id tap u like a maple tree

The first mistake the Night Court made was assuming you were decoration.

Not intentionally or obviously.

They were too polite for that.

But you saw it in the way their eyes moved over you when they entered the meeting room.

Briefly, if not dismissively.

A female beside Eris Vanserra.

Something ornamental, perhaps.

Something placed at his side to soften the image of Autumn’s new High Lord.

You did not correct them.

Eris noticed.

Of course he did.

The corner of his mouth shifted just barely. 

You didn’t look at him.

“Try not to look so pleased,” you murmured.

“I am not pleased.”

“You are nearly smiling.”

“That would be unbecoming.”

“Then by all means,” you said softly, folding your hands in your lap, “continue suffering.”

Across the table, Cassian’s brows rose.

Azriel’s shadows shifted once behind his shoulders.

Rhysand, to his credit, noticed the exchange for what it was.

A warning.

Mor noticed something else entirely.

Her gaze lingered on Eris with the same familiar disdain it always held.

Cold and sharp. Nothing if not practiced.

“You’ve redecorated,” she said, glancing around the council room. “How charming. I almost forgot where we were.”

Eris did not respond.

He only looked down at the treaty papers in front of him.

You watched the movement.

The restraint it took him not to bite at her.

Rhysand cleared his throat.

“We’re here to discuss the border villages.”

“Then let us discuss them,” Eris said.

His voice was smooth.

It always was in rooms like this.

The meeting began as most meetings did.

With maps and numbers. Along with men pretending history had not shaped every inch of land they were negotiating over.

Rhysand spoke well.

You would give him that.

Azriel said very little, but missed nothing.

Cassian shifted in his chair like diplomacy physically pained him.

And Mor…

Mor watched Eris like she was waiting for a monster to show its teeth.

You let it continue for twenty-three minutes.

Twenty-three minutes of clipped words. Quiet tension. Little glances that held nothing but daggers. Along with subtle jabs dressed up as moral certainty.

The last straw was when Mor finally said, “Forgive me if I find Autumn’s sudden interest in protecting vulnerable people difficult to believe.”

Eris’s fingers stilled on the paper.

Only for a moment.

You gently set down your tea.

The cup barely made a sound against the saucer.

But somehow, the room noticed.

Mor’s eyes flicked to you.

You smiled.

Not warmly. Not cruelly. Politely.

The sort of smile court ladies were taught to wear even if swallowing poison.

“Difficult to believe,” you repeated.

Mor lifted her chin.

“Yes.”

“How interesting.”

Cassian leaned back slightly.

Azriel’s shadows went still.

Eris did not move beside you.

He knew better.

Mor’s gaze narrowed. “Do you have something to say?”

You tilted your head.

“I was deciding whether it would be rude.”

“And?”

“Oh, it’s terribly rude I’m afraid.”

Rhysand’s attention sharpened.

You turned your cup once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at Mor.

“But since we are clearly past the point of pretending this room is governed by courtesy, I suppose I might as well.”

Eris exhaled once through his nose.

Almost amused.

You continued.

“You speak of Autumn’s cruelty as though anyone at this table intends to dispute it. We do not. Autumn has teeth. It has always had teeth.” Your gaze swept briefly toward Eris. “Some of us have spent years removing them one by one.”

Mor’s mouth tightened.

“But what fascinates me,” you went on, voice still calm, “is the Night Court’s remarkable talent for selective outrage.”

Cassian straightened.

Rhysand’s face went very still.

There it was.

The shift.

The moment they realized you were not decoration.

You smiled again.

Softer this time.

“You condemn Autumn for what it allowed to happen beneath Beron’s rule. Fair. You should. But I do find it curious how rarely that same scrutiny turns inward.”

Mor’s eyes flashed.

“Careful.”

You looked at her then.

Truly looked.

“I would advise caution, Morrigan,” you said softly. “Not because I fear what you might say, but because I know what you have chosen not to.”

The room went still. 

You leaned back slightly in your chair.

“Careless would be asking why the Court of Dreams feels entitled to sneer at every cruel tradition in Prythian while still ruling over the Hewn City.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed.

Azriel said nothing.

Rhysand did not look away from you.

Good.

At least one of them understood where this was going. 

Mor’s voice was low. “You know nothing about the Hewn City.”

“No,” you agreed. “I know what survived the retelling.”

You tilted your head slightly before continuing 

“Interesting that you speak so confidently for someone whose version of events requires several omissions to survive.” 

Mor stood slowly.

“You have no right to speak to me about what I survived.”

There it was.

The part you had been waiting for.

Your smile faded.

Not because you were afraid.

Because some things deserved seriousness.

“No,” you said. “I do not.”

The room stilled.

Even Eris glanced at you then.

You met Mor’s gaze without flinching.

“What was done to you was monstrous. No one in this room should deny that. I certainly will not.” Your voice lowered. “But your pain does not make every omission holy.”

Mor went utterly still.

“You have allowed them to believe one version of the story because it is easier than dragging the whole thing into the light,” you said. “And perhaps you had reason. Perhaps silence was all you had. I will not fault a girl for surviving the only way she could.”

A breath.

Then another.

“But I will fault a court for building policy around half a truth and calling it justice.”

Rhysand’s eyes flicked, briefly, toward Eris.

Eris remained expressionless.

But his hand had shifted closer to yours on the table.

Not to stop you.

Not to guide you.

Just there.

Mor’s voice was colder now.

“And what truth do you think you know?”

You folded your hands again.

“The kind men leave out when the facts are inconvenient.”

A sad smile played on your lips. 

“The kind women bury because being believed costs too much.”

For the first time, Mor had no immediate response.

Good.

You had not wanted to hurt her.

Not really.

But you were very tired of watching Eris bleed quietly under everyone else’s certainty.

“You may hate my mate,” you said, and only then did your tone sharpen. “That is your right. Hate him forever, if it comforts you.”

Eris’s gaze moved to you.

You did not look at him.

“But do not sit in his court, at his table, beneath laws he bled to change, and pretend your hatred is the same thing as truth.”

Silence pressed against the walls.

Cassian looked between you and Mor, unusually quiet.

Azriel’s shadows curled close to his shoulders.

Rhysand leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

You picked up your tea again.

It had gone cold.

Mor did not sit.

Not immediately.

Her face was pale with anger, but beneath it there was something else.

Something older. Something less certain.

Eris finally spoke. Calm and measured.

“My mate raises a wonderful point.”

Rhysand looked at him.

Eris’s eyes did not leave Mor.

“Do you intend to discuss the border villages,” he said, “or continue mistaking personal history for governance?”

Your mouth twitched.

Only slightly.

Mor saw it.

Cassian definitely saw it.

Rhysand looked as though he was reevaluating several decisions at once.

Good.

That meant they were listening.

You took one careful sip of cold tea and set it back down.

“Now,” you said pleasantly, as though you hadn’t just gutted the room and asked for the next topic. “Shall we return to the villages, or would anyone else like to confuse emotion with policy first?”

Cassian muttered something under his breath.

Azriel looked down.

Rhysand looked at you for a long moment.

Then, finally, he said, “The villages.”

You smiled.

“Excellent.”

Beside you, Eris reached for his wine.

Not to drink.

To hide the fact that he was smiling.

You leaned toward him just slightly.

“Poorly done,” you murmured.

His gaze slid to you.

“What was?”

“Hiding your amusement.”

Then, so quietly only you could hear:

“I wasn’t trying very hard.”

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@illyriassweetheart

“The ones who they deem too weak are put into their stew,” Kallahan continues as though you said nothing at all.

“They do not,” Ellora argues, though she shoots you a look saying she’s not entirely convinced of the fact. “Besides, they probably won’t even be here.”

It’s true; while you’re not one to frequent diplomatic meetings hosted in your court, you’ve only ever seen the likes of Morrigan haunting the halls of Dawn’s central building on Night Court business. 

You won’t mind talking to Morrigan you don’t think; she’s polite, finely dressed, and always wears a smile. 

And you’re quite sure she doesn’t hail from the race of fae who allegedly eat their young. 

She doesn’t have the wings for it. 

Unless-

“And they rip the wings clean off of females’ backs to keep them subservient to them and their whims.” 

“Kallahan!” Ellora finally shouts. “Don’t listen to him. Seriously, you have nothing to worry about.”

“It’s your funeral,” Kallahan shrugs. “But maybe Ellora’s right, maybe you’ll be fine…so long as there are no Illyrians in there.” 

The door to the hallway you’re haunting finally opens, a sentinel nodding at you expectantly. 

“They’re ready for you.” 

You suck in a breath and give Ellora a tightlipped smile, ignoring Kallahan’s sing-songy good luck before you follow the guard towards your impending doom. 

You weren’t sure who to tell when a strange male approached you in the woods along the edge of Dawn Court a few days ago, only that you ought to tell someone. 

You’d been collecting ingredients in the boggy lands bordering your home court and The Middle for medicinal supplies when you realized you weren’t alone. 

A male with pale—nearly grey—skin, blonde hair, and brown eyes crept up on you where you were harvesting ieiunium mushrooms, blocking the light of the sun and forcing you to look up at him. 

