.

Your shoulders drop.

"You mean you got up and fought with that on your body?" You tenderly press your palm to the side of the bruise.

"The oldest ones are so close to finishing their training, I can't let them down," his voice is gentle. You know how deeply he cares for his initiates, how proud he feels watching them grow into real knights.

You remember watching the grass in front of the squires' quarters when you were 16, and Steven was 17. He was newly knighted, having sworn his loyalty to the keeping and protection of your family—you, in particular. He was the only one of the initiated knights who paid the squires any mind, running with them and offering chances to spar. Now that Steven was officially training them as a captain, he worked himself ragged to form them into chivalrous, talented fighters. Your face softens as you think of this, the low heat of frustration melting into admiration for his commitment to being a good example.

"They won't have a captain to train them if you keep fighting without armor," you say, moving your hand from his ribs to his cheek. "You're a good teacher, Steven, but they need you healthy. So do I." He smiles a little, his face relaxing.

"Wise girl," he mutters lovingly, placing his palm over yours, pressing your hand even closer to his face. You lean down to kiss the tip of his nose, his lips, his forehead, coaxing him to understand.

"I'll be good," he finally says after a face full of kisses.

"Thank you," you beam. "I'm your princess after all, it would be so unchivalrous of you to refuse." Steven lets out a warm laugh, laying his head on your clothed thigh. He sighs as his cheek makes contact with the velvet of your dress. Your fingers brush through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp and the back of his neck. You lean down to his ear.

"Come to my room tonight," you whisper.

"Don't I do that every night?" He teases, his voice muffled by the material of your skirt.

"I'll have something special," you hint. "It'll help with your war wound, too."

"Deal," he sighs, sitting up. "I'll see if I can get out of patrol a little early." As Steven starts to stand, the droplets of rain that were once halted in anticipation start to fall, making gentle pattering sounds against the roof of the sheep pen. Sigrid trots away, seeking the refuge of the roof and the warmth of her mother and siblings.

"I'll bring you back home," Steven says, grunting softly as he stands, and he offers a hand to you. You take it, trying to still carry the majority of your weight to avoid straining his injured side. Through the translucence of his linen shirt, you can still see the harsh purple starkly contrasted against his otherwise pale torso. It's clear that it hurts, and you hate that, but you can't help but love what it represents. Steven was many things. Cocky at times, stubborn as a mule, and impulsive, but loyal, shamelessly affectionate, and unfailingly generous.

"Are you taking the back or going in front?" His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and your head follows it up to where Sir Steven sits atop his horse, Nora. You give her a long stroke down her neck, her dark brown mane almost presenting maroon under the darkness of the storm clouds.

"I'll sit behind you," you say, grabbing the edge of the saddle to hoist yourself up before he can offer to lift you. After situating yourself, your arms wind around his middle, doing your best to avoid his bruise. You smile to yourself as you feel the soft curve of his stomach through his shirt. With a sigh, you press your cheek to his shoulder.

"I thought you liked sitting in front," he recalls, turning his head slightly to speak to you.

"I do," you say, briefly pressing your lips to his clothed shoulder blade. "But it's the middle of the day, and I would rather not give my mother more excuses to scold me for being unbecoming."

He makes a little hum of agreement as he gently tugs the reins toward the path back to the castle.

"Have you given any more thought to our idea?" Steve asks, and you swallow a little nervously. The idea of running away from home still intimidated you slightly. Although it was your best, and likely only chance at a life of your own, you would still be leaving everything you had ever known behind you, except Sir Steven. The thought of having to start again was frightening, eased only by the notion that you would finally have freedom. Still, the sadness about leaving your family, your beautiful home, having to start all over again with little awareness of the real world settled low in your heart, still dwarfed by the sadness that you felt at the idea of being sent off to marry and have babies with a stranger.

"It'll be easier after the feast for the winter solstice," you explain, recalling that you came to this conclusion on an especially restless night a few days ago. "Preparations happen for all of November, and Mother and Father will be breathing down my neck constantly that whole time."

"I was thinking the same, actually," he agrees. "Inn prices are usually lower in winter; we would have an easier time traveling." When he mentions this, your mind drifts dreamily to a soft, candlelit fantasy—you and Steven, cramped into a little bed in a tiny inn room. Maybe a little floaty from the mead you drank with dinner. He'd have his big arms wrapped around you, lazily exploring your body with his lips and his hands, pulling the softest, sweetest sounds from you as he guides your hips to-

"We're here." His voice pulls you back to the real world, and you shudder, suddenly aware again of how the chilly rain has soaked through your hair and dress sleeves. He's brought you to one of the more discreet entrances to your home, hidden in the garden where a small doorway lies unassumingly behind a trellis. Steven dismounts and offers a hand to help you down, and your shoes land with a soft 'squish' on the now damp grass. As his hand brushes away the damp strands that stick to your forehead, you feel yourself unconsciously lean into his touch.

"I'd steal you away right here and now if I could," he says in a low voice, a soft smile on his face.

"I'd let you," you sigh. "I'll see you tonight?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he replies, glancing around for any unwelcome eyes that could be on you both before he takes your waist into his hands and kisses you. "I'll see you soon, angel." He lifts the trellis back, and you slip behind it, tiptoeing down the short hallway to the kitchen door. You push it open with an effortful huff, the hinges squeaking far louder than you would prefer and certainly announcing your arrival to whoever is inside. As you gingerly close the door and prepare to dash through the kitchen, someone emerges from the pantry.

"I don't know where you're actually supposed to be, but it's not here," the voice is snarky, with no actual meanness behind it, belonging to Dustin. You had known Dustin since he was an infant. Your mother and father enjoyed offering greetings to new families that settled in the village surrounding the castle. At five years old, you begged to join the steward who would be welcoming the most recent family. When you were finally given permission, you went to the village and entered the tiny house, surprised to see only a kind-faced woman with a tiny baby instead of a father and mother with a whole clan of children. You would come to learn that the woman, Claudia, was entirely wonderful. Devoted to raising a respectful young man, and talented with food and herbal medicine. When Dustin was 10, the captain at the time offered him a position in squire training. He was lovingly dismissed to kitchen work after spending most of his training time searching for insects and demonstrating his lack of collarbones to anyone who would watch. Dustin was smart, frighteningly so, and you were glad to call him a friend.

"This was the quickest way in from the rain," you quickly spit out the excuse, wringing out your sleeve onto the floor in a desperate attempt to qualify your excuse.

"Uh-huh," he muses, setting the crate of potatoes he was carrying onto the large wooden counter. "I've been looking to talk with you, actually. There's this opportunity that's sort of come my way, and I need a favor."

Your eyebrows furrow in curiosity, and you stride to stand across from him, on the other side of the counter.

"A favor?"

"Yes," he starts, taking a deep breath. "I've been exchanging letters with this cartographer a few towns over. I told him I was interested in maybe trying my hand at cartography and mapping smaller territories, and he told me he would be interested in taking on an apprentice. Only problem is, I need a written letter from someone in your family recommending me for it."

Your eyes widen, excited at the news that Dustin may finally have a challenge worthy of his intellect.

"What do you think?" he asks nervously. "Would you write the letter for me?" Dustin's hands nervously dig into the wood grain of the countertop. You don't need to think twice.

"I would be thrilled to recommend you, Dustin," you answer sincerely. His face breaks into a smile, and he doesn't waste a second before rounding the counter, wrapping you in a hug.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he says over and over, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. You hug him back.

"You're so welcome," you reply, giving him a final pat on the back before releasing him. "Everyone knows your talent is wasted down here anyways. What does your mother think?"

"When I told her it was a day away on horseback, she sobbed so hard I thought she was going to fall over," he answers, wiping a little at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "But she knows I want more than being in a kitchen the rest of my life. I just wish I could take her with me."

"Maybe one day you will," you say, your voice wavering a little with emotion. "I'm happy to write your letter, just let me know when you need it, alright?"

"I will," Dustin says. You give him a final smile before you turn toward the door that leads upstairs.

"And I'll make sure you get extra dessert tonight! You've earned it!" He calls.

On your way to your room to change out of your still-soaked dress, a voice calls out from a laundry room in the hall.

"Your mother's been looking for you," a chambermaid warns as she wrings out a sheet into a washing pot.

"When is she not?" you sigh. You notice her struggle slightly as she hauls the heavy length of cloth over to a drying line, and you step onto the room, lifting up the sheet to help her smooth it.

"Thank you for the warning," you say, peering from the side of the sheet. "I'll be a little prepared now." She smiles before she returns to another round of washing, and you return to your room, eager to be in a clean dress. A deep green one speaks to you tonight, fitting for the rain that has developed into a raucous thunderstorm. After you change, you brush your hair, trying your best to sort out the tangles and unruliness that the rainwater had caused. You steel yourself for what was almost certainly going to be a long, unhappy conversation with your parents. The exhaustion of being stalled, underestimated, belittled, and dismissed for years had been bearing on your mind stronger than usual. Now that you had some idea of a future away from it all, your longing only strengthened. You thought about Dustin, too, how thrilled he seemed at the prospect of a life devoted to making something, helping people, and doing it on his terms. You were very pleased that one of your last acts as princess would be helping a young man with enormous potential achieve a dream.

You walk stiffly to the library in your parents' personal wing—shoulders back, head high, hands clasped one over the other in front of your body. As your hand grasps the door handle, you take a deep breath.

"Very kind of you to show," your father says from the land table, eyes not leaving the map in front of him. Your mother rests on a settee with a tense hand wrapped around a teacup.

"I was told you were looking for me," you say, prompting them to get to what it is they actually want to talk about.

"Would you like to tell us where you were?" your mother asks, punctuating the question by setting her cup back on the saucer. The clanging porcelain grates against your ears. You consider lying for a moment, claim that you were reading in the gallery, or you felt unwell and decided to lie in bed until you were summoned for something. Usually you would, an excuse would roll off of your tongue as easily as the truth from the years and years of having to hide your true feelings or whereabouts. But today, a combination of your own will growing, Steven's affections, and Dustin's commitment to his own dreams has pushed you to try being truthful.

"I was out in the pastures," you say, the nervousness in your voice betraying you. "I finally had enough free time to walk over there, and I wanted to meet the new lamb." Your father scoffs, and you can see him roll his eyes when you glance his way. Your mother's posture stiffens, her lips pursing disapprovingly.

"You were unchaperoned, I assume?" She sounds more frustrated than disappointed.

"When I was walking there, yes," you explain. "But I'm 22, I don't need to be minded like a child everywhere I go."

"You are a child," your father reminds you, managing to sound bored and harsh simultaneously. You roll your shoulders again, trying to regain your footing in the argument.

"I was within the patrol boundaries, and Steven brought me back home," you justify, feeling your hands start to sweat a little.

"Sir Steven is a guard's captain, he has better things to do than rescue you from your own foolishness," your mother refutes.

"He's perfectly capable of doing his job and attending to my safety," your voice wavers again, and you inwardly cringe.

"You have a wedding to plan, which means you have far more important responsibilities," your father asserts from across the room. "I do not want to hear anymore about you running off through the woods to make friends with the sheep." Your jaw clenches unpleasantly.

"Yes, sir." The words taste ugly in your mouth as you say them.

"If we're finished discussing this frivolity, we have an obligation for you," your mother explains. "Lady Jane Ives of the southeast territory has recently come of age, and she is soon to become queen. You will represent the family at the coronation."

Your face softens at the mention of Lady Jane. Fond images of her shy smile and pretty, wavy brown hair drift into your mind. You would undoubtedly be happy to see her again, but your heart lurches a little at the thought of how young she is. The same age as Dustin, now expected to lead an entire territory. Regardless, you were relieved that this was why your mother and father were so insistent on seeing you today.

"When will this be?" you ask, hearing a lightness in your voice that wasn't there before.

"A month from tomorrow," your mother says. "You'll leave on the fifth of November, allowing you and Sir Steven at least two days to travel. You will be accommodated in the Ives Estate."

Two whole days alone with Steven, with no prying eyes to catch the gentle kisses he loves to press to the side of your face, the interlacing of your fingers. You feel a rush of warmth to your cheeks, thinking of how shamelessly you'll be allowed to love him for that brief little window.

"I'm looking forward to it," you express earnestly.

"You are?" Your father's voice is a little startled, and your mother looks equally confused as to why you don't appear dreadful about being sent away on official business.

"Lady Jane is a wonderful girl," you say, the circumstances actually allowing you to be honest. "I'm happy to be the one congratulating her on such an occasion."

Your parents look at each other, blinking a little in disbelief.

"We're glad to hear this." Your mother's tone has adjusted, almost entirely unaffected by the shock of your enthusiasm.

"You're dismissed," your father announces.

You smile big to yourself as you turn away from them, unable to contain your excitement.

In preparation for Sir Steven's arrival later in the evening, you ask for an especially hot bath to be prepared. After your bathwater is hauled, you go over to your little herbal cabinet, reaching for things that will help soothe the pain in his side. Grapefruit peels for relaxing him, mugwort for helping the bruise heal, a little rosemary to ease the muscles.

The knock on your door that comes a little before midnight has become the happiest sound of your life, and you nearly knock yourself off of your feet every time you hear it. You fling the door open and pull Steven inside, not even allowing yourself a chance to look at him before you throw your arms around his neck.

"My angel," he sighs, his arms wrapping around your back with equal emotion. Steven is always warm to the touch, and you smile as you feel his large hands roam your sides. As he cranes his head upward to look at your face, he gets a glimpse of the steaming washing basin, which fills the air with a pleasant aroma.

"Is that for me?" His voice is soft and a little surprised. Steven can't recall the last time he washed somewhere other than the river, let alone a hot bath filled with healing herbs. He had never truly been taken care of at all, now he was standing in the room of a beautiful girl who loved him, really loved him. Steven's hands cradle your waist and the back of your head, sealing you in an embrace that says more than any words he could try to form.

"Thank you," he breathes. "This bruise has been killing me all day."

"I wanted to help you if I could," you assure him, even giving a little shrug to seem casual. "And I have another surprise." You pad over to the cabinet again, pulling out a leather canteen.

"Dustin was nice enough to slip this to me after dinner," you explain. "He's been secretly making wine from every fruit we grow, this is blackberries."

"Kitchen Dustin? Dustin that I used to train?"

You nod.

"I miss him," Steven muses, giving the liquid a sniff. "Strange kid, but he was fun to teach. This smells pretty good, actually." He gives it a quick swig and grimaces slightly.

"Good and strong, I'd pour lightly," he says, passing the canteen. As you pour the wine into chalices, Steven opens the doors of your balcony to let in the sounds of the rain and gentle thunder. When he meets you at the washing basin, he kisses you, hands reaching for the ties of your dress without breaking contact with your lips. He tugs and the garment pools around your feet, goosebumps breaking out on your arms and legs at the coolness of the air. Steven's fingers skim up your sides, bracing the sides of your neck. A final kiss brushes your lips. He steps away for you to undress him, and you happily oblige. As you pull up his shirt, you're especially mindful of his left side. Your eyes land hungrily on his chest as he begins to step out of his trousers, gaze dipping lower as more of him is exposed to you.

"I know, take it in," he teases, softly kicking his clothes aside. You smile as you roll your eyes, feeling his hands on your upper arms.

"You're absurd," you insist, tilting your head as you look up at him. He kisses the tip of your nose.

"Absurdly in love," he croons, smiling.

You pull away to step into the bath first, lying back against the edge of it to leave Steven plenty of room. His fingers gently nudge your shoulder, cuing you to move forward so he can slide in behind you. You stay put.

"Let me hold you," you insist. Steven's face tightens a little, confused at the thought of being held in the way he typically holds you.

"You're hurt, Steven. Please."

The concerned ridge between your eyebrows and the sweetness of your voice make it impossible for him to refuse you—something he did not excel at already. His shoulders drop a little, signaling that you've won him over, and he steps into the basin in front of you, bracing the sides as he lowers his body into the water. You feel Steven shudder slightly at the warmth as he leans to lie back against your chest. His head lands against your shoulder, and you kiss his temple.

"Not so bad?" you mutter close to his ear, gently scratching the top of his shoulder.

"I'll survive," he sighs, snickering a little as he reaches for one of the chalices, set atop a table near the bath. He hands one to you before taking a cup for himself, and you take a tentative sip, wincing slightly at the flavor that floods your senses. It's sweet at first, then quickly becomes bitter and harsh as it hits the back of your tongue.

"This is certainly a Dustin experiment," you say, bringing the cup to your lips, chasing for another hit of its initial sweetness.

"He's nothing if not resourceful," Steven says after a tense swallow. After nursing the cups for a little while, listening idly to the soft rustle of the rain outside, they both empty, and you set them aside once more. You brush the hair off of his forehead, the strands going wavy from the water. His face nestles into the space between your neck and shoulder, where he begins to lazily kiss the damp skin. Your head tilts back, sighing as the feeling of wine in your veins makes itself known to you.

"I have some good news," you say, giggling at the feeling of his lips on your neck.

"Mm?" The vibration of the sound against you pulls another fit of quiet laughter from you, and he kisses a little harder in the hopes of pulling even more.

"A month from now, I'm going to a coronation in the southeast territory," you explain.

"The Ives land?"

"Mhmm," you reply, nodding a little. "My parents are sending me in their place to keep up the relationship with their traders. They want you to be my escort."

You feel him smile against your neck, his own soft giggling resonating against your collarbone. The wine must be hitting him, too.

"The southeast territory, that's at least a two-day ride," Steven ponders aloud. "I'll have you all to myself that long?"

"All yours," you reply, resting a hand against his chest.

"You were right when you said you had good news," he mumbles, resting a hand on top of yours. "It's perfect, like a trial for our big plan." You hadn't really thought of it this way, but he was right. Your mother and father would be deep in the planning of solstice festivities, and you would get a glimpse of the long days of traveling that would be constant until the day you and Steven settle somewhere permanently.

"I'm excited to get a little fresh air," you muse, your voice a little airy from the tipsiness.

"It's only done me good," Steven replies, scratching tenderly at the back of your hand. You look down at him and smile, suddenly filled with the urge to kiss the twin moles on his cheek. You kiss there, gradually moving your lips to the corner of his mouth, and finally to his lips, as he had done when he first kissed you. He accepts your kiss happily, reaching for your hip under the water. Your tongue presses against the seam of his lips, and he parts them, encouraging you to lick into his mouth. He nips slightly at your bottom lip, coaxing a whimper from you. When his own tongue begins to slide against yours, you dip your hand lower, grasping gently at the softness of his tummy before lowering further, cupping your hand around his half-hard cock.

"Fuck, honey," he moans against your lips, pressing his hips up, eager for more friction against his length. "You don't have to if you don't want to, I'm happy just to be here with you."

"I want to," you insist. "Please, you're so good to me. Let me make you feel good, let me show you how much I love you." Steven laughs a little as his face tucks against your neck, reveling in the taste of your skin, subtly salty from sweat.

"You're too sweet to me," he mutters into your neck. "I love you more than anything, angel." Your hand wraps around his cock, fully erect and flushed a deep pink you can see, even through the water. You squeeze a little around the base, and his hips twitch obediently.

"I love you," you say, lips brushing against his—a mere tease of a kiss. His mouth chases after yours as you give the first real stroke, hand moving up and down his cock from base to tip.

"Cruel woman," he whines. "You know what you do to me, this is just mean." You giggle a little. Still, sympathetic to his desperation, you begin to pump your hand again, fucking his cock slowly with your fist. The continued motion develops a rhythm that Steven begins to match with his hips, grinding up as your hand strokes down. His little whimpers break into full moans, and he presses his face against your shoulder harder to stifle them. You don't have the advantage of your bed canopy to muffle the noise.

"God, I adore you," he moans, pressing his lips to the skin beneath your ear.