He was…handsome, you supposed, as most high fae are, but the sight of him had something heavy settling in your stomach, had a tickle at the back of your neck telling you to tread carefully. 

He asked what your opinion of the Night Court was.

He asked how you felt about Night’s High Lord; about their new High Lady.

He asked how you felt about a regime change. 

You’re not sure why he decided you were the perfect soundboard for his musings that day, save the fact that you were the only one around to listen. You’ve never been to the Night Court, have never spoken to anyone from the Night Court, can’t imagine a time you’d ever be invited to the Night Court. 

Turns out that the bad feeling you had about the male was more than just a bad feeling; it was evidence. And now you’re being called upon to answer questions about what exactly you saw in the woods that day. 

“Only answer questions that you know the answer to,” the guard directs you severely. “Don’t make anything up, don’t try to fill in any gaps. Just tell them what you know. If you don’t remember, just say that.”

You nod, clearing your throat when you realize he can’t see your response from where he walks a few steps ahead of you. “Right, yes. Okay.” 

“Thesan will be there as well, if you need anything.”

“Okay.” You feel a touch more relaxed knowing you’ll have a familiar face there. “And is it, erm, Morrigan who will be questioning me?”

The guard pauses with his hand on the door to the conference room, brows furrowing at you. 

“The High Lord and High Lady have come to question you themselves.”

You hardly have a moment to swallow past your gag reflex before the doors are swinging open and exposing the grand room before you. 

The captain of Dawn’s guards and your High Lord’s partner, Sylvan, stands at the ready behind his High Lord looking ever the stern soldier, but your High Lord graces you with a warm smile and a dip of his chin. 

You don’t manage to summon up a smile of your own in return, not when you’re so focused on keeping your knees from buckling. 

“Y/N,” Thesan greets kindly. “Thank you for joining us today.”

“Of course, my Lord,” you all but whisper, swallowing thickly and dipping your head in deference.

“These here are my friends, the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court.”

“Oh, none of that,” the High Lady chuckles. “Rhysand and Feyre are fine.”

Yeah right, you think to yourself. They’ll be lucky to get a single word out of you today let alone the sound of their given names. 

You feel increasingly self-conscious that your fear might end up being interpreted as disrespect, seeing you lift your head and forcing yourself to look at the visiting High Fae.

Your breath catches.

Not because of the beauty of the High Lord and High Lady—Rhysand and Feyre—of the Night Court, though they’re undoubtedly so. But because of the silhouette of the being behind them. 

Illyrian. 

The statuesque male seems to recognize your attention being focused on him, which sees his giant, bat-like wings twitch behind his shoulders. 

Blue siphons pulse on his chest and shoulders and a few shadows stir at his side. The Shadowsinger…the Night Court’s Spymaster. 

A disbelieving breath sounds from your right and distracts you from the fearsome male stationed behind the rulers of the Night Court, finding you turning in its direction only for the ground to finally buckle beneath your feet.

What you thought might have been anxiety, indigestion, your stomach trying to flee to safety via your esophagus, turns out to be a golden string of light once loosely spooled and hanging uselessly behind your ribcage pulling taught and connecting your soul to that of the Illyrian general standing beside the female you thought—hoped—you were going to be questioned by.

Your knees are screaming and you realize belatedly that your legs have well and truly given out on you, seeing them meeting the marble floor beneath you with a crack. 

“It’s okay,” Rhysand states suddenly, holding out a hand to Sylvan who now has his weapon drawn. “It’s…it’s a mating bond.” 

“Y/N,” Thesan ventures calmly. 

The Illyrian—your mate—makes a devastated sound as though the syllables of your name make the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He’s larger, somehow, than the Shadowsinger, and his siphons—plural—glow an ominous red as he dares a step towards you.

You go scrambling backwards.

Thesan tries your name again. 

“You have nothing to worry about with Cassian,” Feyre supplies quickly. 

You don’t believe her, don’t believe any of them. You know exactly why Thesan has guards lining the doors; know why he has his own winged partner standing guard behind him with his weapon drawn. 

It’s because the Illyrians eat their young, isn’t it? Because they rip the wings of their females right off of their back. 

The Lord of Bloodshed, your mind supplies. That’s what they call this Cassian—your mate. General of those Illyrian brutes who have loyalty not even to their own kind let alone the fae around them.

What would happen to you as the mate of an Illyrian? The blades strapped to his side could probably gut you before you even blink. You’d be used as target practice, a sparring dummy, some kind of weird monkey-in-the-middle game that sees you being tossed from Illyrian to Illyrian while hundreds of feet in the air.

By the Cauldron, you’re going to throw up on Thesan’s marble floor. 

A hand lands on your shoulder and you startle, letting out an inelegant squeal and turning on the hand only to come face-to-face with Sylvan.

You give him a look that you hope translates to don’t let them take me; don’t let them turn me into stew. 

“You’re safe here,” Sylvan tells you slowly. “The Night Court’s Spymaster and General are honourable fae.” 

“I promise they look scarier than they are,” Feyre offers gently, shooting you an understanding and sympathetic smile. “It’s by design.”

“While I’m glad to hear their reputations precede them,” Rhysand adds with a feline smirk flashed at Morrigan. “I am sorry they scared you.” 

Your eyes flick to the Spymaster behind him, arms no longer crossed and his hands now tucked behind his back as if trying to make himself appear smaller. 

Then your eyes stray back over to where the other end of the bond vibrates with barely controlled restraint to find Cassian on his knees too, holding Morrigan’s hand like it’s the only thing stopping him from crawling to you. 

“Can I help you into a seat?” Sylvan asks lowly. 

You can’t even nod your head yes before a lethal sound vibrates out of the Lord of Bloodshed.

“Cassian, stand down,” Rhysand warns. 

The Spymaster disappears from behind his High Lord and Lady and reappears in front of Cassian which is not appreciated by the war general. 

“He’s touching my mate,” Cassian growls in response to whatever soothing words the Shadowsinger tries offering him. 

Thank the Mother for Sylvan, though, he doesn’t loosen his grip; you’re quite sure he’s the only thing keeping you from sinking to the floor completely at this point. 

“You need to control yourself, brother,” the Shadowsinger says. “You’re scaring her.”

“Breathe,” another voice soothes, surprising you at its proximity until you look over and see the High Lord of Night staring at you intently; his lips don’t move when he continues. “Just keep breathing.”

You didn’t realize you aren’t; don’t know when your breaths started coming out in short, panicked spurts that do nothing to quench your thirsty lungs or provide nutrients to your brain. 

The room sways.

Thesan calls your name firmly this time, standing from his chair which sees Rhysand and Feyre doing much the same. 

“Cassian,” Rhysand growls darkly.

And then the room goes black. 

You wake to the sound of graphite against paper and the smell of lilac and pears. 

Your lashes feel like they’ve gained several hundred pounds since you last closed them, and a scratchy groan escapes your lips at the effort it takes to open them.

You squint at the brilliant dusk light pouring in from a window of whatever room you've been placed in to find the High Lady of Night—Feyre—at your bedside. 

“You’re awake,” she greets, wincing when this causes a crash to sound from the other side of the door, followed by frustrated hissing before silence returns to the room. 

“Sorry about him,” Feyre continues, looking actually contrite on her companion’s behalf. “He…cares more than he knows what to do with.”

You swallow thickly and twist the fabric of your blanket between your fingers.

“I’m not sure what you might know about Illyrians,” she continues, worrying you that she might actually know just how much you know—or have heard—about the race. “But Cassian—and Azriel—are two of the most wonderful males I have ever met.” 

You let out a sigh, suddenly feeling disturbingly close to tears. Feyre’s eyes dart towards the door. 

“Do-” you pause to clear your throat. “-do you still want to question me?”

Her face falls soft and sympathetic. “No, I think you’ve been through enough for one day.” 

“I…I can. I can tell you what I saw.”

“Cassian would like us to let you rest for today,” she admits then, choosing her words carefully. “He doesn’t want us to upset you… more.” 

A tear finally slips. 

“May…I tell you something?” she asks then, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, sketch forgotten in her lap. 

With a nod of your head, you feel a gentle caress of your mental walls. 

You decide to take the leap and let her in, immediately flooded with images of Cassian playing with a babbling winged babe, him carrying a very drunk Morrigan home, him helping a limp-winged female up from the ground before holding his open palms up and smiling as they resume their sparring, holding a little winged male up in the air as he flaps his tiny wings and shrieks with joy, him and Feyre drunkenly decorating a massive home with Solstice decorations. 

“There are some…terrible males in the Illyrian camps,” she ventures, watching your face carefully. “None that turn their young into stew, as far as I know.”

You burn with shame, wishing you weren’t too embarrassed to pull the blanket up over your head. 

“But Cassian is certainly not one of them.” 

“I did not mean to bring any disrespect to your court, my Lady.”

“Of course; we know that,” she tells you, eyes narrowing playfully. “And I thought I told you to call me Feyre.”

You manage a gentle laugh. “Sorry.”

“Enough of that,” she laughs in turn. “Now, I’m sorry; I have to ask but you don’t have to oblige.” 