"So big in my hand, Steven," you say, practically a moan, considering how all of his noises and the fullness of him in your hand were causing your core to stir wildly. He thrusts into your hand harder.

"Perfect fuckin' hand," he groans. "Most perfect girl in the world and you want me, fuck." You can feel him getting closer to the edge, his hips starting to lose rhythm. You focus your movements on his pretty tip, working and stroking.

"I-fuck, angel, you're so beautiful, mm-you have me, in any way you could have me, I'm yours. All I've wanted is to be close to you, I begged the stars for you, God I-"

Steven's hand grasps at your thigh, aching for anything to hold onto as a big rope of cum lands on his tummy, accompanied by angelic pants and moans falling from his mouth. Smaller spurts follow as you slow your hand, helping him through the last swells of pleasure. You kiss his sweaty temple, then reach for a drying cloth on the table. You swipe it firmly against his stomach, wiping away the largest strokes of cum as it rises and lowers with his labored breaths. You set the cloth aside and rest your hand against his chest again.

"I asked the stars for you, too," you admit, your thumb stroking back and forth against his chest hair. Steven's eyes soften as they look up and into yours, his pupils almost swallowing the hazel around them entirely.

"Do you remember when that awful duke from the mountains kept pestering me during the Midsummer feast?" you recall. "You were only 12, you weren't even a knight yet. This duke was twice your size, he could have gotten you put away with the snap of his fingers, but you put yourself between us anyway. Told him to step away from me, that what he was doing was wrong. That night, after the party, I stood on that balcony and asked the stars to keep you in my life forever."

Steven smiles as he listens, proud to have softened such a harsh memory for you.

"What about you?"

"The first time I asked?"

You nod.

"Well, I've loved you for as long as I can remember," he confesses, uncharacteristically shy. "But I asked for the first time a week before I was knighted. Everyone in the castle went down to the village for the King's Parade, and you were sitting on this big, fancy wagon with your mother and father. You caught this boy smacking a doll out of his sister's hand, and without thinking, you leapt out of your seat, away from your parents, and you picked up this little girl's doll and handed it back to her, You were in this frilly dress, and the bottom of it got dirty when you were kneeling down talking to her, and you didn't care less. She was so happy to meet you, so excited to have this beautiful, smart girl to look up to. When everything was over that day, I snuck out to look at the sky. I asked for you to choose me to knight when my training was over. That you would want me by your side."

"They granted your wish, huh?" you say softly, stroking tenderly at his cheek with your fingertips.

"Yours, too," he counters, his voice sincere. "Unless you say the word, I'm not going anywhere."

You smile sleepily, gazing into his pretty eyes. The future was so wide, just out of reach, but still ensnared by heavy tangles of uncertainty. Despite this, Sir Steven lies against you unapologetic in the certainty of his love for you. You kiss his lips gently before you speak again.

"I like you right here."

The softness of the clover and moss under your hands is the only thing keeping your mind centered to the earth, the only thing reminding you that you're in your own body, lying on the riverbank on the edge of the castle grounds. You can't exactly recall how long you've been here. The sun was starting to dip lower, but not quite set. Truthfully, you couldn't be less interested in the time. After the meeting that caused you to seek out the peace of the riverbank, your worry about being scolded for disappearing was replaced with a deep, stomach-churning sense of dread.

You had been forced into meetings with suitors since you were eighteen. All were eager before actually meeting with you—extremely interested in both your beauty and the access to power and resources that a union with you family would enable. This interest waned after the conversation, as they assumed a princess as pretty and adored as you would speak excitedly about wedding planning and children, not poetry and astronomy. You were all the things a girl of your status should not be—courageous, sincere, intelligent.

At last, in your twenty-second year, a prince in a much further kingdom decided that the resources your family had access to were worth a marriage void not just of romance, but friendship. In six months, you would meet the prince the day you marry him, move into a private residence within their grounds, show the face of an adoring wife to the public, produce heirs (hopefully mostly boys), and don't complain. You knew nothing about this prince, other than he was in his early thirties, he came from a family known for farming and animal husbandry, and that his parents were long tired of being responsible for him.

"We are just so happy that he will finally have other people to mill about with," his mother said with a too-tight smile.

As you think of this, you sling an arm over your eyes, blocking out the dwindling sunlight. You do your best to place your focus on your surroundings—the gentle, persistent rushing of the river at your side, the pillowy moss and tufts of clover under your hands, the smell of damp earth and wild hyacinth. You place this focus a little too well, your darkened vision and preoccupied ears missing the shuffle of leather boots on the ground approaching.

"You alive down there?" A boyish, charismatic voice says above you. "Because I'm in big trouble if you're not."

You tear your arm away from your face, finally taking in the view above you. Steven. Sir Steven to the court and the rest of your family, but you two had been so close since childhood, the first time you called him "Sir Steven" after his official knighting, it felt as foreign as a different language.

"Much to your delight and my chagrin, yes," you say sitting up on your elbows. "I am alive."

"Alive and grouchy," he teases, having a seat next to you. He takes two apples out of the satchel at his side and offers you one. With a sheepish smile, you accept. "What's wrong? You're usually more optimistic than this."

"I'm getting married," you sigh. "To some stranger from the farming lands far west."

His eyes widen and his eyebrows knit together slightly, and you realize this is a rare occasion where Steven is lost for words. He's been quiet like this before—when his mentor Sir James didn't return from the war when Steven was still a squire, when his first and most beloved horse fell sick and needed to retire to a pasture, and now. You feel a little surprised that this news hurts him as much as the other heartaches.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice catching strangely around the sadness. You can't bring yourself to look at him yet. You nod as you take a big bite of your apple.

"I was perfectly content to stay here," you say bitterly, laying down again. "I assumed after four years of hundreds of suitors and no marriage, rumors about my lack of wifely disposition would spread far enough that no one would ever try again." Steven chuckles softly at this.

"It really is a shame," he says. "You would have made such a good old witch." You shove him lightly and he relaxes onto his back. When he turns his head, the tip of his nose brushes your bicep. His warm hands reach out and take hold of one of yours, now chilly from the hours of mid-autumn breeze. For the first time all day, you take an actual breath.

"The land's nice at least. I've done some scouting out there," he explains, fidgeting with your fingers. "Lots of animals, I know you'll like that."

This was certainly true. In fact, your first meeting with Steven happened for this very reason. You were seven and he was eight, with sandy brown hair and arms and knees already covered in scrapes from dueling with the other squires for fun. You were on night three of sleeping on the ground of the sheep pasture after your father informed you that he would be sending your favorite lamb away. Younger Steven gently shook you awake by the arm.

"Your father wanted me to tell you that you need to come home," he said, parroting his instructions. "He said he isn't selling the lamb but that you can't do this anymore because it makes him look bad." He escorted you back home, and you had been attached at the hip ever since.

"It's a stupid thing to be upset about," you remark. "I was always going to end up married, and almost certainly to a stranger. I have no right to be disappointed."

"Of course you're disappointed," he replies sternly, tracing the lines of your palm with the pad of his thumb. "Anyone would be upset about being shipped off to a stranger."

His words cause your stomach to churn all over again, and you squeeze your eyes shut. His words sting, only because of how painfully true they are. In your twenty second year, and you had seen so little of the world. Now, you finally have your chance to see more, and entirely on someone else's terms. You had a grand castle for a home, a brave and handsome knight that swore to stand between you and anything that could bring you harm, a ridiculous wardrobe of expensive clothes, but nothing that truly belonged to you. You try to fall back into your body again, letting only your surroundings into your thoughts. The flow of the river. The plush of the ground. The smell of the crisp air. A tender kiss to the inside of your wrist pulls your mind back.

"Sorry," Steven says softly. "You just… went somewhere."

"It's alright," you reply, barely louder than a whisper.

A strong gust of wind rustles the leaves in the trees above you and blows a fresh cloud of hyacinth-scented air your way. Steven's thumb ghosts over your ring finger, soon to be adorned by a jewel, priceless to your future husband and meaningless to you. It breaks your heart how easily your family gave you to someone else. Your body, your dreams for yourself, your very sense of self, now belonged to a man you've never met. You would miss everything. The air around the castle, that smelled of hyacinths and pine. Your library, filled with books on astronomy, alchemy, poetry, music. Your big, overstuffed, goose feather canopy bed. The hallways of your home, where you would run around and hide in corners with Steven when you were little. Steven. God, you would miss him. The way his body felt in your arms when you rode behind him on horseback, and the little looks you would share across the room during parties and feasts. The ridiculous way he would smirk for the crowd after winning a joust.

A calloused finger runs the length of your nose.

"You keep going away," Steven says, sitting up to look down at you. "Just tell me what's on your mind."

"I just feel silly," you say. "I'm angry. I want to take everything I love about this place, and wrap my arms around it, and squeeze as hard as I can."

"I wish you could," He says, moving a lock of hair away from your eyes.

"I wish I had any control over my life," you say. "I mean, the first time I ever kiss someone is going to be when I meet this total stranger on my wedding day."

His eyebrows creep up.

"Are you serious?"

"There hasn't exactly been a line of people eager to, Steven," you grumble. "Besides, I'm not even allowed to go for a walk by myself. I don't get many chances to be kissed."

"But it's not right."

"Nothing about this is right," you say. "But it's always how my life was going to be."

"That's exactly right, it's your life," he responds, his eyes going a little glossy. You sigh.

"This is how things are," you say, sitting up. "I don't like it. Of course I would like to actually know the first man I kiss."

You look down at your lap, gazing wistfully at a little cluster of daisies growing out of the ground by your knee. Steven is also deep in thought next to you, waging the proposal he's about to make until he speaks.

"I'll do it."

The words cut through the air, fizzling like red-hot iron suddenly plunged into cold water. You laugh a little in disbelief.

"Do what?" Your voice is reedy and shocked, unfamiliar to your ears.

"I'll kiss you," he says casually. "Only if you want me to, I mean, this whole conversation has been about you not having any choice. So, if you would let me, I'll kiss you."

His eyes are shiny, and you suddenly feel very aware of how close you are to him. You can see all of his pretty moles and freckles, the tiny scars that dot his face and neck from years of combat, the bit of chest hair that peeks out from under his shirt and leather tunic. He's handsome in a way that feels unfair.

"That's not funny," you say in disbelief.

"I'm not trying to be," he replies sincerely. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but you deserve to have a little life of your own before you get married."

"I want to," you blurt out before you can really consider his offer. You feel your face grow warm.

"You're sure?" He asks, moving himself closer to be in front of you instead of at your side. "Like I said, this is all for you. I only want this if you do."

You nod. "I'm sure." He smiles and exhales with a little laugh, evidently pleased. Steven reaches for your hand again, drawing it close before he presses a kiss to the center of your palm. Your breath hitches and the warmth in your face starts to grow.

"Thank you," he says softly, lowering your hand.

"What am I supposed to do?" you ask nervously.

"You don't need to be nervous," he says, shifting to be even closer. "Just follow my lead, it's not scary at all."

You nod, trying to exert a little more confidence. It doesn't necessarily work.

"Where do I put my hands?" you whisper. He laughs slightly, entirely because he is so endeared.

"My shoulders, or my face," he offers. "Whatever feels good to you."

You hesitate for a moment before you lift your hands, letting them lay flat on his chest before sliding them up to his shoulders. You give them a slight, experimental squeeze.

"Good, that's good," he says sweetly. He lifts his hands to return the touch, a hand floating above your waist.

"Can I?"

"Please," you breathe out.

Steven's warm palm rests firmly on your waist, the other hand coming to cup your cheek. Despite the callouses and hard lines from years of handling reins and swords, his touch is impossibly gentle. Even in someone else's hold, you've never felt so free.

"Close your eyes," he says in a low voice. You do. His thumb gently brushes your cheekbone for a moment before you feel his face come closer to yours. His hand lowers a little for him to tenderly swipe your upper lip. "Soft," he whispers to himself. You feel his lips ghost against the corner of your mouth, and he gently kisses.

After what feels like an eternity, Steven finally, and so sweetly, presses his lips to yours. His hands moves to cup the back of your neck, causing the warmth in your face spreads through your whole body like wildfire. He can taste the sweetness of the apple lingering in your mouth, and he presses a little harder, eager for more of it. A small noise emits from your throat and you feel him smile against your mouth. When he pulls away for you to take a breath, you chase his lips, gathering the leather at his shoulders in your hands and you kiss him again. The hand at your face moves to your waist, and he fully wraps his arms around it. When you finally pull away, you're both wide-eyed and breathless, still holding onto each other desperately.

"I-" you try to speak. "Thank you." He smiles big and releases you a little, a hand gently rubbing up and down your side.

"You're very welcome," he says, still smiling. "I hope you feel a little more…lived, I guess."

You felt extremely lived. Alive like you had never been before, like the kiss was the last click of the lock on the door that was your life. A whole new fire blossomed in your chest, a fire that longed to read every book, run as fast as you could, make friends, ride horses, fight with swords, laugh loudly, bleed, cry, kiss, make love. Your desire to live a life wholly your own fully eclipsed the resignation to your fate, like it was never there to begin with. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him again. He kisses you back before he gently retreats.

"What was that for?" He asks, laughing a little. "Getting in all the kissing you can before you leave?"

"I'm sorry," you say, a little shy. "Just felt really good."

"Don't be sorry," he assures you. "I enjoyed myself, too."

Similar to Steven's own thoughts turning before he offered to kiss you, an idea forms in your head. Evidently, it shows on your face.

"You're back in your head," he says quietly. "C'mon, you shouldn't be lingering on those thoughts if they make you upset."

"I'm alright," you assure him. "Thinking about something else entirely, actually."

"You are?" He asks, taking your hand and kissing the back of it. "And what are you thinking about?"

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to suggest what you're thinking of.

"Kissing isn't the only thing I was going to have to do for the first time when I get married," you explain. "His parents kept going on and on about how excited they were for grandchildren, so he'll probably also be expecting me to…consummate the marriage."

Steven's expression shifts from confusion to realization, the tilt in his head disappearing as he sits up straighter.

"You mean…" he trails off.

"Yes, I mean," you say. "It's like you said, I only want to if you want to. But I trust you."

"You trust me with your… maidenhood," he says, the word tensely tumbling out of his mouth.

"Please don't say it like that," you whine, your head falling to rest on his shoulder.

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, one of his arms wrapping around your shoulders. "But you're sure you want it to be with me? I mean, you deserve to do this with someone you trust, but you're smart and beautiful, and I'm… me."

"That's exactly why I want it to be you," you insist. "My whole life, you're the only one that doesn't treat me like an ignorant child. You care, you want me to be myself. That's the sort of person I want to give it to."

Steven's brow furrows, turning the idea over in his mind.

"I won't force you, that would just be me passing along the cruelty I've been given," you say, lightly squeezing his hand. "But if you would like to, it's what I want."

He returns the squeeze.

"When do you want to?" Steven asks.

"Is tonight too soon?" You suggest shyly, looking down at the grass again.

"Tonight?" His voice nearly cracks from the surprise. "You've just been kissed for the first time, don't you think this is a little fast?"

"Trust me," you say. "I know what I want. I know I'm ready."

He sighs.

"I trust you," he promises. "I'll come to your room after shift change, a little before midnight." Your heart jumps a little and your face grows warm again as you nod. You brings your hands to his face, feeling the slight stubble and heat on his cheeks.

"Thank you," you whisper, then you lean in to give him a quick, sweet kiss goodbye that he happily reciprocates. "I need to go, I'm already in so much trouble for being out here by myself."

"I know," he replies. "I'll see you tonight, angel."

The waiting is agonizing. Having to sit through dinner as your parents happily chirp about finalizing your engagement only made the fire in your chest burn harder. Each scrape of utensil against plate chipped away at your sanity. After you finished eating hastily, you were given permission to be excused. You all but flew out of your seat in the dining room and ran clumsily through the halls and up the stairs to your chamber. After your washing basin is filled with hot water, you go absolutely overboard—dumping an entire small jug of lavender oil, most of a bottle of rose water, haphazard handfuls of chamomile flowers and orange peel. You scrub obsessively at every inch of yourself, lathering yourself in a thick layer of sweet smelling foam. Your hands rake through your hair meticulously, fixing and de-tangling everything into place. After drying off, you debate between putting a nightgown on and getting dressed in one of your finer things. As your hands reach for a chemise and deep green overdress, you remember who it is you're getting dressed for. Steven. Your Steven, that has never asked anything of you. One of the only people you don't have to perform for. You pull out a nightgown and slip it over your head.

Even with the admittedly excessive preparation, there was still another hour until midnight. You paced a little, attempted to read by the fireplace, fluffed and arranged your bed, paced again, and retreated to the balcony for some fresh air to soothe the rapidness of your thoughts. As you close and lock the balcony doors, you hear three subtle knocks on the entrance to your room. You rush over, unable to suppress your eagerness. The door opens to reveal Sir Steven, entirely stripped of armor. He wearing a shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and undone at the chest. His legs, which were always covered in either plates or leather braces, wear only simple trousers. His hair is a little more in place than usual, and he's smiling from ear to ear. He gingerly closes the door behind him and locks it, before he wraps you in his strong arms.

"Missed you," he says softly against the side of your head.

"It's been five hours," you tease, despite the feeling being mutual.

"Felt like fifty," he replies, pulling away a little to cup your face and press a kiss to your cheek, trailing down to your jaw. You giggle at the sensation as the tip of his nose drags softly over your cheekbone.

"You're sure you're ready?" he asks, taking your face into his hands. Yours find the front of his shirt, and you gently tug.

"I'm ready," you assure him.

Steven takes your hand and leads you over to your bed, pulling back the canopy for you both to crawl in. He takes in the the softness of the mattress, your thick bedcovers, feather pillows, all luxuries he never would have dreamed to indulge in. The orange candlelight bounces softly off of his features.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, pulling you close. "We're going nice and slow, alright? You can tell me you don't want this anymore any time you want." You nod, smiling sheepishly. He starts with soft, slow kisses pressed to your mouth, his hands wandering your waist and the expanse of your back. His tongue barely traces of the seam of your lips, deepening the kiss.

"Can I lay you down?" he asks softly, and you nod. He gently lowers your head onto your pillows, trying to shift so his weight would be grounding on top of you and not overwhelming. His lips are on yours again, then they shift to the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, and finally onto your neck. You gasp a little, the feeling unfamiliar and thrilling. Soft kisses pepper across your throat and collarbone, and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the sounds that threaten to spill from your mouth. Steven lifts his head up, frowning a little when he sees that you're embarrassed. His thumb gently tugs at your bottom lip, and he gives it a sweet kiss.

"You don't need to hide anything, angel," He says softly, gently rubbing your upper arm. "I want you to feel everything, you deserve that." His lips find your neck again.

"I know you would make the prettiest sounds if you let yourself," he murmurs into your collarbone and you shudder, letting out a voiced sigh.

"Knew it," Steven says, smiling as his reaches for the ties at the front of your nightgown. His big dark eyes blink up at you, silently asking for permission and you nod. You feel the pull of the cotton ties loosening, as your nightgown reveals your sternum and the very top of your breasts. His thumb brushes over the soft skin, and he plants a kiss on the right, then the left. He slowly tugs the fabric down further, leaving all of your chest on display for him. Your nipples pebble from the sudden, cool air.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers, his words full of longing and reverence. You feel his warm, big palm come up and gently squeeze, feeling the suppleness of your breast. His thumb brushes across your nipple with intention and you whimper, too caught in the feeling of his touch to muffle yourself. He kisses the top of your left breast again, then trails his lips down to your nipple. Carefully, he pulls it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the peak as he applies the slightest pressure with his teeth. Your hand reaches into his hair involuntarily.

"S-Steven," you moan. "I- it feels…God…" He pulls off of your breast with a quiet 'pop' and pulls himself to kiss your lips again, breathless and needy.

"You're perfect," he mumbles against your lips. Steven grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts, exposing his torso. You had seen Sir Steven shirtless before, especially during the hot summer months, when training outside is unbearable in heavy armor, but this was different. His shoulders were broad, dotted with delicate spots that trailed down his arms. You reach for him, your palms making contact with the dark hair that covers the broadest plains of it. A pretty line of finer hair extends from the bottom of his navel to the top of his trousers. You feel your mouth water a little as you feel the warmth of him under your palm, the strength of his heartbeat. He takes the hands on your chest and brings them to his lips.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he says, lowering your hands to his chest again. Woman. Everyone else in your life saw you as a little girl, a maiden, and you would be until you had your first child. Your access to womanhood was behind the door of motherhood—to most people around you, they were one in the same. Not to Sir Steven. To him, your maturity, your intelligence, the way you understood yourself; these were the things that determined what you were. Your eyelids flutter a little, and you reach for a shoulder to pull him down again. His chest hair brushes against the nakedness of your own breasts, and you sigh at the sensation. A hand trails downward and grasps the fabric covering your thighs. He looks at you before he pulls upward.

"I'll be gentle," he promises, with a kiss to your cheek. "Just let yourself feel it, sweetheart."

"I trust you," you say, cradling his cheek. He turns his face to kiss your palm. Your nightgown moves up your thighs and your legs start to cross on instinct until his big hand coaxes them open again.

"You're beautiful," he reminds you. "Every part."

Fingers skim up your thigh, tenderly grasping the flesh until the pad of his thumb slowly swipes from your cunt to your clit, smearing the wetness that had accumulated there. You mewl, burying your face in his shoulder. You had touched yourself before, but the way you felt in Steven's hands was something entirely different. He rubs slow circles, tenderly stroking your hair off your face with his other hand.

"I need more," you whine into his neck, eager to chase the feeling. He obliges your words, lowering his hand to press two fingers at the opening of your pussy. They press in slowly, and the stretch stings before it quickly melts into goodness. Fullness. His thumb continues its attention on your clit, causing your back to lift off the mattress for a moment.

"Feels good?" He looks down at you with eager eyes.

"It feels wonderful," you say, your voice breathy and light. His fingers pump in and out, in and out until you've fully relaxed in his hold again and you no longer need adjustment. Steven thinks for a moment before he removes his hand. He brings the hand that was inside of you to his mouth, and sucks at the fingers that were pleasuring you. A low moan vibrates around his hand. Your eyes widen at the sight and your tummy starts to swim, seeing him so shameless. Steven leaves your side and shuffles down, pressing a kiss to your knee before he fully lowers himself, chest flush with the mattress. You feel more kisses trail up your thighs.

"What are you-"

"Just trust me."

The next thing you fill is his lips on your clit, sweet and brief before he gives an experimental lick. The sensation shoots up your body, straight to your tummy.

"Please," you moan out, unsure of what it is you're exactly asking for. Steven flattens his tongue, dragging a long lick from your hole back up to your clit, and he gently suckles at it. His tongue flicks back and forth across the sensitive bud and your hands rake into his hair again, tugging a little at the strands.

"Pull as hard as you need, angel," he says looking up only for a moment before going back, arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs to keep them spread. He sucks and licks and kisses at your pussy, and you feel a hand leave your thigh.

"So sweet," he whines against your cunt.

Fingers press against your entrance again and push in, curling slightly to reach the most sensitive spot. The gentle waves of pleasure in your belly churn harder and faster. You can feel yourself gushing against Steven's hand and face, too caught up in pleasure to be self conscious about. The heat in your stomach isn't entirely unfamiliar, but the sensation of him so shamelessly adoring you, making you feel good—it gave the heat an entirely new presence in your body. You feel beautiful. Powerful. Loved.

"I think I'm close," you mumble, your mouth struggling around the words as more cries of pleasure rise in your throat.

"Let go, angel," he replies, briefly replacing his tongue with his fingers. "This is all yours. All for you." The second he's finished speaking, his tongue is back on you. The coil in your tummy winds and builds until it finally snaps, sending shock waves of real, relaxed pleasure throughout every inch of you. Steven tongue slows, working you through the intensity after your orgasm. Pulling away from you entirely would just be cruel. Once he hears your breaths even out, he presses a final kiss to your clit before bringing himself back up to you. His mouth presses against yours tenderly, licking into it a little. He's right, you think. Sweet.

"How do you feel?" he asks, cupping your cheek.

"Amazing," you sigh, trying to catch your breath before pressing a kiss to his palm this time. "You're so good to me."

"You deserve it," he replies with a smile. "You deserve everything."

You smile and kiss him again, pressing your hand against his heart, pounding strongly. As you kiss him, your hand travels from his chest, down the softness of his stomach to his pelvis. You hesitate before you gently press your palm against his clothed cock. He bucks into you involuntarily, eager for stimulation.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he groans. "You just sounded so pretty, and you're so beautiful, and I-"

"It's alright," you giggle, hand on the swell of his tummy. "I"m actually flattered."

He laughs, giving you a kiss.

"I want to touch you," you say. "Can I?"

"Oh God, please," he breathes out.

You lower your hand again, gently cupping at the bulge in his trousers. You haven't seen anything yet, but you can feel that he's huge. His breath hitches as you tenderly squeeze and palm at him a little. He grinds back against you ever-so-slightly, pressing a long kiss to your lips.

"I'm ready," you pull away to tell him. When your hand closes around the waist of his trousers, you can feel smooth skin and coarse hair. He nods and you pull the tie, releasing his pants from around his hips. Steven sits back on his heels and takes hold of your nightgown again, pulling it up and over your head. He eases himself out of his trousers, leaving both of you entirely bare before each other for the first time.

"You're unbelievable," he says, drinking you in with his eyes. You look back at him with glossy, wanting eyes, gaze moving from the broadness of his torso to his now naked lower half. You never imagined a man's cock to be pretty. You had seen vague, unappealing drawings before in some health journals, but Steven's couldn't be more different. Long, and curved upward towards his stomach. He's thick, too—when you wrap your hand around, the tips of your middle finger and thumb barely meet. Your hand moves up and down, giving tentative strokes to feel the warmth and thickness of him. He groans above you, desperately grasping at the tops of your thighs. Steven lowers himself to kiss you, causing his cock to prod at your clit and you moan into his mouth. He wraps a hand around himself, gently stroking up and down your cunt with the tip. When he shallowly nudges the tip inside of you, you whine. This was an entirely new stretch, feeling fullness in a way you never had before, even on his thick fingers.

"I know, angel," he says against your neck. "I know, just breathe. I'll be so gentle. I've got you."

You nod, trying to best to take in a deep breath as he pushes in a little further, about halfway. His hand gently rubs at the side of your hip and your thigh, soothing you and bringing you back to your body. Another hand gently rests flat on your tummy, the warmth of it helping to soothe the subtle sting that lingers.

"I want more," you say after another deep breath. "I want to feel you, all of you." He gives a final swipe of his thumb over your tummy, then he pushes all the way in. You gasp as a whole new rush of warmth flows through you. You had never felt so full before, so wanted before.

"Gripping me so much," he mumbles lowering his face to your neck to press a soft, open mouthed kiss to it. "You're doing so well, angel. Taking me so good." Your arms wind around his shoulders, desperate for any closeness you can get. He thrusts shallowly, giving you a taste of how it feels for him to move inside of you. The rocking of his hips and press of his cock against your walls is intoxicating, causing your hips to jolt upwards.

"More?" He asks, rubbing at your side again. You give him a lazy smile and nod. He pulls out, leaving a little less than half his cock inside of you before pushing in again. The pad of his thumb finds your clit, and the last lingering sting dissipates into pure warmth, pulsing gentle and strong in your belly. When he pulls out again, you feel your pussy empty entirely. He doesn't give you the chance to whine at the emptiness before pushing in again, nestling his face against your neck.

"Feels so full," you pant, raking down his back with your fingernails. "God, Steven, n-need you so bad."

"You have me, lovely," he says through heavy breaths, lifting his head up to look into your eyes as he thrusts. "I'm yours. Yours always. I don't care what shit-hole corner of the world they send you to, there's nowhere you could go that I wouldn't belong to you."

His words pierce straight to your heart, instantly sending a mist of tears to your eyes.

"I swore myself to you," he says, rocking into you slowly. "I swore I'd never let anything hurt you. I plan on keeping that promise."

You pull him down to kiss you, trying to convey everything you feel into the kiss. Longing, gratitude, need.

"I love you," you say against his lips. He smiles wide, his shoulders shaking with happy laughter and he presses his forehead to your sternum for a moment.

"I love you," he replies, moving his hips again. "As long as I've known anything, I've known that. Fuck, I love you so much."

He thrusts into you with renewed purpose, the motion of pelvis continuing to pulse pleasure throughout your body. A familiar feeling arises in your tummy again, and you drag hand up from his back to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your cunt pulses around him and he moans, sensing your approaching orgasm.

"Come on, angel," he says tenderly. "Fall apart for me, I'm right here." The sweetness of his words combined with the grind of his hips into yours is all it takes to send you over the edge again. The fluttering feeling in your body bursts again, filling you with a fuzzy euphoria.

"Feels so good," you sigh, grinding your heels against the mattress, desperate for something ground you.

He gives you a final, long kiss before pulling out, starting to stroke himself above you.

"So perfect," he says through gritted teeth. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you wanted me to do this. I'm the luckiest fucking bastard alive."

He grabs at one of your hands with his free one, interlacing the fingers. After a few more strokes up and down his cock, he finishes, painting the soft skin of your tummy with creamy white cum. His chest rises and falls in panting breaths until they eventually slow, and he leans down to kiss your lips.

"I love you," Steven says again, kissing your forehead. "You were perfect." He stands from the bed and searches around the room until he locates a basket of handkerchiefs. When he returns, he wipes your tummy clean. He lays back against the mattress, pulling you into his side. Your arms wind around him instantly, relishing in the closeness. He presses a long kiss to your sweaty hairline.

"I'm getting you out of here," he says after a short silence.

"What?"

"I don't know what I have to do, but they're not sending you away like that," his voice is firm and final. "I meant what I said. As long as you'll have me, I won't let anyone or anything hurt you. This choice they made for you, it hurts doesn't it?"

"It does," you whisper.

"Then it's my job to stop it," he insists. "I'll figure something out."

His hand gently strokes up and down your bare back, lulling you to rest. You know he'll be gone when you wake in the morning, out on the early morning watch near the castle walls. You know that as the months leading up to your wedding go by, you'll only be under more scrutiny and pressure. For now, you let the tender stroking up and down your back soothe those thoughts away. You trust him to figure this out with you. Sir Steven has yet to break a promise.

author's note: thank you for reading!! This is my first effortful attempt at writing smut and I hope I at all succeeded. Knight!Steve has always been so near and dear to my heart, and I absolutely want to write more about him and you (because you're literally a princess)

You tried not to audibly groan as your feet found the floor. The body asleep next to you was lying on his front, his face buried into one of your pillows, his arms wrapped around it like it tried to run away in the night. He was tanned and dotted with freckles, a summer scene across the skin on his back, broad and taut with muscle. You frowned as you looked over your shoulder at him, trying to place a name, a face, any memory of the last few hours.

The only things that came to mind were bare skin and a lot of touching. Teeth and lips and hands and calloused fingers that dug into your hips as you rode him. You rubbed your face, clearing the sleep from your eyes, the tequila and the taste of sex from your lips.

You tried really hard to walk quietly to your bathroom, padding softly across the wooden floors, avoiding the sweater that lay there and the board that you knew squeaked like it held a disease in its whorls and knots. The bathroom door shut with a squeak and a click and you held your breath, forehead braced against the cool wood but you heard nothing, no sheets rustling, no feet on the floorboards.

Your reflection stared back at you from above the sink with disdain and disappointment and you weren't in a position to disagree with her. Your hair was a mess and there was leftover lipstick on your neck of all places, like you’d gifted it to someone who’d pressed it right back onto your skin. There was the beginning of a hickey on your chest, purple and pink and blooming under the bright fluorescent light that hummed above you.

The shower started with a groan and a hiss, the pressure battering the floor of the tub and you shed what little clothes you had on before clambering into it, skin prickling at the chill before it rocketed to almost too hot. You hit the temperature dial with an annoyed indifference, hiding under the cool spray until your hair stuck to your head and it didn't hurt as much as it did when you first opened your eyes.

You thought back to the night before, eyes closed, your stomach starting to turn with tequila and vodka and cheap beer. You remembered the sticky floors of the new bar you’d been dragged to, nothing more than a basement room filled with sweaty bodies and with brick walls covered in band posters and beer mats from places around the world. There were more people than tables and an oversized disco ball turned slowly overhead, entirely out of place as some indie sleaze song leaked out from the speakers in every corner.

You’d danced with your friends, nothing more than your hips moving in the crush of bodies, skin on skin as you tried to take shots without it spilling over your fingers. You remembered licking raspberry syrup from your thumb, your eyes on a guy who stood across the room from you, his brows raised when you grinned.

You remembered a song passing, maybe two, before he came over. There hadn’t been any bravado, no cheesy lines, no faux nonchalance. He’d bent down to your ear, a large warm hand hovering over the small of your back as he leaned into you. Someone had bumped him, his lips brushing your ear and he’d told you that you were pretty.

You’d grinned, shyness disappearing under the taste of tequila and when he’d asked you to dance you’d handed your empty glass to your friend and took his hand. It got blurry then, his hips against your ass as he moved to the music, moved against you. His hands, warm and big, laying on your hips, fingers settling into the crease of your upper thigh until you were too warm and the only answer was to pull him outside for some air.

He’d tasted like beer when he kissed you, your back against the rough brick outside of the bar. But his hand had cupped the back of your head to save it from becoming sore and that alone had you arching into him, his free hand around the back of your thigh as you hitched your leg to his hip. There must’ve been a taxi ride to yours and there was a fuzzy memory of your couch, the man pressed into it as you shed your shirt and straddled him, his lips dancing across your throat, your sternum.

You stayed under the spray until the water turned too cold and your head felt less like someone had jumped on it. Your hair was clean and your face had been scrubbed, your toes minty fresh as you spat leftover toothpaste down the tub drain and when you got out, wrapped in a too small towel, your bed was empty.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You didn’t think too much of the man. You tried not to. But when you’d finally gotten dressed and shuffled along the sidewalk in the town that’s finally waking up, you found yourself thinking about the night before more often than you wanted to.

You told yourself it was a good thing he left when he did. The perfect way to avoid the awkward morning after, the stilted conversation of if they wanted coffee and exchanging numbers no one was ever really planning on calling.

Right?

Right.

The subway was packed, uncomfortable and sticky hot, like honey on your skin. There was a woman pressed too close to your side, both of you clinging on to the same handrail, her gum snapping too sharp and obnoxious by your ear. There was a kid crying about a broken toy two carriage’s down and every time the doors opened, the shrill noise of it all cut you in two. You were way more hungover than you’d let yourself believe, hiding shamelessly behind a pair of oversized sunglasses that turned the bright morning sun and the flickering overhead fluorescents into a shade of grey that was much more manageable.

It suited your mood. It dulled the flavour of tequila that sat at the back of your tongue. But it didn’t dampen the memories of last night that were coming back to you, persistently stronger and less blurry than before.

You could remember getting out of the cab, the air still heavy and hot despite the early morning hour, the only way a night could be in Chicago during summer. There were memories of you dragging the boy behind you, your hand clasped in his as you fumbled at the door of your apartment building, pressing the wrong numbers for your key code, eyes fluttering closed as the stranger pushed his nose to your neck, his lips following the path he made. Then there was the stairwell, blessedly empty, the air much cooler and the brick wall rough as you were pressed against it on the first landing. More kissing, the dirty kind with all tongues and teeth, breaths panted into open mouths, hands tugging at the fronts of belts, sneaking under skirts, fingers pressed to cotton and lace.

The train jerked on the tracks and you stumbled, so unlike yourself and the thoughts of your late night guest gave way to the packed train once more. You didn’t think about him between your legs, you didn’t think about your hands in his hair - brown and messy and almost too long - and you definitely didn’t think about the way he moaned as loud as you did when you came on his tongue.

Elbows pressed into your sides as you pushed your way off the carriage, the train doors beeping, humid subway air giving way to something only a little fresher as you climbed the concrete steps and out into the street. Chicago was louder here, closer to The Loop now, you had to dodge others on the sidewalk, everyone with some form of earphones in, their heads down, their eyes low. Trucks were parked too close to the sidewalk, men with cigarettes hanging out their mouths yelled at each other as they passed crates of vegetables and fruit to each other, corner store owners filling their shelves and somehow, the streets smelled like freshly baked bread, roasted coffee and sewers all at the same time.

It did nothing to help your hangover. Neither did the ache in your hips that had you remembering how you’d been pressed into your mattress only hours before, skin slapping skin, gasps and moans floating in the air.

Your face burned with it.

It only cooled when you made a sharp left, narrowly avoiding a young couple trying to manipulate a too large couch from the back of a moving van into their narrow doorway. The alleyway turned the sky duller, the sun hidden from view as you walked between the two tall buildings, avoiding leftover puddles and rat traps before you raised your fist to an old fire door and knocked.

Knock was perhaps too polite. You let your palm slam down on the rust covered surface, the tiny pane of glass that acted as a window rattling at your efforts. The sound reverberated through the alley, loud enough to piss off the neighbours in the apartments above you and someone leaned out their window, half asleep and swearing viciously.

But the door was kicked open and the smell of cinnamon and bacon greeted you. The air was hotter than ever, the hum of the ovens adding to the warmth and the too loud sound of the back kitchen. Everything was silver and white and coated in a fine layer of icing sugar and flour and god, ew, a little bit of fryer grease. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker was blasting music that was too loud but it still didn’t drown out the drone of the extractor fans, the bubble and pop of the bagels in an enormous vat of boiling water.

The Gate was something of a hole in the wall, not quite a cafe, not quite a restaurant and not a place you usually saw tourists. It was on the right line of cheap, a little rough around the edges but the food was the best you could find this side of the Chicago River. It was all brick walls and a huge glass front, neon lights shining out of it every hour of the day and night. Chipped green and white tiles on the floor, wobbly legged tables and chairs that didn’t quite match anymore, The Gate was owned by a man called Jim Hopper but it was run by the rest of the staff he’d hired.

A group of people who were all in the middle of that age bracket between teenagers and adults, a bunch of somewhat misfits who were collectively in the stage of life where no one knew what the fuck they were doing and smoke breaks took precedence over bussing tables.

A guy called Eddie manned one of the grills you passed by, a cig tucked behind his ear and his dark curls pulled high into a bun atop his head. A sketch pad of tattoos peeked out from his chef whites and he merely lifted a spatula at you in greeting, a pair of headphones covering his ears as he flipped pancakes on the griddle and blocked out the pop song that came from the speaker by the prep zone.

There were Robin and Argyle, both sitting haphazardly on stools that had been dragged from the bar, peeling a variety of vegetables as they both shared details of the night before, both nursing the same kind of hangover you suffered from. The front of house looked quiet, no other staff at work just yet. The doors were still closed and the neon sign on the front flickered a garish pink as it told the rest of the city The Gate was still closed for now. The small bar in the corner was wiped clean, no sticky leftover gin or rum staining the wooden worktop and the various glass bottles on the glass shelves behind it were glinting in the morning light. There were crystals on the windowsills, more hanging in the corners of the room from wicker baskets and mosaic pots, all of them holding bundles of green, leafy plants. They scattered rainbows of all sizes around the restaurant, painted little rectangular sponges of colours on the tables, the brick walls, your arms and the tiled floor.