You return your gaze to her blue-grey eyes. “Can Cassian come to see you? Make sure you’re okay for himself?” 

You can’t help the way your heart rate picks up and you wince when you find Feyre looking at you apologetically.

“You don’t have to say yes,” she reminds you.

“I…I- yeah, he…he can come.” 

She searches your eyes for a few moments before nodding at you.

“We’ll check back in tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it? For our rescheduled meeting.”

You nod at her and flash her a wan smile as she lets herself into the hallway. 

You hardly blink before a towering Illyrian—your mate—ducks into the room.

It suddenly feels infinitely smaller now that he’s in here and you don’t miss the way he subconsciously steps sideways through the door, clearly forgetting that your court has winged soldiers to accommodate as well. 

“Hi,” he begins awkwardly, clearly unsure of himself as his eyes flit over your form, the bed you’re laying on, and then the small—tiny, compared to him—chair that Feyre just vacated. 

“Hi,” you return equally as awkwardly. He doesn’t seem to mind though; his wings lift in time with his hopeful smile before he realizes what he’s doing. 

Cassian shrinks back in on himself when your eyes dart to his wings, almost like he’s trying to make himself appear smaller. It’s nearly comical. 

“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the chair you doubt he’ll fit on. 

You nod your head yes, if only just to see him try.

He just barely manages to fold himself into it, massive wings splayed awkwardly behind him.

“How are you feeling?” Cassian asks eventually, gesturing at the bed you’re currently laying on and reminding you that you’re just lying prone in front of-

You lurch upwards, the task more difficult—more disorienting—than you were prepared for.

Broad, warm hands land on your back and your bicep, finding your entire body seizing. 

“I- I’m sorry, just…are you okay?”

You will your heart to slow its stampede, force your muscles to relax as you allow Cassian to maneuver you into a comfortable seated position.

He’s painfully gentle. 

“Thank you,” you manage when Cassian reluctantly releases you and sinks back into his ill-fitted chair. 

“I’m sorry. For earlier,” he manages then. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You smile ruefully. “In fairness to you, you didn’t even really have to try.” 

He tries to chuckle, though it seems to take a great deal of effort. “I don’t want to scare you.” 

“You don’t, you won’t- I…I’ll be okay,” you stutter, fiddling with the bedspread again. 

“Maybe you just need some exposure therapy,” he offers carefully then, smiling hopefully when you look up at him. “Baby steps but, perhaps I can come…visit you?”

You grin at him; the first real one all day. “Well, I do think your court has some business scheduled here tomorrow.”

Cassian nods quickly. “Yes, yeah. We do- I- it does. Uhm…would it be alright if I came?”

You laugh. “It’s not my court, I’m not in charge of who comes and goes.”

“But it’s your bond,” he counters earnestly, not a lick of teasing detected in his voice. “You’re in charge of the speed that progresses, if it progresses at all.”

“I-” you’re stunned, honestly. You weren’t expecting him to be interested in pursuing anything with you—not after your cowardly display in the conference room earlier. You also didn’t expect him to hand the reins over to you so…seamlessly. “-really?”

“Yes,” Cassian agrees readily, leaning forward in his chair. “Yes, absolutely. This…this is up to you, I- I’m okay—happy—with whatever you’re willing to give me.” 

You search his face—very handsome, now that you’re getting a good look at it—for any signs of deception.

You don’t find any.

“Okay,” you agree then, watching his wings twitch in anticipation. “Tomorrow, then.”

His responding grin is nearly blinding, brightening his entire face—and perhaps even the room at large—as he beams at you.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees.

But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.

He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.

But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.

The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.

You said you liked to cook for him.

He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.

You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.

Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.

He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.

Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently. 

It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.

Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink. 

All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.

And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete. 

If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.

He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.

If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.

Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before. 

He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.

He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.

Absolutely not.

You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave. 

He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.

That would work. That would work just fine.

You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.

He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.

Perfect. Simple.

Something warm for you to come home to.

And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.

It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.

He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.

He liked to think she’d say he picked right.

That he’d found someone good.

Someone she’d love too.

He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.

Plenty of time.

He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.

You always did the same for him.

Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.

“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”

Right on time.

“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared. 

He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.

Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.

He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.

“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough. 

You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control. 

You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.

“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.

He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.

“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”

You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.

“…Did you cook?”

He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.

“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”

It’s the least he could do. 

You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.

“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.

He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”

You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.

He needed to cook more often. 

He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.

You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him. 

It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.

Gosh, he missed you today. 

He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.

“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.

Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.

You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.

“You’re in a good mood.”

How couldn’t he be?

He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.

“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”

You gazed at him, smiling at his words.

“So you made dinner for me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.

He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.

“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”

“You’re trying to spoil me.” 

He snorted softly under his breath.

“Pretty sure that’s my job.”

His favourite job.

You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.

“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”

You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.

Good.

“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”

Clark’s hand paused for just a second.

“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”

You nodded.

“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”

Daniel.

The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.

“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.

You tilted your head, thinking.

“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”

Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.

“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”

The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.

Last few days.

Did you mention that before? 

“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.

“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”

He glanced back at you.

“…Similar how?”

You smiled, completely genuine.

“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”

Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.

“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.

You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.

“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”

The other night.

The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.

He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.

“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.

You nodded, still oblivious.

“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”

Easy to talk to.

Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.

Of course he was.

Normal hours. Normal life.

No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.

“Sounds like you two are getting along.” 

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”

He glanced back at you again.

“What happened?”

You frowned slightly.

“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”

His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it. 

“Poor guy,” he murmured.

“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”

Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing. 

You made people feel better just by being there.

Made him feel better just by being there.

He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.

“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”

Without him. 

The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.

You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.

“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”

He nodded slowly.

Same routine. Same life.

Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.

You kept talking.

“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. 

Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late. 

He was grateful, but there was something else there too. 

His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…

“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.

Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused.  He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.

He knew it was stupid.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.

He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.

He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.

His thoughts drifted for a moment.

Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.

There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.

He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah. That.

That he knew how to do. 

He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.

Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.

He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.

Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.

Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.

It’s not much, but it would work for now. 

“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,

“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation. 

“Clark, we don’t have to—”

He was already moving before you finished the sentence.

He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen.  He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet. 

His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.

You looked tired.

He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.

That he could fix. 

His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.

You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.

There you were.

He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.

You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.

He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.

Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.

Gotcha.

His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”

His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.

“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”

Please.

He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting. 

Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.

“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.

Finally. 

His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.

Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer. 

The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.

The way he liked you best. 

He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion. 

The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.

Gosh, how did he get so lucky? 

He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.

You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.

When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.

“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.

You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more. 

Oh, sweetheart.

Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?

His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.

You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy. 

Not that he thought he deserved it. 

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities. 

Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.

He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.

He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.

“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated. 

It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already. 

He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him. 

It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.

His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently. 

“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”

Let him make you feel good. 

Let him make it up to you. 

You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed. 

He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. 

“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you. 

He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild. 

A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried. 

He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.

As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He truly wasn’t.

He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder. 

He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars. 

He owed you that. 

Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.

He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out. 

“Ah, Clark—“

He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful. 

He swore his name had never sounded so sweet. 

“That’s it, angel, almost there.”

Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Let go for him. 

When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him. 

Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.

When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath. 

He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too. 

Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again. 

“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.” 

He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him. 

Always so eager. 

“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate. 

He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze. 

He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you. 

“You’re so handsome, Clark.” 

The words stop him in his tracks. 

Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face. 

The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance. 

Focus. 

He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night. 

If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.

Gladly.

Every single night.

“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”

You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye. 

“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”

You’ll be the death of him. 

“Sweetheart…” he groans softly.  “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more. 

He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw. 

The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.

“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”

“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”

You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time. 

He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.

No—tonight was about you.

Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds. 

So wet, so ready for him. 

He pauses there, eyes locked on yours. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”

Just say, and he’ll stop. 

“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”

Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.

He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance. 

“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders. 

“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”

He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then. 

“So good for me, angel, so good—“

His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him. 

It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier. 

Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t. 

Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this. 

Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely. 

How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two? 

Far too long. 

His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back. 

“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”

He had to be. 

He had to make this good for you. 

He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice. 

“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”

He really hopes so. 

Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part. 

But this? This was the part that really mattered. 

It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good. 

“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“

You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own. 

Yes, just like that. 

He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus. 

He couldn’t be done with you yet. 

He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch. 

It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love. 

“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”

He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat. 

His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.

“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.

There is no hesitation in your reply. 

“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”

A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on. 

He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none. 

“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”

He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words. 

The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.

His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force. 

He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”

“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.

He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll. 

“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth. 

Say his name again. 

Tell him it’s only him.

“Clark… oh god, Clark—”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. 

Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you. 

His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.

You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.

He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier. 

Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”

You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.

“Clark, you know you did.”

His smile didn’t quite settle.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”

You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.

“I promise.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.

“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.

You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He paused immediately, turning back to you. 

His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.

“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.

You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw. 

“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

Darn it. He should have hidden it better. 

“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”

He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.

“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”

Different.

He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?” 

He couldn’t stop himself from asking.

He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted. 

Do it better this time.

If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.

“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”

He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.

He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.

Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.

Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.

“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.

“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”

“You’re leaving?”

Your voice is quiet.

Oh, sweetheart, no.

It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.

“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”

He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it. 

You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.

“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”

The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.

“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”

He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right. 

“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”

You blink at him.

“Oh.”

He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.

“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything. 

You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient. 

You always make him talk more than he planned to. 

He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.

“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.

“It’s alright, we can—”

“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”

You don’t say anything.

For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around. 

You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

There’s no getting out of this. 

“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.

Your face softens even more.

“Clark—”

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”

He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.

“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.

You blink.

“What?”

He stills, not meeting your eyes.

“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”

You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.

“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”

He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder. 

He never should have started. 

This is exactly what he didn’t want. 

“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”

Deserve more than him. 

He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission. 

“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.

He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.

“You think I don’t know who I’m with?” 

He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head. 

“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”

“Yeah, but that’s not—“

“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window. 

He shakes his head faintly. 

Surely that’s not true. 

“I’m not always here to do that.”

“Yes, you are.”

He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.

“Yeah, right.”

You tug his face again until he looks back at you.

“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”

He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at. 

“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”

“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.

He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.

You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.

“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.

You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.

“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”

Always know how to keep him steady. 

You grin.

“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.” 

He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.

“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”

You shake your head immediately.

“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”

That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hey, that only happened twice.” 

“Three,” you correct.

“…Okay, three.”

He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—

Your stomach growls.

He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“Oh my god.”

Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.

“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.

You laugh into his chest.

“I’m fine.”

“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”

Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.

You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.

“Hey!”

“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”

“I’m not a patient!”

“You are when you don’t eat.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.

Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.

“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

He stops instantly.

“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“All night, huh?”

He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.

You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.

“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”

“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling. 

He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.

You point at him.

“Out.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot. 

You really love him.

I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.

He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.

Still good.

He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.

From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.

He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.

Tonight was good. Better than good.

And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.

Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard. 

He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.

He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl. 

He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.

Yeah.

He thinks he can do that.

a/n: first clark fic wooo!

but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty

He did not speak. Whatever else might be said of your husband, he had never been a man who filled silence out of discomfort. He had always understood, better than most, that some silences were not asking to be filled. You had loved this quality in him once. You had loved a great many things about him, and that too felt very distant now - belonging to some other version of this life, though in truth it had been less than a fortnight. 

Your father was dead.

You pressed your fingers briefly to the window's edge. You watched the dust, trying to think about anything else.

You had been close, as children, you and Daeron - in the easy, unthinking way of cousins who are near in age and thrown together often by the business of family. You had grown up knowing his face as well as you knew the faces of your own brothers. Had known the particular quality of his laughter, low and dry and always a little surprised at itself, as though he hadn't expected to find anything funny and was faintly aggrieved to discover he did. You had known the way he moved through a room, the way he held a cup, the way he would catch your eye across some crowded hall with a look that said, plainly and without words, I find all of this exactly as tedious as you do, and I am glad you are here. 

The match had been arranged when you were fourteen and he was sixteen, and you had not objected. There had been a period of adjustment, as there always was -  but you had known each other already, and the knowing had made it shorter than it might otherwise have been.

He had made you laugh on your wedding night. You hadn't expected that. You had been nervous as any girl on such an occasion would be, and he had been not precisely nervous, but attentive to it in you, in that quiet way he had of noticing things without appearing to notice them. 

He had said something so perfectly, drily absurd about the whole business that your own nerves had simply dissolved, and you had laughed until you pressed your face into the pillow, and after that things had been easy. Things had always been easy between the two of you.

Now, you sat across from him in the carriage and the ease was gone, replaced by something cold and shapeless that had no name you were prepared to give it.

You knew, with perfect, clear, and entirely useless clarity that it was not his fault. You had known this from the moment it happened, had turned the knowledge over in your hands and examined it from every angle and found it unassailably correct.

Daeron had been at Ashford, yes, had been one of the fourteen fighting in the trial, but he had spent the better part of the combat lying insensible in the mud, as he, himself, had cheerfully predicted, and had therefore been nowhere near the moment that mattered. 

He had not swung the flail. 

He could not have governed his father's hand even if he'd wanted to. 

You were a Targaryen yourself - the fault in this was not blood, not name, not any abstract quality of lineage. The fault was a single man's hand on a single weapon at a single terrible moment, and that man was Maekar, and Daeron was not Maekar.

You knew all of this. The knowledge sat in you, complete and correct and entirely without the power to move the cold thing in your chest.

The towers of Summerhall came into view first, pale stone catching the afternoon gold, achingly familiar against the late summer sky. The courtyard received you with quiet efficiency - servants arranging themselves in the yard, the steward coming forward with his careful face, stableboys taking the horses. 

Daeron descended from the carriage and was at your side as you came down the steps, and you allowed his proximity because there were eyes on you and you had no energy left for any other kind of performance. You thanked the steward for words of condolence that washed over you without landing anywhere. You walked through the hall.

In the Red Keep, a prince and his wife kept separate apartments. A solar shared between them for leisure, sleeping chambers properly one's own, with one's own servants and fire and whatever privacy the business of grief or ordinary life required. Summerhall was a smaller castle, less formal in its arrangements, and you and Daeron, fond of each other as you had always been, had never bothered with the separation. You shared a bed. You always had, since the first night of your marriage, which had been easier for it.

Now, you walked to your shared chamber and stood in the center of it and looked at the bed, and Daeron came in behind you and closed the door and stood there without speaking. You were aware of him in the room the same way you had been aware of him in the carriage - constantly, unwillingly, with something that had nowhere useful to go.

You did not speak. 

You undressed with your back to him, and when you climbed into bed, you turned to face the wall, pulling the linen to your shoulder, and lay very still. The bed shifted when he settled onto his side. He did not reach for you - you could feel, or perhaps imagined you could feel, the conscious restraint of it, the deliberate absence of his hand where it usually rested at your waist. 

The fire crackled. The room was warm. Outside, Summerhall settled into its evening quiet. You lay facing the wall and said nothing, and he said nothing, and after a long time you heard his breathing change into sleep, but you lay awake longer still, alone with that dark and the cold thing in your chest, before exhaustion finally pulled you under too.

That was how the weeks began.

Your mother had died when you were very young - young enough that what remained of her was more impression than memory. A scent, perhaps. The particular warmth of being held in a way you could no longer quite reconstruct, maybe. 

Your father had raised you, and had been so entirely present in the doing of it that the absence had been an ache rather than a wound. He had been both things, for as long as you could clearly remember. The warmth in the room, the hand that found yours in a crowd, the man who listened to what you actually said rather than what he expected to hear, who asked questions and remembered the answers years later in a way that had always faintly amazed you. 

He had been so entirely and specifically himself that the world without him in it felt not simply smaller, but structurally unsound, as though something load-bearing had been removed without warning.

You moved through the days in a fog. Your eyes scanned the words in your books without making sense of the sentences. You sat by the window for long hours watching the courtyard, thinking about your father's face, not knowing what to do with any of it. You wrote a letter to Valarr that you could never finish, because every attempt to address the elephant in the room left you in a ball of tears, and the elephant was simply that your father was gone and the world was continuing and these two facts seemed entirely irreconcilable.

Daeron kept his distance. He did not come to you, did not press for conversation, or company, or any of the ordinary business of a marriage. And, yet, he was present in the way he had always been present - quietly, without announcement, in the small material evidence of someone moving through the world and thinking of you in the process. 

A book left on the threshold that you'd mentioned wanting to read. A small pot of the salve you used for headaches, because he had noticed, somehow, from whatever distance he was maintaining, that you had been getting them. A cup of something warm outside your door each evening before he would come to retire to bed with you, still hot when you found it. 

He never knocked. Never left a note. He simply left the thing and withdrew, and you stood in the doorway each time and looked at it for a moment before bringing it inside. You used the salve, and you drank the warm cups, and continued, in the privacy of your own chest, to be angry at him in a way you could not entirely justify but still could not bring yourself to release.

He had always been good at noticing. He had a quality of attention that was unusual in a person who worked so hard to appear as though he wasn't paying any - he noticed things and remembered them, and did something with the remembering, quietly, without making a performance of it. You had found this over the course of your marriage one of the more quietly remarkable things about him. You found it difficult to think about now. You found most things about him difficult to think about.

There were nights when you lay awake and your mind returned, despite your best efforts, to the first time you could clearly remember him - some feast at court when you were perhaps four, the details worn smooth by time. He had been standing at the edge of the room with a cup already in hand and a look of comprehensive assessment on his face, and you had walked up and told him, with the confidence of a girl raised to speak her mind, that he looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. He had looked at you - fully, with those pale eyes of his - and shot you a look that screamed take me anywhere but here. You had giggled. He had looked faintly surprised at himself for causing it. You had spent the rest of the evening in the corner of the room talking about nothing of any consequence, and it had been the beginning of something, though neither of you would have named it that at the time.

You pressed your forehead to the cold glass of the window on those nights and did not let yourself continue.