You sighed as you hung up your bag, swapping it for an apron that you tied around your waist. Breakfast shift was never your favourite, but you hoped that everyone decided the day was too warm and everyone was too hungover to bother venturing out this early. You looked at the clock, twelve minutes to seven. Seventy two minutes until the doors and you still didn’t deem that enough time to feel human.

You stuffed a new order pad into your apron pocket, reminding yourself to hunt for a pen as soon as you managed to snag some pancakes or a bagel from the kitchen first. Jim said he didn’t believe in technology, not to the point of tablets replacing a good old pad and pen for taking orders, but you were pretty certain that the man was just fucking cheap.

Minutes passed as you stood in the middle of the tables, your head tipped back as you closed your eyes and took a breath. And another. And another. Kaleidoscopes of colours painted your cheeks, your eyelids and you could hear the speaker from the kitchen playing faintly through the closed door. Suddenly it was five hours ago and you were on the edge of a dance floor you’d never been on before, a body pressed against the back of your own as you both swayed and rocked to the music. The cab drive to yours became clearer now, your head tipped against the window as you let your dance partner kiss down your neck, his hand skating up the fabric of your skirt as he gripped your hip. You remembered the cab driver's eyes in the rear view mirror, the sharp cough he let out when you grabbed your new friend’s jaw in your hand and licked into his mouth.

“Get ‘em while they’re hot.” The clatter of a plate and Eddie’s too loud voice broke you from your thoughts.

Cheeks burning and heart thumping a little too wildly, you spun, eyes flying open as you found a stack of pancakes waiting on the bartop for you. They’re dusted with sugar and dripping with maple syrup, a handful of freshly washed berries on the side. You moaned, the man who shared your bed momentarily forgotten about, and you contemplated giving Eddie a fat kiss on the cheek.

“You’re an angel,” you told him instead, forgoing cutlery as you bit straight into a pancake, eyes fluttering at the sweetness and warmth. “A real life angel.”

The chef snorted, already walking back into the kitchen. “Call my high school principal and tell him that, would ya?”

You managed two whole bites before the phone rang and Robin answered it, her voice bored and tired and muffled under the noise of music and hissing grills. Then the door flew open and she handed the receiver to you, eyes rolling. She pinched a strawberry and poked at your bare skin, where your blooming hickey bruised the space between the top of your shirt and your exposed collar bones.

You batted at her hand, frowning when she smirks and your lips were sticky with maple syrup when you tried to form a professional greeting. “Good morning, thanks for calling The Gate, this is— oh, it’s you.”

Hopper scoffed on the other end of the line. “Hello to you too, kid. Listen, there’s a new start coming today for the linecook position. Should be ‘round seven thirty and he’s more than qualified so just get him some spare whites and show him where the trash goes. Eddie’ll handle the rest.”

Your hangover pulsed in annoyance. “Can’t Joyce get him sorted?” You speared another raspberry and popped it into your mouth, eyes rolling when your boss sighed in return.

“Joyce is on vacation. With me. We told you this on Monday, you never lis— look, just get the guy sorted alright? He’s a good kid, he’s not gonna cause any hassle.”

“Whatever, sure,” you mumbled. You needed to find some tylenol, your eyes felt like they were going to fall out of their sockets. “Enjoy Cabo, or wherever it is you guys are.”

“We’re in Colorado, but close enough,” Hopper grunted. “Just don’t burn the place down, alright? See you in two weeks.”

You were frowning when the dial tone buzzed in your ear. It was three minutes past seven and you were left with a sticky, sugary mess on your empty plate and thirty three tables to set before the doors opened. And a new start to get set up.

You found a tylenol in Nancy’s open locker and a set of new chef whites in Hopper’s abandoned office. You set them by the side of the bar before you gathered cutlery and new napkins, splitting them with Robin as you both wove in and out of tables and booths, the kitchen getting noisier as Argyle and Eddie started prepping for lunch. The glass cabinets by the cash desk were filled finally with fresh pastries, the front of house smelled like freshly squeezed oranges and you had made yourself busy by misting an oversized fern when someone knocked on the front door.

There was a man standing behind the glass. He was tall and dressed in denim jeans that had faded knees, a white T-shirt with rolled sleeves and he had a pair of black Ray-Ban’s perched on his nose. Despite that, you recognised him. His hair looked ruffled, like someone had been pulling on it all night, dishevelled and messy in a way that would’ve made your mother’s cheeks burn. Any mother’s, actually.

Fuck.

No? No.

You unlocked the door and the click of it was too loud, too jarring. You stared at the stranger who didn’t seem all that strange and your stomach turned as you recognised the sweater he had clutched in his right hand. A forest green thing with a yellow patch on the chest. You knew that sweater. It had been on your bedroom floor when you’d made your quiet escape to the bathroom.

Fuck.

You looked at the man and he looked at you, the customer service smile he’d plastered on his face wilting at the same time his extended hand did, the professional greeting slipping from every fibre of him.

“You.”

You try not to audibly groan as your feet find the floor. The body sleeping next to you is lying on his front, his face buried into one of your pillows, his arms wrapped around it like it tried to run away in the night. He’s tanned and dotted with freckles, a summer scene across the skin on his back, broad and taught with muscle. You frown as you look over your shoulder at him, trying to place a name, a face, any memory of the last few hours.

The only things that come to mind are bare skin and a lot of touching. Teeth and lips and hands and calloused fingers that dug into your hips as you rode him. You rub your face, clearing the sleep from your eyes, the tequila and the taste of sex from your lips.

You try really hard to walk quietly to your bathroom, padding softly across the wooden floors, avoiding the board that you knew squeaked like it held a deadly disease in its whorls and knots. The bathroom door shuts with a squeak and a click and you hold your breath, forehead braced against the cool wood but you hear nothing, no sheets rustling, no feet on the floorboards.

Your reflection stares back at you from above the sink with disdain and disappointment and you’re not in a position to disagree with her. Your hair is a mess and there’s leftover lipstick on your neck of all places, like you’d gifted it to someone who’d pressed it right back onto your skin. There’s the beginning of a hickey on your chest, purple and pink and blooming under the bright fluorescent light that’s humming above you.

The shower starts with a groan and a hiss, the pressure battering the floor of the tub and you shed what little clothes you had on before clambering into it, skin prickling at the chill before it rocketed to almost too hot. You hit the temperature dial with an annoyed indifference, hiding under the cool spray until your hair is stuck to your head and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did when you first opened your eyes.

You think back to the night before, eyes closed, your stomach starting to turn with tequila and vodka and cheap beer. You remembered the sticky floors of the new bar you’d been dragged to, nothing more than a basement room filled with sweaty bodies and with brick walls covered in band posters and beer mats from places around the world. There were more people than tables and an oversized disco ball turned slowly overhead, entirely out of place as some indie sleaze song leaked out from the speakers in every corner.

You’d danced with your friends, nothing more than your hips moving in the crush of bodies, skin on skin as you tried to take shots without it spilling over your fingers. You remember licking raspberry syrup from your thumb, your eyes on a guy who stood across the room from you, his brows raised when you grinned.

You remember a song passing, maybe two, before he came over. There hadn’t been any bravado, no cheesy lines, no faux nonchalance. He’d bent down to your ear, a large warm hand hovering over the small of your back as he leaned into you. Someone had bumped him, his lips brushing your ear and he’d told you that you were pretty.

You’d grinned, shyness disappearing under the taste of tequila and when he’d asked you to dance you’d handed your empty glass to your friend and took his hand. It got blurry then, his hips against your ass as he moved to the music, moved against you. His hands, warm and big, laying on your hips, fingers settling into the crease of your upper thigh until you were too warm and the only answer was to pull him outside for some air.

He’d tasted like beer when he kissed you, your back against the rough brick outside of the bar. But his hand had cupped the back of your head to save it from becoming sore and that alone had you arching into him, his free hand around the back of your thigh as you hitched your leg to his hip. There must’ve been a taxi ride to yours and there was a fuzzy memory of your couch, the man pressed into it as you shed your shirt and straddled him, his lips dancing across your throat, your sternum.

But Hawkins, Indiana needed a cardiologist and had an opening in neurology with a path for advancement. It was like fate, your parents told you. It was the perfect place for them to go. Perfect for them, but… you weren't so sure.

"Do you… um… like to ride bikes?" Steve asked as he sat next to you. His nails were a little bloody around his cuticles, which you thought was gross, especially because he intended to eat finger foods. He was actively picking at them, which only made it worse, and you wondered why he was making them worse.

"No, I like to roller skate," you answered, nose wrinkling as he picked again and you watched him expose pink, raw skin. "Do you want a band-aid?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." It went quiet then. You heard an animal calling in the woods, nothing you could identify. You wondered if there were entirely different animals here, or if anything overlapped. "I'm Steve. I live on Bradford Street."

"I live on Bradford Street." You turned to look at him, really look at him and gave a tiny smile before you told him your name. "I just moved here with my parents. They're doctors."

Steve offered you a small cocktail weenie. You declined. "I think you're the house next door," he said. "That's where the Thomases lived, but I heard my mom say that Mr. Thomas was having a baby with someone who wasn't Mrs. Thomas, so I guess they moved somewhere that they can all live together."

Your expression wrinkled. That didn't sound right, but Steve seemed so sure, so you jut went along with it. As you sat there, the music from the party was filtering through the crack in the sliding doors. Jive Talking, which you loved. You even had the 45. Steve didn't look particularly amused.

"Well, you live next door, so we can be friends," Steve said. "Maybe next week you can roller skate, and I'll ride my bike, and we'll see who's the fastest."

It was all so simple, it was exactly what you needed. A companion during parties where you were meant to be seen not heard, a friend to spend time with when the world felt so lonely. For a while, you tried to write your friends back home… but then Hawkins became your home.

It felt like all you needed was Steve, but then you got Carol and Tommy too, and that was perfect. You'd lost all of them in different ways, and you got them back in ones you didn't expect.

You woke up on the Friday of Sam's first birthday beside a sleepy Steve with his face smushed into a pillow, listening to the sounds of Sam breathing over the monitor. You moved closer, kissing his shoulder, right above the barely-there pink scars where he'd been dragged across the upside down version of Lover's Lake.

"Mmmph," Steve groaned into the pillow. He didn't bother opening his eyes for a while, but then he rolled over and blinked the sleepiness away. A fond smile played on his lips at the sight of you, even with your messy bed head and granny pajamas. "Morning, beautiful."

You rolled your eyes and laughed. "Good morning," you said with a tiny grin. He started to sit up, but you put a hand on his arm and tugged him back into bed. "Where are you going? I thought Robin cancelled the broadcast today for Peanut's party."

Steve grinned and kissed your forehead once before peeling himself off of you. "Yeah, but it's Peanut's birthday. I'm hosting the morning show so I can record it all on tape and show it to her when she's older."

You grinned and sat up. "That's cute," you replied. "Now I feel like my painted toy box is a stupid idea. It's not sentimental enough."

"No, it looks great and she can keep it forever. And who knows if she'll ever actually listen to the broadcast, y'know?" he insisted.

You followed him into the en suite and sat on the countertop while he got the shower running. He stretched, and your eyes flicked to the dark hair that trailed from his tummy and disappeared into his flannel pajamas.

He caught your gaze when you looked back up at him and rolled his eyes. "No. You're not showering with me." You laughed, cheeks burning hot as you tried to play coy. Just as you opened your mouth, he shook his head. "No way. Not to save water, not because you need one anyway. You're going to make me late."

A slow sigh escaped you. You hadn't actually slept together since the last time a week ago. And that wasn't to say you hadn't gotten close, but Steve kept pulling back before things could get too far, panting into your mouth with a gentle, I think we should slow down.

It was impressive, but generally frustrating. You wanted to sleep with Steve. Frequently. And you were confused about why every time that you tried to move beyond a heated make out, he politely rebuffed you.

I just want us to take our time, or, I don't want to rush.

But you hadn't taken your time. You had slept together after months of silent pining and jealousy and angst, and now… nothing. What good was taking your time when you'd already gone all the way? When, frankly, you'd missed a few bases on your way there?

But something about seeing him, with the grogginess of sleep still clinging to him, all unkempt and domestic… it was really doing it for you. You'd toe the line again and see if an entire week of behaving was slow enough for Steve. "I won't make you late," you insisted. "It's so cold today, a hot shower sounds really nice. And I don't want to go back to bed and be cold and alone."

Steve put his hands on his hips and sighed. A tiny smile played on your lips as he ran a hand through his messy hair and rolled his eyes again. "Fine. But it's just a shower."

Five minutes later, your hands were all over each other as you stood beneath the steaming spray. You panted, gasping into his mouth as he kissed you hungrily. His tongue dipped into your mouth, laving over yours like he was desperate to claim you inside and out.

But just as your hand moved down his stomach, following that dark thatch of hair, he pinned it to the tile. "Steve," you whined as he licked up your throat. "Let me touch you, baby."

And you swore you could feel him shiver against you. "You sound so hot calling me baby," he panted against your skin. And, Jesus, his dick twitched where it pressed against your hip. "But I want us to—" he hissed when you grabbed his ass to pull him closer, making him rut against you, "—to take this slow. Don't wanna cheapen it."

Huh. You'd need to unpack that later. For the moment, you pulled back just to meet his gaze. "Are you telling me that I can't suck your cock?" You asked with a pout.

"Oh, fuck me," he groaned. "No. I mean— not no I'm not telling you that. It's… yes, I'm… not yes as in—" He looked like he was being held at gunpoint, all soaking wet from the constant spray of water over the both of you, as pathetic as you'd seen him.

"Steve," you said, as gently as you could manage. "I am so fine with cheapening the moment. I'm literally begging to suck your dick right now, this is humiliating for me."

You kissed his throat, and he tasted like tap water and the remnants of his shampoo that had rinsed out. "Just…" You planted another wet kiss, sucking softly at the tender skin just beneath his pulse point. "Lemme take care of you. Please?"

He groaned, and you felt his cock twitch against your hip again. For just a moment, he gave in, rolling his hips almost imperceptibly against you. And then he sighed and pulled back to look in your eyes. "Can I take you on a date first?" He asked, tucking your wet hair behind your ear. "It's important to me."

You sighed softly, feeling an annoying sting of disappointment. Maybe he had a point— you'd done everything so backwards, maybe it was smart to cool off until you'd gone on a date and talked things out. So, with an annoyingly understanding and affectionate tug in your chest, you nodded. "Tomorrow," you said, meeting his gaze. "Promise?"

He smiled and kissed you again, slow and deep. Your eyes fluttered as he pinned you against the shower wall, groaning into your mouth. "Turn around, I want to wash your hair."

Steve's fingers moved over your scalp, combing through your wet hair as he massaged in the shampoo. You couldn't help the soft sighs that escaped your lips as he worked the suds through the ends of your curls.

A tiny laugh escaped him and you turned over your shoulder, brows furrowed. "Your perm is all grown out," he mused. "You should let me cut it."

"So you can get your payback?" You asked, raising a brow. He grinned and continued to work the shampoo in, until your eyes were half-closed and your knees felt weak.

He kissed your wet, soapy shoulder fondly once he'd gotten all of the shampoo rinsed. "I know the importance of a person's hair." He parted your hair and placed a gentle kiss at the back of your neck, sweet and tender. You listened as he lathered soap in his hands, then moved them to your slick skin.

A soft, shuddering sigh tumbled from your lips as his big hands massaged the soap onto your tits. One hand feebly grabbed at the slick, tiled wall. "Steve," you panted, almost a warning.

"Mmm?" He let his hands move, lower, sudsing up your tummy and ribs. "Just getting you clean."

Bullshit. His hands moved to your thighs, then squeezed your ass. He kissed the top of your spine again, pressing his forehead to your damp skin. He eased you beneath the spray, so all of the suds and bubbles rinsed down the drain between your feet.

"All better," he said softly. You opened your eyes and smiled up at him, feeling that stupid fluttery feeling that he seemed genetically engineered to instill in you. "Now get your cute ass back to bed. I have to take care of something before I leave."

A sly grin spread across your lips as you cast your eyes down, where his cock twitched, hard and flushed a pretty pink at the tip. You had a pretty solid idea of what that something was, and it wasn't something you really wanted to miss.

"Don't let me stop you," you said, and he groaned as you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and met his gaze once more.

"You're so evil," he muttered. But he couldn't stop his own eyes from wandering, falling from your eyes to your mouth, to your tits, to the soft curls at the apex of your thighs. He huffed and you watched his hand wrap around the base of his cock and squeeze.

His pretty eyes fluttered a bit, but when they locked on you, it sent a shot of pure electricity down your spine. It settled in your stomach, molten hot, and you gave a shaky exhale as his fist began to glide up and down his cock.

Holy fucking shit. Your mouth felt dry, and you swear you got a head rush just watching him. Rivulets of water streaming down his strong arms, the bulge of muscle as his hand worked over his length.

"This what you wanted?" He panted. His palm splayed against the tile beside your head, making him lean even closer to you. He smelled like the sweet honey of his shampoo and the spice of his body wash. You nodded quickly, and he fucking laughed. "Such a perv. Have you always been like this?"

No. God, no. He had a way of bringing out the most degenerate parts of you, it seemed. The angry, jealous rage, the toe-curling, horny need, the sappy, doting affection. So you just rolled your eyes and shook your head. "Shut up."

He tilted his head down, just enough that your noses pressed together and your lips were just barely grazing. Each of his panted breaths puffed over your wet mouth as he worked himself in his hand. You could hear the slick glide of his fist even over the spray of the water.

"Fuck, you look so pretty," he groaned, and his lips brushed yours in a cruel imitation of a kiss. So close, but still not enough.

You laughed weakly, holding his gaze. With his forehead against yours, you couldn't see much beyond the slope of his nose. That close, you could see every tiny freckle there, like pretty constellations.

"Wish you'd just let me touch you," you murmured. He groaned and pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips. He pulled back just to pant and moan, soft against the side of your mouth. "So stubborn."

He kissed you again, hungrier this time. His tongue moved over yours, careless and desperate, until he pulled back with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. "I'm really close," he panted. "You drive me crazy. I want you so bad."

"So bad?" You echoed. He nodded, knocking his nose against yours.

"Mhmm…" His nose nuzzled against your cheek as he sloppily kissed the side of your mouth. "So fucking bad, honey." The moan that escaped him sent a thrill through you— electric right down to your core. You felt his hot cum painting your thighs as he worked himself through his orgasm. It felt so intimate, seeing him come apart like that all on his own, that he'd done that for you, because of you.

His head slumped against your shoulder, wet hair sticking to your face as he huffed like he'd run a marathon. "Jesus christ," he panted. "Fuck." He kissed your shoulder, rinsed you clean, and kissed your forehead for good measure.

You slipped back into the bed and the cotton sheets felt like ice without him there to warm you up. And, frankly, you were still really turned on, enough that you had to slip a hand into your panties and get yourself off just listening to him humming and fixing his hair.

Just imagining him in his tight Levi's with the pudge of his tummy jutting over the waistband, with the dampness of the shower still clinging to the hair on his chest and his shoulders. The sounds he had made echoed in your brain, the smell of him close to you, sweet like honey.

You came embarrassingly fast, biting into the plush of your bottom lip as you worked yourself through it.

Steve stopped by the bed a few minutes later and planted a gentle kiss on your lips, totally oblivious. "Go back to sleep, dummy," he mumbled against your mouth. Then he stood and grinned. "The big broadcast is at eight, so make sure you have the radio on. I'll be back to help before the party, I promise."

Steve's broadcast started at 8AM, right as you eased a hungry Sam into her high chair and turned on the portable radio on the kitchen table. Sammie perked up at the sound of the station's jingle, or maybe it was just that you were bringing her a sippy cup of milk while you got ready to make her scrambled eggs on the stovetop.

Good morning Hawkins, I'm your host, Steve "The Hair" Harrington, and I hope you're ready for a very special broadcast in honor of a very special girl. My girl, my Peanut, turns a whole year old today.

You grinned at the sound of a cheesy cheering sound effect, followed by noisemakers. Even if he had a helping hand, that choice was all Steve.

Sorry to any parents listening, but compared to Peanut, your kids are total duds. She knows three whole words, and she has two teeth, both on the bottom. Her favorite food is oatmeal, and she totally hates all of the gross meat flavored baby food. She can walk a little, but prefers to be carried, and if you turn your head while she's on the ground, she's gone, because she's the fastest crawler on the planet. Her favorite Care Bear is Funshine, and I'm not ashamed to know all of their names.

And, you're probably thinking— Steve, you have a daughter at twenty, you're totally throwing your whole life away. But that's total bull. Honestly, it feels like I was just kind of aimless before I became her dad. I think now, I'm finally seeing things clearly.

Anyway, I hope she's listening to this someday on cassette, or maybe on hologram. Who knows? So Peanut, if you're listening right now or in the future— your dad loves you, your mom loves you— you're probably the most loved kid in the world. Happy Birthday, Sammie. This one's for you.

A dumb smile played on your lips as the bouncy bass riff of My Girl played through the speakers. You glanced over at Samantha, your girl, and felt such a strong tug of affection that your eyes went misty.

Stupid. You'd never been so sappy before now. A perk of motherhood, maybe.

Various party members and their families called in to leave birthday messages— for posterity. Auntie Rob was the first one to say her piece from the studio. And when the calls rolled in, they came in droves. Claudia and Dustin, The Wheeler's, The Sinclair's, Joyce and the boys.

Your girl, your peanut, was adored by everyone who was lucky enough to meet her. She smiled up at you with the few teeth she had as you put her plate down and fed her little bites. And every time she heard her dad's voice on the radio, you swore she looked a little happier.

The birthday party was later that day, with snow still falling in fat flakes that piled up in snowdrifts outside. It was a biting, nasty cold that no one would have wanted to leave the comfort of the indoors for.

And even so, the house was packed full of people who wanted to celebrate her. Soggy boots were left in the foyer, where they melted into snowy puddles that the beach towels on the floor did little to help with. Parkas overflowed the rack by the door and spilled onto Daniel Harrington's desk like it was a coat check at a fancy restaurant.

You'd attempted to frost the cake with little peanut shapes, but they turned into ugly brown blobs. Karen Wheeler stepped in to assist, easing the piping bag from your hands so you could, "enjoy the party."

You were doing your best to do just that, passing from group to group, trying to keep everyone entertained. You passed Sam being held by Mrs. Perkins, who was posing for a Polaroid. It was a full house— a combination of Carol and Tommy's families, yours and Steve's families (with large exceptions), and the family that he had found in the party.

It was nearly elbow to elbow, even in the large house, and it was far too cold for anyone to spill into the backyard. One of Steve's little cousins knocked into your legs as he ran to peek inside the dozens of gift bags that had spilled from the dining table and onto the floor. You hadn't really expected so much, but it was a welcome surprise.

You scanned the room, eyes furrowed, and frowned when you didn't spot either of your parents. They had called to tell you that they would be there, but the party was well underway and they still seemed to be missing. But you couldn't focus on that, just like Steve couldn't really think about his parents' absence, or whether they would have cared to show up in the first place. You just continued through the party, trying to keep things in order.

A smile played on your lips as you passed a table littered with pictures of Sam's first year. In the very middle, in a small metal frame, was a photo of Carol, Tommy, and Sam on the night she was born— red in the face and wrinkly. In a frame beside that was a framed photo of you and Steve holding Sam in her Halloween costume, with her full bucket of candy between you. It felt fair that all four of Sammie's parents were represented, and you couldn't imagine the day without them there in some capacity anyway.

As you passed the snack table, you felt a strong arm loop around your waist and tug you back, until you were held snug against a broad chest and felt lips peppering kisses onto your cheeks. "Hey, beautiful," Steve mumbled against your cheek, punctuating it with a final smack. "Did you fix the cake?"

"Mrs. Wheeler's got it," you answered, turning your face to plant a soft kiss on his lips. "Have you seen my parents yet?"

He sighed and shook his head. "Not yet, but they said they'd be here," he assured. He rubbed his hands over your arms like he and kissed the crown of your head. "And if they don't show up… that's their loss, right?"'

You sighed and nodded, then tilted your lips and accepted another chaste kiss, which was met by loud, exaggerated groaning. With a sheepish smile, you turned to look at Dustin and Robin, who were eating pinwheel sandwiches and peanut butter cookies that Claudia had brought.

"Can you tiptoe around each other again?" Robin asked. "I can't keep down my food."

"Yeah, this mushy shit is nauseating," Dustin said with a grimace.

Your brows furrowed and you tilted your head, a sly smile spreading across your lips. "Yeah? As nauseating as a certain song?" He swallowed, and had the good sense to look abashed. "A certain song about a certain story… It's on the tip of my tongue actually…"

Dustin's expression wrinkled and he shook his head. "You're both seriously evil people, you know that? You belong together." He grabbed the peanut butter cookie from Steve's plate and shook his head. "Don't eat my mother's cookies, you don't deserve them."

You shook your head and peeled yourself off of Steve so you could continue your rounds. The party was there, along with their families. You hadn't realized how much Steve was appreciated until Sue Sinclair was pulling you to the side to talk about how Steve had spent August of '85 practicing with Lucas to prepare him for basketball tryouts. How he'd never missed one of Lucas' games, so they wouldn't have dreamed of missing Samantha's birthday.

And it seemed like every one of the kids and their parents had a similar story. Steve let Mike wait out a storm inside of Scoops Ahoy after closing, and sent him off with free ice cream. He drove Will into the city to check out the one comic book store that had a comic he needed. Claudia had already told you about Steve helping Dustin get ready for every single school dance he's ever attended… and reiterated it any time she had your ear.

You just wished El could have been there. She was an angel in your eyes, and she loved helping with Sam whenever she came to visit. You'd always felt so lonely as an only child— it was part of why you and Steve bonded so quickly as kids— and being around El let you feel like a big sister.

You'd promised to save her a slice of cake for the next time you saw her, but it still felt a bit unfair that she had to hide in the shadows. A girl like her deserved life in the sun.

"There's Mama," you heard a voice say, and suddenly Sam was in your arms again. You weren't even sure who had handed her over, but you bounced her on your hip and carried her over to Steve.

He smiled at the sight of her, expression softening as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. She let out a happy dada, which Steve had been bragging to everyone about. You had definitely heard her say more and hi first, but you weren't going to ruin his fun.

You adjusted her dress and straightened the bow clipped to the tiny ponytail on the top of her head. A camera flash startled the three of you, and you gave Claudia a sheepish smile as she took more photos, until Dustin put a hand on her arm and guided her away.

"Baby parties are kind of boring," you said to Steve as you nodded back to the clusters of people just standing around and snacking. "Maybe we can knock out happy birthday, cut the cake, then open a few presents?"

He frowned. "You don't want to wait a little longer?" He asked. "We can hold out for your parents, if you want me to. I can stall for time, give a big, sappy speech."

Despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, you got that out of the way tenfold this morning," you said. "It was really sweet, by the way. I got a little weepy, which is totally lame. But, she's lucky you're her dad."

Steve's cheeks went a little pinker than they had before— you were around him enough now to notice things like that. And how he swallowed hard at compliments that really meant something, like he had to force himself to accept it.

"Yeah, thanks," he said quietly. "And we're both really lucky to have you. You're so…"

A sight over his shoulder made you stand up straighter, and the sound of whatever he had been saying was muffled in your ears like you'd been submerged underwater.

Because in the middle of the living room, with snow clinging to her hair and a beautifully wrapped gift in her arms was your mother. It was almost impressive, how little you'd crossed paths with her since your brief visit to the Hospital. Sometimes, when you would go with Steve to visit Max, you'd hear her voice down the hallway, but that was the extent of it.

You wondered if the nurses warned her— Maybe avoid that hallway, your whore daughter is visiting the comatose redhead with that boy she lives in sin with.

But that wasn't fair. Well, really, what they had done wasn't very fair either.

"Sorry I'm late. I was hoping your father would be out of surgery by now, but…" She gave a flippant wave of her hand. "I brought a gift for Samantha."

A strained smile played on your lips as you bounced her on your hip. "That's really sweet, Mom," you finally said. "I can go carry that into the dining room with the others. Do you want to hold Sam? She's an easy baby, really calm."

She gave a polite, but firm shake of her head. "You don't need to bother, darling," she insisted. It was her coded way of saying, I'm here, but not for that. So you took a deep breath and watched her disappear into the party again.

You looked towards the front door and let out a heavy sigh. "We should probably just get everything done," you finally said to Steve. "Because if we wait much longer, Sam's gonna get fussy, and people are going to get antsy and…"

Steve planted a kiss on your forehead and ran a thumb between your brows, smoothing the wrinkle there until you laughed softened your expression. He pressed a small kiss right where his thumb had just been. "I'll handle everything, don't even stress."

If there was one thing that Steve was good at, it was taking the burden off of your shoulders and moving it onto his own. So while you got Sammie into her high chair and made sure her bow was clipped on straight and her shoes were buckled right, Steve rallied the troops and brought in the cakes.

Steve counted the room off, and Sam wailed as the crowd around her sang happy birthday. Her face went strawberry red as she cried, so you and Steve had to blow out the single candle on her tiny, baby sized cupcake. It was unclear to you whether or not that counted as a wish, but you had one. Please let this all work out.

That afternoon, when the guests had cleared out and left only a few stragglers to help clean, you took inventory of Sam's haul. With the quarantine in place, the gifts hadn't exactly been top shelf, but there was a clear show of effort that made you happy.

Hand-sewn outfits, hand-me-down toys and books, baby gear that people had no need for and were willing to pass along. The dining room was filled with it all, and you were honestly a little worried about finding space to store everything.

As you counted the number of Care Bears that she had gained (two funshines, one good luck bear, one bedtime bear, and three cheer bears), you felt arms loop around your stomach and you laughed softly as you were tugged against Steve's broad chest.

"You did good today," he mumbled against your throat as he kissed the soft skin there tenderly. "The party was fun, the cake was delicious—"

"I heard Mike say the peanuts on the cake looked like balls."

"Mike's an asshole," he said. "Mrs. Wheeler fixed it either way, and everything was perfect. You're perfect." His palms splayed over your tummy, pulling you tighter against him as he continued to pepper gentle kisses.

"Steve," you murmured softly, as he moved your hair away to suck at your pulse point. For a moment, your knees threatened to buckle, and you couldn't do much more than exhale a shuddery sigh. "Steve, Claudia is right in the kitchen."

He smiled against your throat and you shivered as his teeth grazed over your jaw. "She's occupied." His voice vibrated against your throat, and you sighed weakly.

You laughed softly and turned around in his arms so you could look up at him. "Steve. What about our date tomorrow?" He groaned against you and the ticklish buzz of the sound made you shiver. "If the rules apply to me, they apply to you."

With a sigh, he peeled himself off of you and fixed you with a little pout. "That's too many Care Bears," he sighed. "Way too many. And she already has, like, a million upstairs."

You laughed and held the good luck bear to your chest. "I think you should keep this one," you said. "Put it in the van for the crawls. A real good luck charm."

He ran his fingers over a hand-sewn big bird pillow and laughed softly. "What'd your mom end up bringing, anyway?" He asked, meeting your gaze. "Baby's first MRI?"

You scoffed and shook your head. "No, uh… it was old baby things of mine that were in storage," you answered. "Mostly dusty, old clothes that Sam will never wear. And…"

You reached into the box and pulled out a curly stuffed bear with a big yellow ribbon around it's neck. With a big smile, you held him to your chest. "Do you recognize him?"

For a moment, there was little more than confusion behind his gaze, and then there was a flash of recognition. "Mr. Coco," he said with a grin. "I gave you that when we were, like, ten."

"Eleven," you corrected, squeezing the bear even tighter against your body. The top of its head smelled like the attic— ancient and musty, but it made your heart ache with nostalgia. "What are your parents sending?"

He shrugged. "Well, snail mail and quarantine aren't exactly the best ways to communicate," he said with a wry laugh. "Three months ago I sent a letter with pictures of the three of us to them and reminded them of her birthday. And two weeks ago I got a heavily redacted letter that mentioned that they had shipped us a camcorder as a combo birthday-Christmas gift, with their best wishes for the three of us."

A tiny grimace twisted your expression. "Bleak," you said softly. "But useful? It'll be nice to have some home videos of Sam."

"Yeah, well that's if it makes it through the blockade, or whatever. Ninety-nine percent chance some bozo MP is fucking around with it right now."

Steve wrapped his arms around you again and kissed you slow and sweet, and you felt the tension of the day melt like the snow that dripped from the eaves outside. His hands moved up to your shoulders and you sighed against his mouth as his thumbs worked out the tension there.

"You should bail on cleaning," he said softly, mumbled against the corner of your mouth. "Why don't you go take a really long, really hot bath and relax for the rest of the night, hm? We have a big day tomorrow."

A grin twitched onto your lips as you peered up at him through your lashes. "Are you telling me I need to rest up before our date?" You asked coyly. "What are we gonna do? Run a marathon?"

"Something like that."

Before you could respond, you felt a presence at your left and turned to see a scowling Mike Wheeler. "Gross. Can you two stop sucking face long enough to tell us where the recycling bin is?"

Steve groaned in annoyance and stalked off with Mike in tow, dragging him into the garage where you kept the bins during the snowstorm. In his absence, you slipped into the kitchen and gave Claudia a grateful smile.

"You've done so much for us already, you don't have to clean any more," you insisted. "You should get home, Mrs. Henderson. Let the rest of us pick up the slack."

She looked reluctant, but grateful as she gathered her things and her son and headed towards the car. In the morning, you'd call the florist and send her a thank you bouquet, and even that didn't feel like enough. Without even meaning to, she'd become Samantha's unofficial grandmother, in a way. Whether she'd ever claim that title or not, it made you happy that even with your own and Steve's parents being absent in one way or another, your girl still had a family around her to give her love.

You tidied up what was left of the kitchen, then joined Lucas and Erica in the living room. They were trying to silently pop balloons with tiny pinpricks that they squeezed the air out of, which meant whenever one popped loudly, the offender got yelled at.

"There's a baby asleep upstairs, shithead," Erica snapped and slapped her brother's arm.

"You just popped one!" He argued back.

Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan were trying to make tidying the display of Peanut's baby pictures a three person job. Will was folding up the banners and garlands that he had painted for you to keep, while Joyce sat staring longingly at the snowy patio like she was craving a smoke.

You slipped into your bedroom and smiled at the sight of a tiny present on your nightstand. You chewed on your lip as you took the little box into your hands and read the small note on top.

To the best mom in Hawkins, from the okay-est dad in Hawkins. One year down, seventeen more to go. At least.

Inside the box, you found a little ring rattling about. A pretty gold setting with two little diamonds framing a dainty ruby cut into a heart shape. It fit perfectly on your ring finger, the one on your right hand.

You recognized it immediately— Valentine's Day of '80, Sylvia Harrington got the ring as an apology. Steve told you as much, when you had to sit through the Hawkins Regency Valentine's Day dinner and watch her showing the little ring off to the other ladies.

I heard Mom say he's screwing the secretary again. That's why she got that and not, like… a card and a bouquet.

The next time you went over, you found the ring shoved in the back of the jewelry box and tried it on. Still too big for your fingers, but so pretty that you just wanted to take it home. He said you could, if you wanted, but you knew if your parents caught you with it, they'd drag you over to return it by your ear.

Steve had remembered, after all this time. It was funny, how it had been a thoughtless gift from his father, but meant so much coming from Steve. One woman's sorry-for-cheating present is another's treasure.

You took Steve's suggestion and had a long, hot bath in Sylvia Harrington's pink bathtub. And you figured if you could have her ruby ring, you could use her fancy soaps and bath oils. You stayed in, decompressing until the water went lukewarm and you felt like a lavender-scented raisin.

It was still snowing out— you could see it from the big windows in the bedroom, so you pulled on your comfiest sweatsuit and thickest socks before braving the living room.

"Oh look, Mom's back," Robin said when you walked back in. It made your face heat up still, that stupid nickname. "We're watching Clue, if you wanna join."

You grabbed an extra slice of cake and slid into the free spot beside Steve. The second you were beside him, his arm found its place around your shoulders like it was second nature. And, really, you fit against his side like you belonged there.

No crawls, no monsters, no fears. Just one really good day— the best day. Steve and the rest of the party sprawled around the living room, a stupid movie on TV, your girl upstairs napping.

His lips pressed against your temple and you melted against him. You wished every day could be just like that.

Snow was still falling in fat, lazy flakes as Steve drove you into town the next day. The headlights illuminated them as they drifted down, landing in clumps atop yesterday's snow.

Steve had managed to strike a deal with Mrs. Henderson, or maybe he had just begged until she folded. Frankly, you weren't sure how he pulled it off, but you were baby free until the morning, which was as exhilarating as it was unfamiliar.

Your stomach fluttered with all sorts of strange feelings. Nerves, like any other first date you'd ever been on. Worry, because Sam was staying the night with Claudia and she'd never spent the night anywhere before. Giddiness, because you'd spent most of your adolescence dreaming about a date with Steve Harrington, and it was finally happening.

Enzo's was, as he put it, the only real option for your kind-of-first date. You didn't bring up that your last date had been to Enzo's as well, or how that date had turned out. All he knew was that it went bad, you didn't get to hook up, and he was stupidly smug about it.

The table he'd reserved was a little small, tucked into the corner next to the string quartet they had on Saturdays. They were playing Vivaldi— one of the songs that played from your childhood music box. You kicked Steve's shin as you tried to readjust your legs, and laughed bashfully as you mumbled a quick apology.

"You look so beautiful tonight," he murmured, and you melted a little as he brushed your hair behind your ears. "You got all dressed up for me, huh?"

Truthfully, you'd spent a stupid amount of time getting ready— flipping through Vogue and Cosmo for any inspiration for how to dress up while not freezing to death in the snow. Eventually, you copied an editorial as best as you could— a turtleneck sweater, a mini skirt, red tights, and black boots.

"I wanted to put in some effort," you admitted, a little bashful to have been called out for it. "Most of the time I'm just wearing sweats and a t-shirt covered in baby food, milk, and god knows what else. I thought you deserved me at my best for our date."

His brows furrowed at your words, and he shook his head quickly. "What? You're always at your best. You're— I mean, god, you're perfect all of the time, not just—" He exhaled hard and met your gaze. "I didn't mean to imply that you're… y'know, better, but—"

"Steve," you said gently. "I know what you mean, and thank you. I think you look pretty handsome yourself." He preened at that, and you grinned at his proud little smile as he read over the menu and tried not to look too happy about the compliment.

"Sam said milk today," you said, after a prolonged bout of silence. "Clear as day. So that's word number four."

His expression wrinkled a bit and he shook his head. "No, it's five. She said bye when we dropped her at Henderson's."

You were unconvinced. She'd said buh… and gah, and blew raspberries. But you shrugged and chewed on the crispy breadsticks the waiter had brought out with your waters. No wine— you tried to order their cheapest red and were promptly carded. That's what a fancy establishment got you.

While you waited for your food, the conversation was stiff. Talk about the station, about Sam and her newest milestones. About Robin, apparently dating someone new and totally stealing your thunder as the party's newest couple.