In the bed you still shared, you continued to sleep facing the wall. You were aware of him behind you each night, the warmth of him, the familiar weight on his side of the mattress, and sometimes in the deep of the night his hand would come to rest near your back, hovering at the edge of contact the way a man extends his hand toward fire to test the heat. You did not turn toward it. You lay still and waited, and after a moment the hand would withdraw, and you would go on staring at the wall. 

You knew it was not fair. You knew it every time. The knowing made no difference at all.

The evening he finally came to you properly was somewhere in the fifth or sixth week. You were at the window. The fire was lit. A book lay open in your lap that you had been failing to read for three days. Supper had come and been partially eaten and cleared away, and the light outside had gone from amber to grey to the deep blue of full evening, and you had sat through all of it without particularly noticing any of it.

The knock at the door was two sounds - deliberate, unhurried, with a pause between them that was entirely characteristic of the man who made it.

You sat where you were for a moment.

"Come in," you said.

Daeron opened the door and leaned against the frame without entering, waiting to be certain that your invitation was genuine before acting on it. He had changed out of whatever he'd worn during the day and was in his shirtsleeves, his coat somewhere else, his sandy hair disheveled like it always was by evening. In one hand he held a bottle by the neck. He looked at you across the room.

"I have a rather good Arbor red," he said, "I've been saving it for an occasion of some kind. I have not yet determined whether this qualifies as an occasion, or whether it qualifies as something worse. In either case, I thought I would bring it." He held the bottle up slightly. "I could also be persuaded to leave it at the door and go away, if you prefer. I am told I am quite good at going away. I have had considerable practice these past weeks."

You looked at him. You looked at the bottle. You thought about telling him to leave it and go, which some part of you still wanted, and found the impulse less solid than it had been, frayed at the edges from five or six weeks of use. You were tired. Tired of the empty evenings and the unread books and the way the room had felt, lately, like a space you were only borrowing.

"Come in," you repeated, and he came in.

He poured without asking, which was correct - he had always known when to ask and when not to. He handed you a cup, kept one for himself, and settled into the chair nearest to the fire with the ease of a man reclaiming a familiar position, which he was. That had always been his chair in the evenings. You had the window seat; he had the chair by the fire. These small territorialities had established themselves in the first months of your marriage without any discussion, as these things do between two people who intend to share a life and begin, almost without noticing, to arrange themselves around each other. It had been strange, these past weeks, to see the chair empty. Stranger, now, to see it occupied again.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The fire made its small sounds. The wine was, as promised, very good. If Daeron was knowledgeable in one area, that would be good alcohol. You drank and looked at the fire and were aware of him across the room in the particular way you were always aware of Daeron.

"I have missed you."

He said it plainly, without decoration, looking at the fire rather than at you, as though it were simply a piece of information he felt you ought to have.

Something moved in you - and then something else moved too, the cold thing that had been sitting in your chest since Ashford, formless and without direction, and it found direction now with the sudden decisiveness of water finding a crack.

"You have missed me," you said. The edge in your voice came out sharper than you'd planned, and then sharpened further, deliberately. "I miss my father."

He looked at you. He said nothing, which meant he had heard it - all of it, the shape and the intent - and was choosing to let it arrive without deflecting it.

"He was fine that morning." Your words came out quietly at first, and then with more force, because the thing in your chest had found its way through and there was no stopping it now. "We had breakfast together, just the two of us, before the trial. He was saying something about the food - that it was too heavy a meal before fighting, that a man with any sense ought to know better than to eat like that before putting on armor." Something came out of you that was almost a laugh. "He ate all of it anyway. Cleaned the plate. Said it would be wasteful otherwise, that he'd always fought better on a full stomach, and then he laughed, as though it were the easiest thing in the world." You stopped. 

The image of him at the table, entirely himself, entirely unaware, invaded your mind. "He was in perfect health. Strong, in good spirits, with years and years still ahead of him. And then a few hours later he was simply—" You shook your head. "Men should not die like that. One moment here, the next gone, without any time to—"

"More men die like that than any other way," Daeron interrupted. His voice was quiet - not unkind, in the manner of someone offering a true thing rather than a comforting one. "Suddenly, without warning or sufficient time. It is among the more consistent features of being mortal." He looked at the fire. "That does not make it less wrong. Only less unusual than it ought to be."

The acknowledgment of the wrongness of it, stated plainly without qualification, did something to the tightness in your chest. You breathed through it.

"He was the best of them." Your voice was steadier now, with something harder underneath. "I do not say that only because he was my father. People who had every reason to be objective said it. He could walk into a room and people were glad - not simply relieved, but glad - to have conducted themselves correctly in front of a prince. He had no enemies worth counting. Do you understand what a remarkable thing that is, for a man of his rank? He was good - truly, genuinely good - and now he is gone, and your father's hand -"

"My father did not mean to kill yours." His voice was quiet, and he was not interrupting. You had stopped, run out of words, and he spoke into the space it left. 

"Of this I am certain. Whatever else might be said of my father - and I am not always his most ardent admirer, as I imagine you have gathered - he loved your father. They all did. There is nothing I can offer you that repairs any part of this, but I do not think he raised that flail knowing what it would do, and I do not think he will ever be free of the knowledge of what it did." He paused. "History will not remember it kindly, either way, and I do not think he will need history's help to carry the weight of it."

"The weight of it." Your voice came out strange, thin and fraying at the edges. "My father is dead, Daeron. I have lost the only parent I have ever truly had, and -" You stopped. You pressed your hand flat against your eyes because the crying had arrived without asking, which you had been managing to prevent for six weeks through some combination of will and exhaustion and the simple stubborn refusal to let anything get close enough to reach it. 

It had gotten in now. 

"I have been angry at you," you said, from behind your hand. It was not what you had meant to say, but what came out. "I know it is not - I know. I know that you did not do this, and I know that you cannot undo it, and I know that it is not fair, but I am angry at you, and I cannot stop, and I look at your face and I can only think of him, and I -" Your voice broke. You pressed harder against your eyes. "He was my father. He was all I had. And it is your father's hands it is on, whatever anyone says about intent, it is on your father’s -"

You heard the chair. You heard him stand, and then he was beside you - not reaching for you, simply standing close, near enough that you could feel the warmth of him, and waiting.

"I know," he said.

"It isn't fair to you." The words came out jagged. "I know that. I have known it for six weeks. I know it every time I turn my back to you in the dark, and every time you leave something at the door and I take it without - without a word, and I know, and I still cannot - "

"No," he agreed, his voice was quiet and entirely without reproach, as though this were a minor logistical observation rather than six weeks of cold silence paid against a debt he didn't owe. "It isn't fair. Are you going to stop?"

"I don't know," you whispered. It was the honest answer, and the one you hated most.

"Then don't," he said. "For now. You can be angry at me. I am still here either way."

That was what broke it properly - not the kindness of it, though it was kind in the sideways Daeron way that didn't announce itself as kindness, that arrived before you'd had a chance to brace for it. It was the plainness of it. I am still here either way. As though your anger were a season he had already decided to wait through. As though the waiting cost him nothing, or if it cost him something, he had already determined what it was worth and paid it without ceremony.

You cried in earnest then. You had not cried properly since Ashford - had held it at arm's length for six weeks through sheer necessity, because there had been the carriage and Summerhall and then every day after, one placed in front of the last, and grief demanded you keep moving or it swallowed you whole. You had been moving. Now you stopped, and it caught you, and you wept for your father, who had eaten a full plate that morning and laughed at his own hypocrisy and been the person who had always, always been there, and was not there now, and would not be again.

Daeron did not speak. After a moment, he put his arm around you - carefully, leaving you every avenue of refusal. You did not refuse it. You turned into him instead, pressing your face against his shoulder, and he held you, and something in you that had been braced for six weeks gave. 

He was warm - warmer than you'd expected, or, perhaps, you had simply forgotten what it was to be held by him after so many weeks of the cold space between you in the dark. His chest was solid against your cheek, the linen of his shirt soft and slightly worn, and beneath it you could feel his heartbeat, steady and unhurried, entirely unimpressed by the flood of tears that you were unleashing.

One hand settled at the back of your head - not pressing, simply resting there, a quiet weight - and the other lay flat against your back. He did not move, he did not try to quiet you, or hurry you, or tell you it would be all right, because he was not a man who said things he could not verify. 

So, he simply held you, and you cried, properly, the kind that has no dignity to it, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, your breath coming in uneven lurches against his shoulder. His arms were not the arms of a man built for war - he had said as much himself, had said it with that dry, resigned humor he kept like a shield - but they were there, and they were real, and they did not loosen. 

His hand moved once, slowly, across your back, the way you might remind someone in the dark that you are still there. Your grip on him tightened, and you cried until your chest ached, and your eyes burned, and there was nothing left to give it, and the sharpness wore itself down, gradually, the way these things do when you finally stop fighting them and simply let them through.

You stayed where you were a moment longer, face still against his shoulder. Then you stepped back. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, which accomplished very little. Daeron, with the air of a man performing a minor practical service, produced a cloth from somewhere about his person and extended it without comment.

"Thank you," you sniffled, nose clogged with snot.