And then you just… sort of ran out of things to say. What was there that you hadn't said already earlier that day? Or that week? Or in the past nine months of living together?

There was so much balancing precariously on the shoulders of the date. It was your first full night away from the baby ever. It was your first real date with Steve. It was the requirement Steve had set before you could have sex again. And, in the back of your mind, it felt like a litmus test for the viability of your relationship.

"So…" you pushed your dinner salad around with your fork and the tomato on your fork mopped up the vinaigrette. "What's a normal first date conversation to have?"

Steve perked up at your attention and gave a small shrug. "I dunno… uh, where do you see yourself in five years?"

A snort escaped you and you couldn't help an amused smile that crept onto your lips. "What, like a job interview?" You laughed lightly as he ducked his head, but humored him. "Um… I would hope I've at least gotten my associates in nursing by then. I might think about trying to get a job at one of the schools when one of the batty, ancient nurses finally retire."

He looked at you expectantly, and you felt your face burn a little. "And in this very optimistic vision, your parents graciously hand over the keys to their place while still paying the bills so we can have a nice place to raise Sam," you joked, because it was the least mushy way you could communicate that he was still in your vision of the future. "What about you? Five years out, what do you want life to be like?"

You watched him think for a moment— brows drawn together, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth. A soft, huh, escaped him, like he hadn't thought about what his own answer would be.

"I guess, y'know, I want all of the bad stuff in Hawkins to be over," he began. His thumb ran along your knuckles again, worrying over the ring as he thought. "I'd have a decent job doing whatever the hell I can get hired to do. That part doesn't matter as much as just, y'know, being a good provider for my girls. And Peanut would be in school by then, and she'd be doing really well because we'd be working with her at home too. And, I dunno… I think it'd be nice if she had a sibling or two by then, before she's too big and feels left out when we have more."

Oh. You took a slow drink of your water and tried to pretend like you couldn't feel Steve's eyes on you, studying your reaction. Steve wanted more kids. Steve wanted more kids before you even turned twenty five. Steve wanted to have kids with you. And maybe you hadn't schooled your expression well enough, because his eyes went a little soft and his throat bobbed nervously.

"If we… y'know, have more," he amended. "But have you thought about it? Having more kids, I mean."

"That's a… wild question for a first date," you said with a weak laugh, trying to brush off the seriousness of the question. "I guess I never really thought about it before everything happened, you know? I thought I'd decide whether or not I'd have kids when I was older and had everything else figured out first. But, uh… I guess it got decided for me."

Truthfully, you'd always wondered if you wanted kids at all. It seemed like everyone's parents let them down eventually. Your own, who hadn't ever really seemed interested in raising you in the first place, Steve's who tormented him with both emotional and physical distance. Carol's father whose benders drove her to your house for an escape, and Tommy's father, who pushed him aside to pour all of his attention onto his shiny new step-family.

It just felt like all parents did was fuck their kids up in some way. Whether intentionally, or as an unfortunate side-effect of just existing.

But you'd also seen Claudia doting over Dustin at the dinner table, encouraging his interests and hobbies even if she didn't understand them. You'd heard Steve singing Sam to sleep at three in the morning, exhausted but full of so much selfless love that it didn't even bother him that much. And you'd felt a new part of yourself growing and changing over the past year— like the muscle of your heart expanding to create a new space all for your girl. Full of pride and love and joy for every bit of her that you got to experience.

The odds felt stacked against you, in a way. Most parents messed up; everyone you knew had, at one point, slammed their bedroom door and just screamed into their pillow about how they hated their parents, or they just didn't understand. And you thought that, maybe, the inevitability of it was just part of life that you had to count on.

Because you still remembered how proud your father had been when you clumsily stitched your teddy bear's arm back on, and how your mother had beamed about how beautiful you looked before prom. You remembered Carol's father's slow recovery for his family's sake, and how he'd cried happy tears when they danced at her wedding.

"I guess I don't think it would be the worst thing," you said finally. "More, I mean. Like… two or three including Sam. If the circumstances are right."

"What about four?" He asked, and you couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

So you brushed your hair back and narrowed your eyes with an easy smile. "Do you always ask your dates how many babies they're willing to pop out for you on first dates?"

He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and laughed. "Sorry, you're right, that's pretty intense, huh? Uh… it's been a while since I've been on a first date," he admitted. "Like a real, sit down, have a conversation date, you know? Not just…"

"Yeah, I know what a first date is," you replied with a tiny laugh. "Who was your last real one? Nancy?"

It was meant to be a teasing jab, but his cheeks went a shade of pink that might have been adorable if it weren't for jealousy roiling around your stomach. Which was stupid, really, but that didn't make it any less present. "I mean, yeah, pretty much," he admitted.

"Huh… Carol told me you were, like, really dating around after I left Hawkins," you said, raising a brow. "Like… constant stream of girls dating around. I guess I didn't realize she meant, like, fucking around."

He glanced at the tables on either side of you, but the string quartet was playing loud enough that it sort of muffled your conversation. "I took most of them out beforehand."

You laughed wryly. "Most of them."

His eyes narrowed, and you could sense defensiveness in the tick of his jaw. "Why are you being so weird about this? You're acting pissed."

You didn't know how to even begin to explain how you were feeling, because it was a weird feeling. This itch under your skin, a resentment. Of the girls, of him. Stupid, nagging, hot jealousy from a very loud, very tender spot you thought you'd outgrown.

"I'm not pissed," you insisted, because you were pretty confident that you weren't. "And I don't know what it is, okay? I just feel crazy when I think about you with other girls. It makes me feel like I'm in high school again."

Unfortunately, you were self aware enough to know where it all stemmed from. Carol's birthday party in the stupid basement closet and your first kiss with Steve (with anyone). How he had immediately confessed that he wished you had been Lisa.

It was watching his endless stream of girlfriends and going to parties where he'd disappear into the nearest door with a lock and walk out unkempt and smug. It was the mental image of Steve with pretty girls who he took on casual dates and hooked up with in his car, the same car that he'd gotten you in the backseat of.

It made you stupidly nauseous to think about. That you were one of many, that there was always a chance that you were being compared to some other girl he'd been with, for better or worse.

Maybe Amy was a better kisser. Maybe Laurie was better in bed. And Lisa had better tits, and Stacey had a better attitude, and, and, and. Maybe the only thing you had going for you was that, for now, he was in love with you.

"Hey, I can see your brain working," he said, and you thought it was sweet how visibly concerned he was, at least. "This isn't like high school, okay? After the wedding it was all just… meaningless. I was looking for something— for someone— that wasn't even in Hawkins."

Your chest fluttered a little at his words. There was a sick sort of pride you felt at being the one in the back of his mind while he was with other girls, just like he had been with you. It soothed that nagging voice in the back of your head, just knowing that you had been the one who he was comparing them all to.

Sure, it was immature and selfish, but it had always been a part of you, that jealousy. "Oh," you said softly, because you couldn't think of anything else to say.

"That's why this date means a lot to me, you know?" He said. His cheeks were dusted with the faintest ruddiness, the softest spray over his freckle dotted face. "I just… I needed this to be different than before, so you don't think that being your boyfriend isn't important to me. I didn't want you to think I just wanted to sleep with you, and that's all that mattered to me, because I wouldn't blame you if you thought of me that way."

You swallowed around a lump in your throat and nodded. "I don't think of you that way, and I know you really care about this," you said, lips twitching with a tiny smile. He took your hand from across the table, his thumb running over the ruby ring on your finger. Your heart was doing a funny, fluttery thing, one that made you feel like you were going to cry or laugh because you were so full of feeling that something had to come out.

You knew what it was, but you couldn't bring yourself to verbalize it. "Hey, about what you said before… I don't want you to just pick whatever job is available so you can be a provider, or whatever," you said. "Isn't there anything you want to do?"

He shrugged, brows knit. "I don't know," he admitted. "Remember that career aptitude test we took in senior year?" When you nodded, he sighed. "It told me I was best suited to be a, like, retail associate, which is just a fancy way of saying a schmuck who folds shirts for a living."

Your lips twitched with the beginnings of a frown at his dejected tone, like he'd given up on ever doing anything he cared about. "Steve, c'mon, they give you, like, twenty suggestions. They weren't all just retail."

He sighed, and the forced nonchalance in his expression was how you knew it really bothered him. "Alright, fine, they also said I should be an elementary school teacher."

Your brow knit. "Well, what's the problem with that?"

His laugh was bitter and dry. "Maybe that I'm a goddamn idiot," he muttered. He looked up and saw pure concern on your face, which made him quickly shake his head and try to look unbothered. "I'm sorry it's just… it doesn't matter what I'm suited for. I just want to be good to you, and good to Sam. I'm happy when I know you're both healthy and happy. And you're both healthy and happy so..."

"You're not an idiot, Steve," you pressed. "And I'm not going to be happy if you're killing yourself every day at some soul crushing job, just for my sake."

Across the table, his nails dug into the soft skin around his cuticles and pulled. It made your stomach turn just to watch it, especially when you had to look at the raw, tender flesh. "Do we have to talk about this?"

"Well, if you can ask how many kids I'm willing to give you, I think I can tell you that I want you to have a job you care about," you countered.

It struck you then that this wasn't a first date. It wasn't even a fiftieth date. While you were avoiding your feelings for Steve, your lives had grown around one another whether you wanted them to or not. Tightly woven, completely inextricable.

Nothing was as simple as just being each other's boyfriend and girlfriend when you'd been playing house since March. Mom and Dad. Samantha's Parents. Hello, this is the Harrington Household, we can't come to the phone right now, but—

Boyfriend felt too casual for what he was to you. It felt small and childlike. You were talking to Steve like your future together had already been written in permanent marker. And, really, you knew that feeling wasn't just about Sam. It was a choice you made daily, that you'd been actively making since March.

A choice to wake up and see things through, to live with hopefulness instead of anger. It was the harder path, you were more than sure of it, but the funniest sense of certainty settled over you as you looked at Steve across the table.

It had never felt so obvious until that moment.

"I think you're smarter than you give yourself credit for," you said finally. "And I think you're funny, and charismatic, and shockingly selfless. And if you ever can't decide on what to do, I vote that you stay a DJ, 'cause your voice sounds really sexy on the radio."

He laughed and shook his head incredulously, but the tiny smile on his lips as he stared at the tablecloth told you that you'd managed to cheer him up a little.

The waiter brought out your plates, which gave you both a healthy buffer to push thoughts of the future aside for another time. The conversation moved away from heavy topics like how many kids will we eventually have and what job will you have to support them and don't be jealous that I was sleeping around before we reconnected, I did it because I missed you, and into safer places like wow, these mashed potatoes are really good and I think the menu actually called it a potato puree.

Your fork dragged against your plate, and it suddenly felt very… calm. Sweet and well intentioned, but so much more grown up than you were used to. It reminded you of being twelve and having a babysitter come over so your parents could go have a date night. They went out, had a nice meal, and got home exactly at nine so they could hand over the cash to the babysitter.

You didn't want to feel like them— not now, not ever. Besides, the mention of a future career outside of interdimensional monster hunting had bummed your boyfriend out.

"Do you wanna do something fun after this?" You asked as you finished your last bite. "Like… maybe we can hit up Big Town and see if that bartender who always sold us drinks still works there."

"Big Town?" He asked, brows furrowing. "You want to go bowling?"

You nodded. "Yeah, why not? When's the last time either of us did anything fun?" Really, your lives had become a series of end-of-the-world emergencies, child-rearing, and brief moments of respite in each other. But fun… the kind of fun that you'd had before the world ended, had been a rare occurrence in your lives as of late.

He gave you a guilty look look, like like a puppy that had just been caught chewing on your favorite shoes. "This isn't fun?"

"No, it's great, Steve, and I appreciate that you planned all of this," you insisted. "But… I think we should take advantage of our baby-free night since it's only, like, half past eight. And I want to see if I can kick your ass in bowling still."

The promise of a little competition lit a spark in his eyes, and his guilty, disappointed expression disappeared. "I always went easy on you," he said with a grin. "And you're right, this isn't the most exciting date of all time. I just wanted it to be kind of fancy, I thought you deserved to be treated to something nice."

You leaned across the small table and planted a soft kiss on his lips, not caring that your blazer was at risk of dragging across your plate. "It's very sweet," you said against his lips. You gave him another slow kiss and sat back. "You're very sweet. And very, very bad at bowling."

Steve flagged the waiter for the check, unable to sit back while his athletic prowess was called into question. On the way to the car, after he had paid for the meal (a meal which you thought was way too expensive, but you weren't going to tell Steve that), you linked your fingers with his and tugged your jacket a little tighter around yourself.

But thoughts about how the conversations inside had gone kept nagging you with each step away from the warm glow from the windows. You didn't want to leave that part of the date with unsaid words or a dark cloud over it.

"Okay, to start, I'm sorry for getting weird about you dating around," you began, pausing at his car. You leaned against the passenger's side door and peered up at him. "It's totally fine that you did, y'know, and I'm not ever going to think lesser of you because you did, or judge you for anything, because that would be totally hypocritical. And it's not even about you it's—"

The soft warmth of a kiss on your cheek made you shut up and take a deep breath. He stepped back and brushed your hair out of your face with a an amused, if not understanding smile. "It just made me think about how much time we've wasted, y'know?" You asked, meeting his gaze. "I don't even know if there's anything we could have done to change how things ended up, or if this is just what we were meant for, but sometimes I catch myself thinking about all of the places we could have fit back together before."

You thought about senior year, and if Steve would've come to your window after Billy beat him senseless— cold tile under your knees as you cleaned the blood off of his face and stuck pink bandaids on the deep cuts. How easy it would have been then to just apologize for your fight before you slept together and things got more complicated.

Or, maybe, Fall break of your freshman year of college, when Carol and Tommy sent you to return a couple of tapes to Family Video. You had thought it was a simple favor because she was way too pregnant to deal with the asshole manager bitching her out about late fees, but, no. Steve was behind the counter like they'd planned it all. Honestly, they probably had.

Maybe if you'd just talked it out then. If he hadn't been so avoidant, if you hadn't been so angry.

"I'm glad it's now," he said finally. "I'm glad you got to stay away from… everything I come with for a little while." His eyes shifted over your shoulder and you turned, looking at the football stadium glow of the military base in the square. A shiver ran through you, not from the snow. "Let's get you in the car, you're freezing. And I don't want you to blame it on frostbite when I kick your ass at Big Town."

A smile played on your lips as you nodded. You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him again, slow and sweet, then got in the car.

Honestly, you didn't hate the Beamer that much anymore. It smelled like Steve's cologne, and a little bit like the strawberry applesauce that you'd spilled into the floor mats in the backseat when you'd tried to appease a crying Sam on the drive home from a doctor's appointment.

The radio was turned to WSQK, as it usually was. As Steve cranked the car, you heard Robin announcing her next track— a throwback by Depeche Mode. Steve made a face and turned the radio up.

"I put her onto that one," he muttered, without much venom at all. He flipped down the visor to check his hair in the mirror and your heart fluttered at the sight of the pictures of you and Sam clipped inside. He brushed his fingers against the pictures briefly, like it was a habit, before he shut the visor and gave you an easy grin.

That was your Steve. The Steve you felt that aching affection for that you couldn't bring yourself to place. He held your hand over the center console and drove into the snowy night.

Big Town Bowling Lanes was the one respite from Steve's carousel of women when you were in high school. It was like it had sacred wards carved into the foundation, forbidding him from bringing annoying skanks along whenever you went bowling with Carol and Tommy.

Or, maybe, it was just because it was four people per lane and Carol wouldn't let him kick you out to bring some girl. Either way, you relished in your weekends spent at the lanes. Tommy and Steve always took it way too seriously, and you always wound up barely edging Steve out in scores.

Darrell, who worked the concessions stand, would pour beers into styrofoam cups so you could pretend they were sodas, just as long as you tipped him nicely. It was a pleasant surprise to find him still behind the counter, and still willing to sell beers to underage drinkers like you and Steve.

A few teenagers were trying their hand at the open mic night while you waited for a lane to open up— singing Madonna and Paula Abdul and a few other top 40 songs. It wasn't the best background music, but the liveliness reminded you of your friends. It was a welcome reprieve from the constant sobriety of the end of the world and parenthood.

"Pinball while we wait?" Steve suggested. You fished around your purse for a couple of quarters and leaned against the machine while he played. Tommy had always been better than him at this exact machine, but Steve knew all the targets and how to get multipliers. Plus, it was nice to look at his handsome face lit up by the flashing lights.

You used a quarter to try the claw machine beside him— another thing Tommy had excelled at. He'd taught you all the tricks to get a prize every time, and even though you were out of practice, it was a bit like riding a bike. While Steve got a second ball in the playing field, the claw caught on a gorilla's arm and carried it to the prize chute. You put in another quarter and won a second one for Sam.

The bowling alley was packed— there wasn't much else to do in a quarantine. To make up time, you signed the two of you up for the open mic, where you fumbled your way through You're The One That I Want from Grease. Steve still hated Travolta, and still had a much better singing voice than you did. When the lanes still stayed full, you sang Don't You Want Me very, very badly.

Darrell poured you both beers, and you were about to just give up and call it a night when the lane you'd been desperately waiting for opened up. Already, enough time had passed that you were itching under your skin with anticipation about getting home, so you weren't exactly focused on bowling.

You watched Steve step up to the lanes each frame as you sipped at your beer, eyes on the way his jeans clung tight to his ass, the way his fingers slid into the bright green house ball. Your pulse fluttered at the sight, and your brain went a little fuzzy.

God, you needed to get laid.

You took another drink as he threw the ball down the lane and the pins crashed at contact. Strike. He spun around, a smug grin on his lips, and marked an X on the scorecard.

"That's three in a row, baby. I'm going for a perfect game," he insisted, smacking a kiss on your forehead. You blinked yourself from your horny stupor and nodded. You took another drink of beer and took your turn.

You were distracted by his stupid hands and handsome face. Frankly, you were regretting bringing up bowling as an option, because you were stupidly needy and eager to get him back home so you could get your hands on him. You knocked down seven pins, then threw into the gutter on your attempt to pick up the spare.

"You're not giving me much competition, honey," he said as you sat back down, grinning smugly. You shook your head and rolled your eyes, leaning into his side, but as soon as you had cuddled up against him, he was back up and on the lanes.

You gave a strained smile and a thumbs up, and watched as, sure enough, he threw a clean strike. His excitement was palpable, as was his ego. He looked like he was back on the basketball court in high school after he'd shot a successful three-pointer.

When he sat down, you leaned into his side and put a hand on his thigh. He kissed your forehead, then nodded towards the lane. "Stop stalling 'cause you know I'm going to beat you," he said, completely oblivious to your intentions.

You sighed and stood, heading back to the lane. This time you managed to get a spare, which was met by a very sarcastic clap from your boyfriend. He stood, not even giving you time to sit beside him before he was up again.

Steve took competition very seriously, and you knew that. He had barely even sipped at his beer so he could keep his focus. Partially, you appreciated that he wasn't going easy on you as a form of flattery, but you also wanted a little more attention.

There was something cute about him getting all worked up and focused about it. The way his tongue peeked out in concentration as he wrote scores, how he'd turn around and give you a smug smile at the end of each frame. You were bowling in a technical sense, but really you were taking it as your opportunity to relish in the ghost of King Steve before you.

"Why don't you help me correct my form?" You asked him as the game neared its end, slipping your fingertips inside the V-neck of his collared shirt. His heart thrummed against your touch, beneath the soft chest hair and spattering of beauty marks hidden beneath. "Hm? Give me a fighting chance."

He swallowed hard, his warm brown eyes going wide. "You want me to… oh! Yeah, I'll just… yeah, I'll help you."