"I am occasionally useful," he said, "in small ways."

Something in you, despite everything - despite the grief and the rawness still sitting behind your eyes - almost moved toward laughter. It didn't quite get there. But it almost did, and he saw it, and did not remark on it, and looked back at the fire.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling hollowed out in the particular way you only did after crying properly, and after a moment he settled beside you - not quite touching - and reached across to refill your cup from the table and held it out. You took it. You drank. He drank. 

"Do you remember when you fell out of the oak tree?" He asked, seemingly out of nowhere, without any particular preamble. 

You looked at him. The shift was so abrupt it took you a moment to follow it. "What?"

"The oak tree." He gestured vaguely with his cup in the direction of some unspecified point in the past. "The large one near the east wall. You were perhaps ten. Eleven. You had decided you could reach the third branch from the top."

"I could reach it," you said. "I did reach it."

"You reached it," he agreed, "and then the branch made its own assessment of the situation, as branches will, and then you were on the ground, and I was standing there in the kind of stunned silence that only a boy who has just watched something terrible happen can produce." He drank. "I ran for help. Naturally."

"Naturally."

"The first person I encountered - the very first, as though the gods themselves had arranged it specifically for my torment - was your father." He said it with flat resignation. "Not a servant. Not a groom. Not anyone sensible. Your father, who I then proceeded to inform, at considerable volume and with impressive incoherence, that his daughter had fallen from a tree and might be dying." A pause. "I was not at my most composed."

Despite everything - the grief, the wine, the rawness still behind your eyes - a smile broke through your lips. "He never told me that part."

"He was very gracious about it," Daeron said, with an expression that suggested the graciousness had done little to improve the experience at the time. "Kept his composure entirely. You would never have known he likely wanted to have words with me quite firmly in that moment. He simply said ‘take me to her’, and followed me back without raising his voice once… Which was, in its own way, almost worse."

"That does sound like him."

"I was near certain he blamed me for it. He never said so - not then, not ever. He crouched down in the grass beside you and checked your leg, talking to you the entire time in that way he had -" He stopped, and his voice was careful with it, as though he were talking to something that might break. "You know the one. As though everything were entirely manageable and he had it well in hand. I stood there behind him feeling approximately two feet tall." He glanced at you. "He never brought it up afterward. Not once. In all the years after, not a word."

"That also sounds like him," you said. Your throat was tight again, but differently - not the sharp grief of an hour ago, but the kind that ached more quietly. 

"I was never entirely certain," Daeron said, "whether it was graciousness or whether he was simply waiting for the precise right moment to bring it up at maximum inconvenience to me. I chose to believe the former. It seemed safer." He turned his cup in his hands. "I did always rather think he blamed me for it. I broke your leg, in the practical sense."

"I broke my own leg," you corrected. "I climbed the tree."

"I was there. I watched you climb it. I could have said something."

"Would you have?"

He considered it with apparent seriousness. "Probably not," he admitted. "You had that look about you. You always had a look about you when you'd decided to do something. There was very little point."

You sat with that for a moment. Outside, insects had started up somewhere in the garden, and the fire had burned lower, and Summerhall went about its quiet business around you. You thought about your father crouching in the grass, checking your leg, talking to you in that calm and certain voice. You thought about what it meant to lose the person who had always, in every version of the world you could remember, simply been there.

"He would have liked this wine," you said.

"He had excellent taste," he agreed. "Better than mine, and I have dedicated considerably more time to the pursuit, which I find genuinely irritating in retrospect." He drank. "He would have had opinions about it. Informed ones."

"He always had opinions," you said, and the grief was in your voice but so was something else - something almost like fondness. "About everything. But he listened, too. That was the thing about him. He had opinions that he was happy to share, but he actually listened to what you said back. That is rarer than it should be."

"Considerably rarer," Daeron said quietly. He was looking at the fire, his profile still in the low light, and there was something in his expression that was not grief exactly, or not only - genuine, uncomplicated fondness for a man who was gone, sitting alongside whatever he had been carrying of his own these past weeks. You had been so occupied with your own grief, and with the cold thing you had been directing at him, that you had not looked closely enough to see it. But it was there.

The fire had burned low enough that someone should have called for more wood. Neither of you did. The room grew dimmer and you sat in it, the wine nearly gone, and the silence between you was not the silence of the carriage.

"I don't know what to do with it," you said, after a while - not quite to him, not quite to yourself. You weren't entirely sure what you meant by it. The grief, or the anger, or all of it together, which amounted to much the same thing. "I keep waiting to feel differently and I just… don't. I wake up and it's still there. I go to sleep and it's still there." You turned the cup in your hands. "And I know what I've been… toward you. I know what it is. I still don't know how to stop."

Daeron was quiet for a moment. He didn't look at you, didn't rush to fill the space with reassurance. He sat with what you'd said.

"Grief wants somewhere to go," he said at last. "It is not particularly discerning about where." He turned his cup slowly. "I happen to be convenient. I am here, and I am connected to it, and I have a face. That is sufficient for grief." He took another sip from his cup. "I am not saying this to acquit you of anything, I am only saying it because it seems true."

You looked at him. His features caught the dying firelight beautifully - the familiar particular shape of him, the man you had known your entire life in one form or another and had spent the last six weeks treating like a stranger. 

"You are frustratingly reasonable," you said, finally.

"I can be," he said. "At times. It comes and goes." He grabbed the bottle of wine and poured himself another glass. "My brothers would find the characterization amusing, I think. They have generally held the opposite opinion of me." He paused briefly as he took another sip from his cup. "Though, I suspect what they mean by ‘unreasonable’ and what you mean by ‘reasonable’ are not entirely different things, which is a thought I am going to set aside before it becomes distressing."

It caught you somewhere unguarded. You did not quite laugh, but something in your face shifted, some held thing releasing slightly. He saw it, and did not remark on it, and looked back at the fire.

You sat in the dimming room and finished the wine slowly, in the easy quiet that had always lived between you when things were good, and you were aware that nothing was fixed - none of it, the grief was still there and the anger still had its edges and tomorrow you would wake to all of it again, unchanged.

But you were here, and he was here, and your father had cleaned his plate that morning and laughed about it and been the person who had always made the world feel like something that could be managed, and he was gone, and the world was continuing regardless, with its usual and total indifference to what anyone had lost.

--

His betrothed took his hand in her own. "Come, my love."

Valarr 's voice cracked. "No."

Sighing in resignation, she shuffled her feet to get comfortable once again as she stared at the pit. The fire, though dying, still burned hot. The heat of the flames warmed her from head to toe as she stood in the damp grass.

"My father did not deserve to die, my love," Valarr whispered.

"I know."

"Why Ser Duncan lives while my father burns is a mystery to me." A lone tear ran down his cheek. "He was to be king - a good king." Valarr sighed. "Daeron told me that something has changed in the wind. The dragon is gone and now we all must suffer." His hands balled into fists with anger, with grief, with everything. "I want to blame Ser Duncan for the death of my dear father but it is the will of the gods that he lives."

"Your father did the right thing by standing by Ser Duncan's side. He was truly protecting an innocent. If anyone is to blame, it is Aerion," his betrothed told him.

"Aerion is a snake," Valarr bit out. "He has never been kind, not to his own brothers nor to the small folk."

She squeezed his hand. "Come, my love," she said gently. As if he were as fragile as glass, she carefully kissed his cheek.

Valarr leaned into her, letting his eyes close. Taking a deep breath, Valarr pulled away from his betrothed. "I will go with you. I will follow you anywhere, my love."

She gave him a small smile. "I know." She gave him a few more moments to mourn the man who had cared for him like no other.

Only when the sun began to set did Valarr move. With her hand still in his, he brought it up to his mouth and brushed his lips against her knuckles. "I am ready," he said.

She nodded though he did not look at her. Carefully, she led him away from the pyre and to the castle where they were staying. They were quiet as they walked back but there was no anamosity between them, only a comfortable silence. While they walked they never let go of each other. Valarr needed her desperately even though he would not show it. It was her who was keeping him together right now. It was her who was healing him in ways he could not understand.

When they arrived back in their quarters, Valarr pulled his betrothed to him and held her tight. "I do not deserve you, my love."

She scoffed but continued to hold him as held held her. "Do not be a fool, you deserve me."

"I would ask you to show me how much you are devoted to me but I do not have the will to bed you," he said lightly.

His betrothed let out a small chuckle. "We will be together again when you are ready. I shall not hurry you nor should you hurry yourself." She pressed her forehead against the top of his head. "I will always be by your side, my Valarr. I hope I never give you reason to doubt that."

Valarr separated from her touch to look at her. His eyes twinkled in the moonlight in their own unique way. His betrothed could tell he was all out of tears now despite how she could see the invisible streaks of tears that could be shed no more. Valarr hummed as he took her face in his hands and brushed his lips against hers. "We shall rest then," he offered.

Steve had you pressed into the couch, hovering over you, one arm wrapped around your waist, while the other held his body up from crushing you.

Not that you would have minded.

His lips are firmly planted against yours, practically devouring your face with how hard he was going.

Your hands were wrapped around Steve’s neck, fingers looping in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging softly at the strands.