With a grin, you stood and pulled him to the lane and grabbed the ball. "Okay, so… you want to line up with the dots on the ground," he began.

You nodded and sighed contentedly as he fit himself against your back. "Start back here, and you walk to gain some momentum. And before you're at the line, you pull your arm back, and throw."

He guided your motions as best as he could with a twelve pound ball in your hands. But it wasn't the actual advice you wanted— you knew how to throw a bowling ball down a lane— you wanted the close press of his body against yours.

"Got it?" His breath puffed over your ear and you shivered. You nodded and he stepped back. "Show me."

You rolled the ball down the lane and grinned victoriously when nine pins came down. You turned on the balls of your feet and met his gaze, hands clasped behind your back.

He sat back, seemingly less interested in the actual sport of bowling now that he had you blatantly flirting with him, in a cute little skirt and an oversized blazer that you definitely stole from his dad's closet. You'd even put a little brooch on it— two interlocking gold hearts and a dangly little pearl.

"What are you gonna give me if I make the spare?" You asked with a coy smile. "I think I deserve a prize for my hard work."

He shrugged casually and nodded back to the prize counter, where a bored employee sat with her chin in her hand and read Seventeen. "Maybe you can get one of those slap bracelets."

You rolled your eyes. "Hm… not quite what I was thinking."

"I just think it's a waste of a prize if whatever you're asking for is something you're going to get anyway." He gave you a smug smile and you could do little more than laugh and shake your head.

You picked up the spare, and your temporary reward was a slow, hungry kiss when you joined him on the couch. Really, you should have been a little embarrassed by the fact that you were french kissing Steve in the middle of the bowling alley, but you were too drunk on him to care. His hands slid under your jacket, teasing the waistband of your skirt where your sweater was tucked in.

"Hey, I should probably finish this game," he pulled back suddenly, glancing at the lane. His thumb brushed under your bottom lip, tidying up your smudged lipstick. "I'm, like, five strikes from a perfect score."

You sat back, brows furrowed, bottom still tingling from the way he'd bitten it. "Wait, what?"

He held up the score sheet. Sure enough, while you'd been staring at his ass and drooling over the veins in his hands, he'd managed to pull off seven strikes in a row. Fuck… maybe he had been letting you win in high school.

"Wow… sexy," you deadpanned, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked really proud of himself when he bowled another strike.

"You must be, like, my lucky charm," he said, planting another kiss on your lips. "This is the universe telling me you're the one."

By the time you finally made it back to the car, Steve had his picture framed on the wall of Big Town Lanes, a tiny plastic trophy, and a rainbow slap bracelet he'd asked for from the prize counter.

"Hold out your wrist," he said. With an amused huff, you held out your arm and tensed in anticipation. "C'mon, don't be a baby, it's just a bracelet." He slapped it onto your wrist and you shrieked, yanking your hand back.

"You were right, bowling was fun," he said. "And I did totally kick your ass. I'm gonna have to ask Henderson the odds on bowling a perfect game. Maybe we should go buy a scratcher or something."

You laughed, shaking your head. It was something else you loved about Steve— he was naturally funny. He could make you laugh until your sides hurt, especially now that you weren't denying your feelings for him. Well, not like you were before, at least.

"Alright, champ, let's get home," you said with an affectionate eye-roll. "It's freezing."

The house felt a little less like home when you walked inside. It was cold and still, like a dollhouse. You wondered if it was how Steve felt growing up alone most of the time. You couldn't ask, because Steve hated feeling pitied, but you could wonder.

As you got settled, Steve put his trophy down on the counter and you eased off your coat and went to check the answering machine. "Hi sweethearts. Samantha was a perfect angel. She had some meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner, then watched the Care Bears movie on tape with Uncle Dusty. She's just gone down for the night, and I know she can't wait to see you in the morning. Enjoy your night, you two!"

You smiled fondly at the message and turned to face Steve with a smile. "Hear that? We've raised a perfect angel," you said with a tiny laugh. He was pouring glasses of wine into the pretty crystal that typically sat unused in the china cabinet. The deep red looked so inviting behind the etched glass, especially after cheap beer.

"Of course we did, you're a great mom," he said, and handed you the glass. Your fingers brushed against his as you accepted it into your own hand, just for a fleeting moment. "Feels weird having the house empty, huh?"

You brought the glass to your lips and took a slow sip. "Really weird," you agreed. "Not bad, just different."

He nodded and took a drink of his own. You both stood in the dark kitchen, lit only by the street lamps outside the window— a pale yellow glow. You finished your glass and felt a pleasant warmth all over— a buzz under your skin. His parents' wine collection was fancy enough that you actually enjoyed drinking it, unlike the cheap boxed stuff that you and Carol used to share.

"Wanna listen to some music on the couch?" He asked finally. "I have some pretty great mixes. Working at the station means I get access to all of the good stuff."

You snorted at the thought of Steve slacking off and making mixes on the clock. "Your big move right now is asking if I want to listen to music on the couch?"

"Well, it's a really good mix," he insisted with a stupid grin. You shook your head and put your empty glass back on the counter with full intentions to revisit it later.

You knew this move in his playbook, and you were totally shameless about the fact that it was actually going to work on you. So you let him lead you over to the couch, and sat patiently while he messed around with the fancy sound system hidden in the bookshelves.

He clicked the tape into place and joined you on the couch just as the sound of a synth started playing. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh as he slung an arm across the back of the couch, so his fingers brushed against your shoulder. It was just so obvious.

You shivered as his fingers played with the ends of your hair, twirling them around his fingertips. That was the invitation he needed. You grinned as he tugged you into his side, wrapping his arm tight around you. "Cold? Need me to warm you up?"

It was so corny. You figured this was a move of his, tried and true, but you didn't mind. Really, you had always wondered what the Steve Harrington hookup experience was like.

So you nodded and let him pull you into his lap where he was nice and warm beneath you. "'S that better?" He asked. Big hands settled on your arms, moving up and down in a showy attempt to warm you up.

"Mhmm… but maybe I'm a little hot now," you said, playing right into his hand. At that, his expression perked up, and you could sense his excitement in the way his eyes lit up.

"Yeah? Gotta get this off then, huh?" He tugged at the thick fabric of your sweater, right below your ribcage. As soon as you nodded, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your skirt and untucked your sweater so he could pull it over your head and toss it mindlessly aside.

It totally fucked up your hair, but neither of you seemed to mind. Steve's eyes flicked to your breasts, the soft flesh encased in delicate black lace. You ran a hand over your unkempt hair in a nervous attempt to make yourself presentable again while he just stared.

"Where'd you get this?" he asked, meeting your gaze. "Did you send Murray out for it?"

Your expression scrunched in distaste. "Ew, no, why would I ever ask him for that?" You muttered. "I got this at school."

He swallowed hard, and you sighed softly as his warm hands moved up your ribs to cup your breasts through the lace. "You wore this for some college guy?"

You really had to steel your expression to keep from grinning. There was something exciting about the hint of jealousy in his gaze, the tiniest tick in his jaw. "I wasn't exactly celibate in college," you said slowly. His fingers flexed and you exhaled shakily as he played with you. "If you'll remember, I was heartbroken and trying to put this total asshole in Hawkins behind me."

His lips turned into what you could only describe as a pout, just before he moved his mouth to your sternum, pressing soft kisses to the flat of your chest. You would never tell another soul, but giving Steve a taste of his own medicine was immeasurably cathartic.

"If the fact that another guy saw this bothers you so much, you can just take it off," you added. He sighed against your skin, and you moaned softly as his lips trailed hot, messy kisses over the thin fabric.

He shook his head, nuzzling his face deeper into your tits. He mumbled something that you couldn't understand and met your gaze. "I'm not jealous," he insisted. "I just feel like they probably didn't appreciate your effort."

You couldn't keep the smug grin from your lips. "No?" You asked, cocking your head. "But you appreciate it fully, right?" He nodded and sucked a bruise onto your exposed cleavage.

"I appreciate it so much." His voice vibrated against your skin, making you laugh softly. When he pulled back from your tits, his pupils were blown with desire. He gave a tiny nod towards your skirt before dragging his eyes back to yours. "Do they match?"

In lieu of a response, you stood up and unzipped your skirt, so it joined your discarded sweater on the floor. Steve groaned at the sight of you in your sheer red tights, barely concealing the promise of more black lace beneath— high cut and pretty.

Before you could slip your fingers under the waistband to roll the tights down, Steve grabbed your wrist. "I've got it," he said. "It's like unwrapping a present."

He kissed your stomach once, twice, then eased the tights down your legs. His hand came under your knee, easing it into a gentle bend so he could pull one leg off your feet, then he repeated for the other.

There was a certain intentionality to every one of his touches— a confidence that showed in the steadiness of his hand as he ran his hand up your thigh. It was gentle and sure— intimate.

His hands slid up your thighs and pulled you in closer, so his mouth was level with your lower stomach. You sighed when he ducked his head and kissed the front of your panties, nice and sweet.

"Wait," you said suddenly. He looked up at you with flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, and you swear you got a head rush. "Just sit there for me, okay?"

You swore you could hear his pulse kick when you sank to your knees between his thighs, or maybe that was your own. Your palms slid up his thighs, moving over the dark-wash denim. He was already hard, you could see the thick shape of him straining against the fabric.

"Can I?" You asked. One hand rubbed at the bulge beneath your palm, the other toyed mindlessly with the button to his jeans.

"Fuck— yeah, 'course you can, honey. You can do whatever you want to me."

You smiled prettily up at him and popped the button of his Levi's. He groaned at even the lightest amount of pressure against his dick as you eased the zipper down and freed him from the confines of the denim.

You'd seen his dick before— in the shower, while he was changing, even how it looked in your hand. Even so, you'd never seen it so close before. You spit into your palm before you wrapped your hand around the base of him, relishing in the warm pulse beneath your grip.

With just the slightest glide of your hand upwards, you watched precum dribble from the ruddy tip. He groaned, hips thrusting up into your grasp. He squirmed as he kicked off his jeans and briefs, then tossed his sweater to the side. Your hand caressed his now-bare thigh, soft and downy to the touch.

"You have the cutest little freckle right here," you said with a tiny grin, and relished in the way his cheeks went red with embarrassment. Your lips moved to the base of him, where there was a small beauty mark. He shivered above you as you planted a soft, wet kiss there and looked up at him through your lashes.

"Fuck," he groaned, chest already heaving. "You're killing me, honey."

Your lips trailed up his shaft, until you wrapped your lips around his tip and suckled. He moaned, deep and pretty, head lolling back against the cushions. It was hard to fit much of him inside of your mouth without triggering your gag reflex. Your hand had to pick up your slack, stroking the inches that didn't fit with slick twists.

"God, you're good," he panted. "So good for me." You nearly preened at the praise. His fingers threaded into your curls, twisting your locks into a loose ponytail. Not so he could guide your pace or force you to take him deeper, but to keep your hair from getting in your face.

You pulled off, just to spit the drool that had collected in your mouth back onto his cock. It dripped messily down his shaft and over your fingers, collecting at his base and dripping down his balls. You moved your mouth down to them, licking up the mess you made just to hear him cry out above you.

He swore under his breath as you licked up the underside of his cock once more on your way up, tasting the slick mix of his precum and your spit. You pressed an almost chaste kiss to the head— once, twice before you teased the precum-slick slit with your tongue.

He exhaled sharply through his teeth. hips bucking up towards the wet heat of your mouth. You licked around the tip, teasing a pretty moan out of his lips. When you finally wrapped your lips around him and took him deeper into your mouth, his thighs tensed on either side of you.

You were incredibly grateful that you had the experience you did before Steve, otherwise you'd probably humiliate yourself. Your lips stretched to accommodate him as you tried to take him deeper, and you had the experience to know exactly how to fight your gag reflex as his cock nudged your soft palate.

"Keep going, just like that," he panted, tummy tensing as you let your tongue massage the underside of his shaft. "God, you've got a perfect fucking mouth."

When your jaw began to ache, you pulled back, lips puffy and sticky with spit. You pumped his cock in your fist as you took a second to catch your breath. His free hand moved to your face, where he stroked your cheek tenderly.

You wet your lips before you took him back into your mouth, suckling softly on the head of his cock briefly before you swallowed him deeper.

You were sure the sight was obscene— your lips stretched wide around his girth, spit bubbling around the spot where your mouth and fist met with each messy bob of your head and twist of your wrist. His moans we're constant, and the taste of his precum was heady on your tongue.

When his fingers tightened around your hair, you moaned around him, eyes fluttering. He panted out a pathetic moan at the sound, at the feeling of your own noise vibrating against him. He was so close, you knew it. His thighs tensing, his moans getting breathier, his hips canting up as they tried to bury his cock deep into your mouth.

You looked up, meeting his half-lidded gaze as you swallowed around him, and he was done for. He barely had time to give you a weak warning of, "gonna cum—" before he was spilling into your mouth.

You did your best to swallow every spurt of cum that painted your tongue and work him through every last aftershock. You were panting like you'd run a marathon when you finally sat back and wiped your sticky lips on the back of your hand.

Steve's eyes were closed, one arm tossed over them as he caught his breath, cock flagging between strong thighs as he came down. When he finally opened his eyes, you kissed a beauty mark on his inner thigh and stood.

"Sick of me already?" He asked with a grin. He grabbed your hand and tugged you onto his lap, but you shook your head and leaned back.

"I was gonna grab some mouthwash before we do anything else," you explained with a sheepish laugh. "So it's not gross for you, I mean."

He shook his head and let his arm move to the small of your back to ease you closer. You sighed softly as he pressed his lips to yours, licking slowly into your mouth. "I don't care," he murmured. Then, like he was trying to prove his own point, he licked your pouty bottom lip with a grin. "That's, like, the least gross thing you could ask me to do."

"Yeah?" You asked with a grin. "You're such a slut."

You watched him close his mouth and swallow, pupils blown as his eyes flicked from your lips and back to your eyes. He laughed weakly, but you knew he was so gone that he'd agree with anything you said. You leaned in, laving your tongue over his as you kissed him slow and deep.

It was messy and desperate, but you didn't care. His head tilted back, and you took every opportunity he gave you to kiss deeper, to lick into his mouth and claim the space for your own. His hands slipped down to palm your ass over the lace, squeezing and tugging you closer on his lap.

"Are you gonna let me touch you?" He murmured against your lips. You nodded, and he licked your bottom lip before a smile spread across his lips. "Yeah? I bet you're soaking through your panties right now. Probably why you're sitting up like that— so I can't feel it."

He eased you back so you were laying on the couch beneath him. His mouth went to your throat, suckling softly on the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. With his knee between your thigh, you couldn't help but squirm, seeking a little bit of relief where you needed it most.

You hated to be so easy for him all of the time. You wanted to look a little more composed and in control, but Steve had a way of making your inhibitions melt away and drip down your thighs.

"You drive me crazy, Steve," you murmured, your words little more than desperate pants in his ear. As his hand moved down your torso, you arched into him, seeking the heat of it against your body.

The feeling of his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties pulled a whiny mewl from your lips. The rough pads of his fingers rubbed over your sensitive clit, just barely grazing it before dipping down to your slick entrance.

"So wet and I've barely even touched you." His words vibrated against your jaw, and he punctuated them with a soft kiss. He nudged your thighs apart with his knee, giving him better access to toy with you.

A shudder ran through you as he slid his slick fingers up to your clit, only to circle his fingers so he totally avoided giving you any real friction. "C'mon, Steve," you whined. "I didn't tease you."

He laughed, a low, pretty sound that tickled your throat. "You're always a tease."

"You jerked off in front of me yesterday," you panted, bucking your hips with the feeble hope that you might catch the pad of his fingers where you wanted them. "Didn't let me touch you for a week. Fuckin' tease."

You could feel his smile against your skin, but, sure enough, he relented and gave you what you wanted. You gasped softly as he finally rubbed your clit, a pretty noise that he swallowed up in a hungry kiss.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, lapping up each whine and moan as he played with your pussy. Thick fingers rubbing through your slick folds, curling deep inside of your aching entrance.

"That's what you wanted, yeah?" He murmured against your lips. His fingers flexed, curling until your walls squeezed around them. "Mhmm… I can feel it. You're always so sensitive for me."

The sound of his fingers plunging in and out of your sopping cunt made your cheeks burn. It felt pointless, being so embarrassed at the effect that he had on you. He was just as affected by you as you were of him… but you couldn't hear how turned on he was with every single thrust of his fingers inside of you.

You grabbed onto his shoulders with one hand, blunt fingernails digging into the firm muscle there to ground yourself as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. Your other hand moved down, squeezing his wrist in an impossible choice of needing more but feeling too much.

The heel of his palm rubbed against your clit, giving you relentless friction and pressure that you couldn't squirm away from. Your thighs trembled, walls fluttering around the intrusion as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

The lap of his tongue into your mouth kept you from slipping away entirely. Sweet, sensual kisses that kept you there with him, relishing in the full-body high of being worshiped by Steve Harrington.

You felt that warm buzz in the pit of your stomach, a pressure just building and building until you couldn't deny its pull anymore. Gasping into Steve's mouth, you squeezed his wrist and bucked against his hand as he brought you over the edge.

"That's it, pretty girl," he hummed. Your eyes fluttered, rolling lightly as he curled his fingers, toying with you as the final waves of pleasure wracked your body. "That's what you needed, huh?"

When he pulled his hand from your panties, his fingers were slick with your juices. He wasted no time sucking them between his lips, cleaning every trace of you off.

He laid beside you, tracing spit-damp fingers along your tummy as his mixtape played on. You'd been so wrapped up in Steve that the music had gone fuzzy in the background. But now that you were fully back in your body, all fuzzy and content, the sound of saxophones struck you fully. With a giggle, you met his gaze. "Careless Whisper?" You asked with a grin. "You're so corny."

"Hey, it's the best," he insisted. "It's sexy."

You rolled your eyes and grinned up at him before you leaned up an kissed him again. He smiled into it, meeting your lips with the ease and confidence of a man who knew he had all of the time in the world with you.

You didn't want to wait another second. You shifted, pinning him beneath you on the cushions. He was hard already, and you had a feeling he had been for a while. As you stripped off your bra and tossed it aside, you watched his cock twitch where it rested against his stomach.

"Looks like you really want me," you teased, like you didn't want him just as bad. "Do you have it in you, baby?"

He swallowed hard and nodded. "Fuck, yeah I do," he breathed. His hands moved to your hips, and you didn't resist as he guided your hips in a slow grind. It was a little obscene, the sight of your clothed pussy rubbing over his bare cock. Precum beaded then dripped onto his stomach, making a slick little pool beneath the head that only seemed to grow with each lazy rut. "You gonna give it to me?"

Steve's pupils were blown wide as he looked up at you, swallowing up the honey-brown of his irises. He really did drive you crazy. Really, how was it fair that he could just look at you like that? Desperate and doting in equal measure.

You detached from him to wiggle off your panties, balancing against the back of the sofa as you kicked them off, then settled on his lap once more. His big hands went right back to their place on your hips and you couldn't help but give a testing roll of your hips.

Even with that tiny motion, you felt his fingers flex, dimpling your soft skin. Your eyes fluttered at the feeling of the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit, still sensitive from the first orgasm he'd pulled from you. You felt your cunt pulsing with need as you continued to slowly grind down against him.

"You're torturing me," he whined. His eyes were half-lidded and lazy, his mouth parted as he watched your slick pussy gliding along his length. One of your hand rested on his chest for stability as you moved, giving him the perfect view of your tits as they moved in time with your hips. "God, you're so hot, honey. Just wanna make you feel good, baby. You've gotta let me, 'cause I know you need it."

A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at him. "I barely have to do anything and you're begging," you teased. He groaned, grinding up against you, unabashed in his need.