Steve groans.

The sound vibrates against your lips, you whine in return, arching your back into him.

“Sounds pretty” Steve mumbles.

The words are shared between your lips, breathy and low, his words meant for you and only you.

“Stevie” You sound just as breathy, more high pitched and whiny.

The arm around your waist loosens for a moment, Steve’s hand wandering up the sweater you’re wearing, palms scraping against your warm skin.

With the skills of a man who knows what he’s doing, Steve smooths his palm over your ribs, fingers gliding over the expanse of your skin, you shiver in delight, gasping as his nimble edge at your bra.

Those long fingers fiddle for a moment, following the seams of your bra, before he reaches the clasp at your back, with a subtle flick of his wrist, it comes loose, hanging around your chest, useless.

“I don’t know whether to be turned on, or worried, that you’re so good at that” You breathed, using one of your hands to reach beneath your shirt and maneuver the bra off your body, throwing it down on the ground.

“Turned on” Steve nodded, a smug smile on his lips. “Definitely turned on”

You rolled your eyes, pulling Steve back into your embrace, kissing his smug smile right off his face.

You left one hand twisting and hugging at Steve’s hair, while the other traversed down his back, gripping the back of his shirt in a tight fist, pushing down slightly, wanting him to be closer.

Steve followed your subtle direction without much coaxing, his hips slotting right against your parted legs.

His jean clad thighs brushed up against your bare legs, your skirt hiked up around your waist.

Steve grinds his hips down, the hardened bulge in his jeans brushing right up against your core.

“Shit” Steve moans, pressing his forehead against yours.

He does the motion against, grinding down on you a little harder, right down on your dampened underwear.

You let out a deep sigh, biting down on your lip as your hips buck up to meet Steve’s motions.

“That feels good Stevie” You whimper.

“Yeah” Steve’s grinning now, sliding his jean clad bulge up and down, over and over your center. “You like that sweetheart?”

“So much” You nodded quickly, eyes slipping shut.

Steve hums softly nudging your face with his nose, placing gentle kisses against your cheeks, down the slope of your neck.

The kisses are hot and wet, his teeth biting down softly on your skin, tongue lapping at the fresh bites, soothing the marks.

The hand under your shirt was now pressing against your stomach, reaching up to cup one of your breasts on his large hand, squeezing it.

“So fucking pretty” Steve mumbles into your neck, biting down a little harder this time.

You back arches again, pressing your chest right into his open palm, fingers tugging harshly at his hair in retaliation.

Steve moans at the feeling.

“Please Stevie” You say, your hand slipping beneath his shirt now, clutching at his muscled back.

“Tell me what you want sweetheart” Steve breathes the words against your skin, peering up at you with hooded eyes. “Use those pretty little words”

Your lips part, ready to demand Steve to fuck the ever loving life out of you, but you don’t get the chance.

Because, your front door swings open.

Hinges groaning with the force, door slamming against the wall.

And Robin comes storming in.

“I need your help, desperately, like you don’t even know how much I need your help right now” She comes in like a whirl wind, talking a mile a minute.

She’s so busy trying to talk her way into the apartment that she doesn’t even know what she’s interrupted.

You and Steve freeze, his face is still pressed into your neck, one hard gripping tightly at your breast. Your hand is shoved up his shirt, the other is holding onto Steve’s hair like your life depended on it.

Not to mention, you were spread out on the couch, with Steve grinding down on you like there’s no tomorrow.

“I asked Vickie on a date, like a real life actual date and I have no idea what I’m doing, and I'm so freaking nervous…and you know what I'm like when I'm nervous, I can’t shut up” Robin is still talking at super human speed, pacing the floor of your living room, tugging harshly at the strands of her short hair.

You feel hot all over, and not in the way Steve was making you feel hot mere seconds ago, this was pure embarrassment.

Steve wasn’t doing much better, he refused to look at Robin, refused to look at you, his face was beat red, ready to explode.

“I need you guys to talk me down, cause right now, I’m ready to throw myself off a really tall bridge, well not a really, really tall bridge, just tall enough that I get like, a little hurt…not like kill myself worthy, you know?” Robin continues to talk, but for the first time since she barged into your apartment, she looked directly at you and Steve.

The position was compromising to say the least.

“Oh god!” Robin shouted, covering her eyes with her hands. “Gross guys, you have a bedroom specifically made for stuff like this”

“You kinda barged into our apartment, without warning” You mumbled, finally finding the courage to push Steve off you.

Steve went willingly, situating himself on the total opposite side of the couch, not touching you at all.

You rigidly sat up, smoothing down your shirt, but realized that your bra was on the floor. You kicked it under the couch and crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide the fact that you currently weren’t wearing a bra.

Steve tugs his own shirt down, tugging at his jeans, trying to rearrange himself into a suitable position to hide the bulge in his jeans, but he settles for putting a cushion over his lap.

Completely mortified.

“But do you have to do it on the couch?” Robin whined, still covering her eyes. “We hang out on that couch”

“It’s our apartment” Steve’s voice is stilted, annoyed. “We can do it wherever we want”

You look at Steve, his face is still flushed, you can feel the embarrassment radiating off him. Your skin feels tingly, hot to the touch.

“You can uncover your eyes” You mumble quietly.

Robin peeks past a gap in her fingers, looking between you and Steve, when she deems that you guys are in fact decent, she removes her hands.

“I need help, you guys need to help me figure out what I’m gonna say” Robin says, she looks like she wants to situate herself on the couch between you, but she decides against it, with a wrinkle of her nose.

“How did you even get in?” Steve asks, ignoring Robin's pleas for help. “The door was locked”

“I have a key” Robin waves his concerns away.

“How do you have a key?” Steve asks, still confused.

“Dustin gave it to me”

“How does Dustin have a key?”

“He made one, dingus, can we get back to my problem now?”

Steve groans, throwing his head back against the couch, slouching down.

You sigh, butting yourself into their argument, knowing that if you don’t, they would be talking in circles for hours.

“You wanted help with your date with Vickie” You nodded at Robin.

“Yes,” Robin nods. “I need you guys to run fake date scenarios with me, so I know what to do, and what to say, so I don’t sound like a total dingus…like Steve”

“Hey!” Steve’s eyes snap open, glaring directly at Robin.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

TWO ― DUSTIN

Steve’s car hums softly as he drives back to your apartment.

He had taken you out to dinner. To a nice restaurant, five star dining, on his parents dime, because you both deserved it.

A long overdue date night, he had insisted, after what happened with Robin last week, you and Steve had been on edge.

But tonight, he was working the Harrington charm, trying to wiggle his way into your pants, and cementing himself into every crevice of your heart.

And he was thoroughly succeeding.

You turned your body to face him, Steve plants his hand firmly on your thigh, driving with one hand, occasionally peering at you, a wide smile on his lips.

You feel yourself smiling, warm and fuzzy feelings spreading across your chest.

“Tonight was nice” You murmured, not wanting to break the soft atmosphere in the car.

“Really nice” Steve agreed.

The roads were empty, driving past street lights and houses with their lights dimmed or completely off, it was just you and Steve out tonight.

It was nice.

And you were fighting the urge to jump Steve right here and now, if he wasn’t currently driving, it would be a game over.

Steve squeezes the meat of your thigh, long fingers digging into the flesh, palm warm against your already heated skin.

You place your hand on Steve’s, slowly trailing your fingers over each of his knuckles.

“I can’t wait to get you home” Steve hums, looking at you for a moment, before turning his attention back to the road.

You feel a burning in your stomach.

“Yeah?” You question. “What are you gonna do to me?”

Steve squeezes your thigh again.

“I’m gonna kiss the freaking crap out of you” Steve starts tame, but you know him too well, and by the smirk spreading across his lips, you know what’s coming.

“I’m gonna strip you down, and bury my head between your thighs until you’re shaking” That warm feeling in your stomach is tenfold now. “Then I’m gonna fuck you, slow and deep, because that’s what you need, isn’t it sweetheart?”

“Yeah, Stevie” You nod. “I want it, I want you”

Steve’s responding chuckle is deep, throaty. It sends a shiver down your spine, like a forewarning about what’s going to happen.

“I know you do,” Steve glances at you again. “I want you so much, you have no idea”

You slide Steve’s hand further up your thigh, pushing his fingers past the hem of your dress.

Steve’s breath hitches, but he says nothing.

So you continue to push his hand further up your thighs, the tips of his fingers brushing up against the soft cotton of your underwear, you let out a sigh at the feeling.

Steve moves his fingers on his own accord, slipping a single finger under the hem of your underwear, brushing up against your wet cunt.

“Oh, sweetheart” Steve groans, head tilting back slightly, eyes still trained on the road before him.

“Stevie” You whimpered, feeling the pad of his finger sweep up, catching right on your clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily, trying to entice him in further.

Steve gave you what you wanted, another finger slipped beneath the hem of your underwear, joining his first finger in brushing up against your most sensitive spot.

“You’re wet already” Steve murmured, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “That’s all it take huh, dinner and a little dirty talk”

You whimpered as his fingers started drawing slow circles around your clit.

“Only for you” Your voice is airy.