And, yeah, it would've been fun to keep torturing him, but you were still just as impatient as he was. So you lifted your hips just enough that you could guide his cock to your entrance and begin to slowly sink down.

He felt even bigger with you on top, something you'd blissfully forgotten since your wedding hookup. It made you wonder if he had gone easy on you the week prior and hadn't tried to go all the way in. It felt like a challenge to prove you could take it— every single inch.

Your fingers twitched against his chest, curling into the downy hair there as your mouth fell open. He moved one of the hands resting on your hips to lay on top of yours, frustratingly affectionate. "C'mon, honey, just take it nice and slow."

"Shut up," you panted, which only made him grin up at you. "I've done it before."

It wasn't like riding Steve was some herculean task, even if he was stupidly hung. But you were more than a little out of practice, and after you finally managed to pick up a decent rhythm, you kind of just wanted him to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions.

You weren't a quitter though, and Steve's blissed-out reactions beneath you were all the encouragement you needed to keep going, aside from your body's need for release. Your thighs ached slightly from months of celibacy, but the room filled with a chorus of both of your moans each time you sank back onto him.

"You feel so good, baby," you moaned softly, giving your hips a little swivel that made a drawn out groan spill from his lips. "I love how you feel inside of me. So deep."

It wasn't just to fluff his ego— you swore you could feel every ridge and vein of his cock where it was buried within you. Every pulse, every twitch was just confirmation that he felt as good as you did.

The hand that was gripping onto your hip moved, flattening just beneath your belly button. It's as tender as it was debauched, just like him. His thumb stroked over your soft skin, sweeping back and forth in a display of affection. "Feel me here?" He asked, and it was a marvel that he could look so earnest when asking something so filthy.

You nodded, giving a slow rock of your hips. He was so deep that you could hardly think of anything else except for the drag of his cock against your fluttering walls, the way his tip nudged against your G-spot as you sank down on him again and again.

"Steve," you whined, looking down at him. "I want you to fuck me."

 A lazy smile spread across his lips. "We are fucking." As if he was proving his point, he began to thrust up so he could sink deeper into your wet heat.

Your brows knit together as a soft moan fell from your lips. "Yeah, I— fuck, Steve— I know but I just want—" Your eyes rolled back as he fucked you nice and deep, stealing the words and your breath right from your lips.

"I know what you want." You almost regretted asking to switch positions when he pulled out, leaving you empty and wanting. But then he was shifting you beneath him and hooking your legs over his shoulders. "How's this?"

You swallowed hard. "It's good, it's so good," you said eagerly. You could feel the head of his cock nudging your puffy folds as he rutted against you. It would catch at your entrance and you would gasp in anticipation, but he didn't sink in yet.

"Can you bend a little more?" He asked, and moved so he was pressing your thighs into your chest, his body imposing above you. "Is that too much?"

When you shook your head, reached between your bodies and began to slowly push inside. You groaned, head lolling back as he moved. With the way he'd folded you in half beneath him, you felt every inch splitting you open. Thick, stretching you out obscenely around his girth.

"Oh god," he groaned, and you swore you felt his dick twitch inside of you. "You're squeezing me so tight. Perfect fucking pussy."

Your face went hot at his words. "Steve," you whined. He'd never said anything so dirty to you before, and it thrilled you as much as it made you feel a flash of embarrassment.

He grinned down at you, pulling out so he could glide back in nice and slow, just to torture you. "What? You don't want me to talk about how much I love your pussy? 'Cause the way you're gripping me makes me think you do."

"Fuck, Steve," you moaned. "You can't say stuff like that, baby. You're killing me."

"I think you like it," he said, pushing in again, so deep that his balls pressed tight against your ass. "I think you fucking love knowing that I'm obsessed with you."

He pulled out again, only to set a dizzying pace. Hips snapping against yours again and again and again, while you just laid there and took it. Your feet dangled where they rested over his shoulders, shaking each time he bottomed out.

"Oh my god. You're so wet, honey. Sound so fucking pretty."

His words made you conscious of the tacky, slick sounds of his cock plunging into your cunt. The slick sound of your walls swallowing him, the plap plap plap of his balls against you. You didn't particularly think the sounds of him fucking you were pretty. They were pornographic and obscene, sure, but not pretty.

He was heavy on top of you, rutting more than thrusting so each movement made him grind against the sensitive spots inside. Your eyes rolled back and you felt your walls squeezing around his cock. "Steve, just like that—"

"C'mon, beautiful, tell me how it feels."

You whined, toes curling. "So— ngh— so good, baby," you managed. "God, I feel you everywhere."

It wasn't the most coherent description, but it was true. He was inside you, so deep it felt like your body was moving to accommodate him. He was on top of you, pressing you into the bed, into him. Around you, holding you close. It was like your world started and ended where you touched him.

It was so easy to lose yourself to him. His head buried into your shoulder as he ground deeper, harder inside of you. A choked sob slipped past your lips, and you trembled as the pressure built up inside of you. His tip nudged your sweet spot over and over, until you weren't sure you could take much more.

"God, I fucking love you," he panted. Your pussy fluttered around him at those words, and he moaned at the feeling. "Want me to say it again? I love you so much."

It hit you suddenly then. Your cunt clenched around him as euphoria washed over your body. "Oh, fuck, Steve—" you gasped, until your words dissolved into keening moans and whines. You mewled, eyes rolling back as he continued fucking into you as you lost yourself to the pleasure.

He lifted his head just enough to capture your mouth in a messy kiss— tongues sliding against one another, licking into his mouth to swallow each other's cries. His rhythm grew sloppy and clumsy, until he swore into your mouth.

"Oh, fuck, honey, shit— I'm— fuck fuck fuck—" He barely managed to pull out before he was painting your cunt with hot ropes of his cum. His cock twitched with each spurt of cum, until there was nothing left to give. He exhaled sharply, looking more than spent as he eased your legs from his shoulders and caught his breath.

The tape had long since ended, leaving you in silence, save the chorus of your shaking breaths. You giggled weakly and peered up at him with a dopey smile. "Holy shit."

Steve took a shaky breath and met your smile with one of his own— equal parts exasperated and lovestruck. "God, we really can't go raw anymore, baby. I almost didn't make it."

Your heart did a funny little skip at that, but you nodded. "Yeah, probably shouldn't," you agreed. He leaned down to give you one more kiss. "Let's go to bed, yeah?"

Steve couldn't keep his hands off of you, even when you were just washing your face and brushing your teeth. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and dribbled minty foam down his chin. You hated how endearing you found that.

When you were taking your vitamins and medicine, he stood behind you, chin resting on the top of your head as you washed them down. "You're so clingy," you accused, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

"I just love you," he replied, and kissed your temple for good measure.

You climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling as Steve dozed beside you. The soft cadence of his breath rising and falling. But you didn't want to sleep yet. You just wanted more time with him.

So you grabbed the shabby quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around your body as you crossed the room to your turntable. Behind you, there was the soft rustle of blankets as Steve sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"What're you doing?" He slurred sleepily. You glanced at him over your shoulder, at his half-lidded eyes and his messy hair, and felt such a strong tug of emotion that you had to look back at the task at hand— flipping through your crate of records.

"Trying to find something good to listen to," you replied casually, pausing to eye Purple Rain before flipping onward. "I'm not tired yet— don't really want the night to be over, y'know?" You grabbed your old Super Trouper album and smiled fondly as you set it on the turntable and put the needle to the vinyl.

Steve groaned at the choice in music, but you rejoined him in bed, curling up against his chest with a contented sigh. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His fingers tangled with yours, playing with them as you laid in the quiet of the room.

"I want you to tell me something no one else knows," you whispered. "Even if it's just something small."

He leaned over, kissing the crown of your head briefly. You felt the warm puff of his breath over your scalp as he thought, a hum buzzing against your skin.

"I made you a tape, in case Vecna got in your head and started digging around," he said finally. "This was, like, a month after Hawkins split open, so we thought he might just start popping people into trances all over town. And I was so scared for you, y'know? I didn't want anything to happen to you."

A tiny smile played on your lips. Even when you felt like your whole life had shattered around you, he was still working to make things better, even if you didn't know it. You hated that it had taken you so long to see that, when it was something so beautiful about him.

"What song?" You asked after a beat, brows furrowing.

He laughed softly. "Well, I asked you what your favorite song was over breakfast, you glared at me, asked why I cared, and told me Baby I'm a Star. And I didn't really know if that was true, but I made the tape anyway. And then I made a second one with How Deep Is Your Love, because you used to say if that song was played at your funeral, it'd wake you right up."

A snort escaped you at the memory. You could remember him asking, and it felt like such a cheap attempt to bond that it had soured your mood for the rest of the morning. You felt a world removed from that moment, even though it hadn't even been a year since then.

"It actually would," you agreed. You squeezed his hand and brought the back of it to your lips to plant a soft kiss there. He had a tan line from his watch that was only just starting to fade from the winter gloom. It was so strange, to be so utterly seen by someone, and to see them just the same.

"What's your song?" Your lips brushed against the back of his hand as you spoke. "If you got lost, what would pull you back?"

"Under Pressure," he replied simply. "Sometimes I'll play that tape in the van just 'cause. I could listen to that song forever, y'know? Drives Dustin crazy."

A small laugh escaped you at the image. Maybe it was just that it was late and you were exhausted, but you were endlessly amused by the thought of Steve making Dustin listen to music on replay on top of the monotony of the crawls. "Tell me something else. Talk to me about anything, I just want to hear you."

He sighed, relaxing beside you. He was so warm where he pressed against you, accommodating the nudge of your knee between his thighs and the slip of your arm under his. The soft thud of his heartbeat was like a metronome where your ear rested against his chest.

"Mrs. Wheeler said she'd start babysitting Sam for us, if that's what we wanted," he said. "I was going to tell you tomorrow, after we'd had the date and everything. I know you never wanted to just sit around this big house all day, so I told her we'd talk about it."

You swallowed hard, and felt a strange mix of excitement, gratitude, and the strangest ache in your chest. "I mean… yeah, we could use more money," you agreed. "But I don't even know what I'd do, Steve. Like… bus tables at Enzo's? Work with Murray at Bradley's? Gross."

Both of your bodies shook as he laughed. "God, you're so dramatic. You could do whatever you wanted," he insisted. "You could help us at the station."

You snorted. "Mm… doesn't really solve the money problem, huh?" You curled even closer into him, like you just wanted him to envelop you completely. "And I dunno… maybe I don't want things to change just yet."

Hawkins was like a world frozen while life moved around it. It was all real life with real consequences, and you knew that, but it also felt like you were holding your breath until all of the interdimensional horror was over. Once that happened, the day to day problems would feel bigger.

You didn't want to leave Sam with Mrs. Wheeler during the day, but you knew that was probably best. Rip off the proverbial bandaid and start the slow process of detaching from your routine before things really changed for good. You were never meant to be a housewife forever— it wasn't what you wanted, even if you'd gotten good at playing that role.

Steve kissed the crown of your head and squeezed your hand. "They don't have to change," he insisted. "But they can if you need them to. I just don't ever want you to feel like you're trapped, or you're making yourself smaller to fit here."

"Thanks," you whispered. "I just feel like I need a little more time with her. When things go back to normal, I don't know if I'll ever have this much time again. I feel like she deserves it."

The record played on while you continued to talk about anything you could think of. Steve had been watching the Bulls whenever he could catch a game on TV, and was eagerly trying to explain why he thought this was their year. You told him about the Danielle Steel novel you'd borrowed from Nancy and were totally devouring. He played with the ends of your hair, you planted the occasional kiss to his chest and shoulders.

You closed your eyes, listening to the sounds of ABBA playing from your speakers. "In five years, I want to be doing this exact same thing," you whispered. "Listening to an outdated record, laying in bed, just talking until we run out of things to say."

"Why don't we make it ten?" Steve mumbled against the crown of your head. You smiled and chewed on your lip. Ten could work. Or twenty-five, or fifty. Forever, even.

The needle of the record stopped, raised, and returned to its cradle, leaving the room quiet. "Steve," you whispered. It felt louder in the stillness of the bedroom— breaking through the silence of the house the same way a scream would. "I love you too."

The words hung heavy in the air, and Steve froze at your side, barely even breathing. Waiting for him to say something, anything felt like torture. And you knew you'd squeezed the proverbial toothpaste out of the tube, but really, you didn't mind. Life was already so messy that it felt natural.

"You love me," he echoed. Not a question, exactly, and not self-important enough to be a statement… just sheer disbelief.

And you wouldn't stand for that, so you rambled on. "I was just scared to say it, and I kept telling myself it was too soon because we've only been official, for, like, one week, but, y'know, things are different for us. I don't want to hide behind walls to protect myself anymore, and I know that y—"

Your words were muffled by the pressure of Steve's lips on yours. You barely had time to kiss him back before he leaned away to meet your gaze. "You love me?" He beamed down at you. "You don't have to. I mean— I just didn't expect you to reciprocate so soon."

"How could I not?" You asked gently, meeting his gaze. It was so soft and hopeful, warm enough to melt away your fears and reservations about opening up. "Even when I wasn't saying it, I felt it, y'know? This… rightness. And I felt bad for a while, but I don't want to feel bad anymore."

It was this circular logic that you kept falling into— the idea that fate had brought you to that moment. You'd never been a big believer in anything before, except in yourself, Carol Perkins, and that things usually went wrong for you somehow. Fate was new.

Carol got pregnant with Sam, which meant she had to get married, which is where you slept with Steve and dredged up all of those old teenage feelings again— the yearning and angst. Carol and Tommy made you and Steve godparents, Carol and Tommy died when the rifts opened, you and Steve raised Peanut, you and Steve fell in love.

Good things happened which led to worse things. Horrible, painful things happened that led to beautiful ones. How could you ever move on if you let guilt and anger keep you from being happy?

You believed in a lot more now. You believed that there were good people who would give up their peace thanklessly to save a world that would never even know they needed to be saved. You believed in psychic powers and monsters. You believed that your daughter's near-toothless smile was the best medicine on a really hard day.

And you believed, as corny as it was, that you were always meant to be with Steve Harrington from the moment he sat with you out on that patio.

"Oh my god, you love me," he repeated, smiling even wider. Before you even had time to roll your eyes and insist that, yeah, that's what you just said, he had shifted on top of you so he could kiss you fully. "I mean, I probably should have known when you came just from me saying it, but—"

You rolled your eyes and pulled him in again, relishing in the full weight of his affection as your lips met. You'd worried before that it would feel like a burden on you, some awful weight to carry on your shoulders, but it felt right in a way few things ever had.

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience and continued love for these characters + this fic! As many of you know, I've been getting treatment for my OCD which took a lot of my headspace away from being able to get this out sooner. I appreciate your love and encouragement SO so much and I promise not a single day passed that I wasn't actively working on it!!

I hope you love this chapter as much as I do! Part 6 (the ACTUAL final part) will be a wombo combo of the events of the final season + epilogue from what I have planned now, but I think we all know by now that my plans vs what I actually write don't always align perfectly <3

Worst comes to worst... seven or eight parts. Who knows! But I'm hoping I can tie this story off with a little bow in this next chapter.

”I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You try, but the breathless laugh that follows gives all your cards away.

“No?” He hums, stopping close enough behind you to feel the heat radiating from his towering frame.

His broad shoulders are wrapped in your favorite black henley and they take up the entire width of the mirror. The gold chain hanging from his neck popping against the inky color. A few of the dark curls on top of his head break containment, falling across his forehead as he looks down at you. It takes every ounce of will power not to meet his stare and keep your attention on the details of your dress instead. He’s having none of it though, curving two fingers under your chin, tilting your head up to the playful twinkle in the blacks of his eyes.

“You sure about that?” He whispers, flashing the whites of his teeth.

”Mmhmm.” You squeak, stubborn till the end.

Garrett holds your gaze, daring you to admit defeat, and the brush of his nose against yours almost has you doing it too.

”Why don’t I believe you?” He huffs out a laugh that kisses your already warm cheeks.

”I don’t know, sounds like a personal problem, Graham.” You smile, lifting yourself up on your tippy toes silently begging for his lips, but he pulls away instead.

His face softens for a brief moment at the disappointment on your face before he gathers himself again. Those same fingers grip your chin, bringing your attention back to the mirror, where he’s already waiting for you.

”I think you knew exactly what you were doing.” He murmurs against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Keeping his eyes on you, he bends down, bringing his mouth to the sensitive skin behind your ear. He smirks at the flutter of your lashes planting a feather light kiss there, before nipping at the hinge of your jaw relishing in the shaky sigh he gets in return.

“Always so sure of yourself.”

”Well, I’m always right.”

Your snort has him chuckle against your neck, his other hand wrapping firmly around your hip tugging you flush against his hard chest.

“And what if I did know what I was doing?” You ask with a heavy gaze, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.

He holds his attention on you, slowly dragging his mouth up the curve of your neck in wet barely there kisses that leave a glistening path against your skin in the low light of your room.

“Then, I would argue that I need compensation.” Garrett grins, taking your earlobe into the heat of his mouth, eyes flaring at the way yours roll in the back of your head.

”W- what kind of compensation?” You whimper, pressing your ass against the hardness growing against your back.

You don’t miss the low groan that vibrates from behind you, letting your earlobe go with a loud smack.

”I think that’s for me to decide and you to find out.”

His eyes trace the curves of your body, narrowing at the swell of your breasts. The little bit of amber that was left inside of them getting swallowed up by the blown out darkness of his pupils.

”I’m meeting you at Malone’s after practice right?”

Garrett’s question gives you whiplash, the quick beating of your heart pausing while you try to gather the little bit of brain power you have left.

”Uh - yeah, yeah I think so. Why?” You ask out of breath already. Body humming for more of him and he barely had to try.

Something devilish flashes in his gaze before he latches his mouth onto your pulse point, sucking hard.

”Oh fuck.” You moan, turning into butter in his hands.

He wraps his arm around your waist holding you up right, smiling into your neck at the breathless way his name falls from your lips. Flicking his tongue along the already forming bruise, he drags his teeth across the sensitive skin before moving down to start on another one. You encourage him against your better judgement by reaching behind you, digging your fingers into the softness of his curls at the nape of his neck.

Garrett’s eyes meet yours in the mirror from under the thick hood of his lashes and it goes straight to your core. Grinding against you, he lets you feel every inch of what you've done to him all day before hollowing his cheeks hard enough for your nails to dig into his forearms. You’re almost positive your neighbors hear the moan that pulls from the center of your chest. Squirming, his hold on you tightens as he continues his relentless assault on your neck until he decides you’ve had enough. He lets you go with a loud pop, and a pleased grin stretching his swollen lips across white teeth.

“Alright, gotta go to practice.”

He gives your ass a playful swat before turning around to grab his gym bag off the floor.

“Are you - are you serious?” You gasp, more angry at the fact that he wasn’t going to finish what he started rather than being permanently marked by him for at least a week.

“What? I told coach I’d start coming in earlier.” He shrugs, pretending as if he’s unaffected. You’d almost believe it too if it wasn’t for the noticeable bulge in his dark green cargos.

There’s a brief moment where you consider throwing a fit, but instead you decide to just cross your arms and huff.

“Don’t think you’re coming here after Malone’s.” You say with zero conviction. His lips twitch at it.

“Sure, whatever you say.” Garrett smiles that one smile that immediately brings out your own, closing the space between you to plant a kiss to your pout. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He steals one last lingering one that feels like he’s weighing the severity of what kind of punishment he’d get for skipping practice just this once. Whatever scenario plays out in his head is enough for him to find his will power to pull away and head to the door.

“I’ll get you back for this.” You smile, giddiness about tonight blooming in your stomach despite yourself.