Steve groans.

You guys are close to your apartment now, but you didn’t have it in you to wait much longer, and it seemed neither did Steve.

His fingers continue their slow circles, your hips move with his movements chasing your pleasure.

Steve pulls into your street, parking on the road right outside your apartment. He slides his fingers from inside your underwear, eliciting a whine from you.

You watch as Steve brings his fingers up to his lips, and sucks them completely clean, groaning around the appendages.

“Fuck, sweetheart” Steve looks at you with hooded eyes.

And suddenly, you're not in your chair anymore.

Your body moves without really telling your brain what it’s doing, wrapping your legs around Steve’s waist, gripping his shoulders with a rough grip, pressing your chest against his as you kiss him.

Steve’s hand rests on your waist, pulling your body down on his lap, there’s very little space for you to work with, but that just means you guys are pressed together, neither of you are complaining.

Steve’s tongue licks at the edge of your lip, you part your lips, letting him wedge his tongue into your mouth.

You moan against his lips, your hips press firmly down on his lap, nudging the forming tent in Steve’s slacks.

“Can’t even make it into the apartment” Steve shakes his head.

You are not really listening to him.

You trail your lips down his cheek, down his jaw, feeling the remnants of the stubble Steve’s let grow out, down, down, down his neck, pausing at the meeting point of his neck and his shoulder, you tug at his button up shirt, pulling the collar, but to no avail.

You reach up to un button the first two buttons of his shirt, exposing more of his skin, and the hair that decorates his broad chest.

Your lips continue their assault, kissing his warm skin, biting down softly on his shoulder.

“Shit” Steve’s head tilts back, allowing you the space to mark him up, however you want to.

Steve uses his hand to move your hips, gliding you across the smooth fabric of his slack, the glide is easy and the friction pleasurable.

“Touch me Stevie” You whisper.

Steve follows your command, slipping one of his hands beneath your dress, not bothering with your underwear, slipping right underneath the fabric, heading straight for the goods.

Before anything can really get underway, a loud knock slams against the passenger side window.

You jump in Steve’s lap, her head banging against the roof of Steve’s car. While Steve is trapped under your body, not that he’s complaining, but he whipped his hand out from under your dress, he uses his other hand to cup the back of your head, soothing the slight bump.

You both turn, looking through the slightly fogged up window, you see a figure standing outside the car, looking less than pleased.

You sighed, leaning back over and falling into the passenger seat, before winding the window down.

Dustin Henderson.

“Come on Henderson” Steve groans, head leaning against the head rest, eyes squeezed shut, as if it would make the boy disappear. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Movie night” Dustin said sternly, holding a VHS in his hand, giving you both a pointed look. “But you guys were too busy feeling each other up, to notice me”

You felt heat licking up your spine.

If Steve felt embarrassed, he didn’t let it show, he looked more annoyed if anything.

“Dude, seriously!” Steve cried out, throwing his hands up in the air, exasperated.

“You promised!” Dustin accused, pointing a finger at Steve.

“We’re busy” Steve motions between the two of you. “Clearly”

“Yeah” Dustin spat, looking more disgusted than you’ve ever seen him. “I’ve seen more of you than I have ever wanted to”

“Then go home!” Steve shouts.

“It’s dark, you expect me to bike home in this shit!” Dustin shouts back.

You worry about the neighbours hearing you.

“Okay” You settle, sitting up in your seat, smoothing down the skirt of your dress. “Let’s take a beat guys”

“You biked here, you can sure as hell bike back!” Steve continues to shout around you, looking Dustin square in the eyes.

“You suck Harrington!” Dustin is pouting now, eyes narrowing in a menacing glare.

Dustin throws his hands up in the air, turning his back to the both of you, storming his way over to where he’s left his bike.

You sigh loudly.

Looking at Steve.

Who looks like he’s ready to start another fight.

On any other occasion, you would have enjoyed dragging him upstairs and getting his anger out in a way that made you both feel good, but you could really do that now.

Not when you would feel guilty.

Steve looks at you, and he starts to shake his head.

“No” Steve says firmly. “Not happening, he’s going home, and we’re gonna get back to where we were”

“We can’t let him do that” You deny. “It’s dark and it’s late”

You know your guilt tripping him.

But the moods been ruined, once again.

Steve sighs heavily.

He looks at Dustin through the windshield, who’s hovering around his bike, looking like he’s waiting for something.

“Stupid little shit” Steve mutters, admitting defeat.

“You love him, I know you do” You smile, leaning over to kiss him, once, twice, before pulling away.

Steve huffs.

“I love you” He corrects, slapping his palms against his thighs. “He’s lucky you care”

“Sure” You nod to appease him, but you both know that Steve really does care about Dustin, even when he’s driving him up the wall.

You and Steve hop out of the car.

“Don’t make me regret this” Steve mutters, you both walk up together, Steve’s arm is around your shoulders, yours is around his waist.

“Come on” Steve called out to Dustin, nodding at the front door.

Dustin is beaming now.

He throws his bike down, running up to the front door, talking about the movie in his hand.

You smile.

Steve huffs, placing a kiss on your forehead.

THREE ― NANCY + JONATHAN + ROBIN

Steve’s new job at the WSQK radio station, The Squawk, meant he was spending a lot of his free time there. Which, in turn, meant that you were spending a lot of your free time there.

It was a base camp for the crawls.

The trips to the upside down.

Looking for Vecna, under the guise of running a radio show.

It wasn’t all bad.

The building was pretty cool. There was a wall of shelves that went from floor to ceiling, records upon records sat on the shelves. Anything that you could think of, was hidden on those shelves, even the ones so obscure that not even Jonathan knew them.

And you liked watching Steve work the sound effects on Robin’s show, so focused on finding the right sounds, and playing them at just the right moment.

The way his brows would furrow, swinging back and forth between the machine and the pile of tapes with labeled sound effects. The way he would grab his cup of coffee, taking quick sips of the sludgy liquid, watching the way his throat boobed with the motion.

You were a wreck.

Steve drinking coffee was turning you on.

It was getting bad.

Steve wasn’t much better, which made you feel a little less bad.

Steve watched you from his post, stretched out across the couch, flipping through a pile of records as you spoke with Robin, soft flow of music playing through the air.

The show wasn’t supposed to start for another thirty minutes.

And just having you on the couch, was doing things to Steve, things he really shouldn’t be thinking about in the confines of the booth, his place of work.

“This one?” You asked, holding up a Cyndi Lauper record, to which Robin shook her head, nose scrunching.

“We played her songs way too much last week” Robin explained, flipping through another stack. “We need more variety”

You huffed.

Steve felt his heart clench.

“There, uh, there are some more records in the basement” Steve stumbled over his words, drawing your and Robin’s attention to him. “We could grab a couple of those, see if they’re any good”

“Yeah, I think I saw a Prince album down there last week, could be worth a look” You agreed, placing the record in your hand back on the stack.

“Sure” Robin shrugged.

“I’ll go down and have a look” Steve nodded, looking at you, giving you a slight quirk of his eyebrow. “Wanna help?”

“Okay” You nodded.

Robin shuffles her chair closer to the desk, sparing you both a strange look.

“Keep your hands to yourself down there dingus” She warns, pointing a finger in Steve’s direction. “This is a place of business, not your love nest”

“Why are you telling me!” Steve exclaimed. “Why don't you tell her that?” Steve pointed an accusatory finger at you.

“She has more self control than you” Robin replies, shrugging her shoulders.

“No she doesn’t” Steve denied.

Robin looks at Steve, deadpan and unbelieving.

Steve scoffs loudly.

You are so glad that Robin can’t hear your inner monologue right now, because she would have to turn her judgment onto you, because right now, you were ready to climb Steve like a freaking tree.

“Whatever” Steve rolls his eyes, opening the door to the booth, motioning you to go first.

You gladly make your escape, feeling heat spreading across your neck. Steve takes your hand in his, gripping it tightly, leading you to the secret door to the basement.

The basement was drafty, empty and completely quiet.

This was normally the place everyone met up to get ready for the next crawl, there were blueprints and town maps strewn across tables, colour coded texts and blocked maps, a projector was sitting in the middle of the room, awaiting use.

But the basement was also a holding place for all the older and underused records.

But you and Steve were clearly not here for that.

You pulled Steve to a halt, pushing his tall frame against the nearest wall, he’s surprised, but takes it in his stride, large hands gripping your hips, long fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt.

A shiver ghosts your spine, his fingers are cold against your warm skin. You lean in to kiss Steve. The kiss is frantic and quick, a little sloppy, the lack of intimacy making you and Steve loose control.

You pressed your hands against his chest, feeling his heart thudding beneath your palm. Steve bites your lip, harder than you think he was meant to, caught up in his excitement.

“Sorry” Steve breathed out.

“‘s fine” You murmur, using the lapels of his jacket to tug him back into you.

Steve grunts, going right back to kissing you.

His hand reached around, pressing deep into the back pocket of your jeans, palms cupping your backside in a harsh grasp.

“Steve” You whisper, back arching, pressing your chest against Steve's.

“I know” He breathes.

He pulls his hand from your pocket, wrapping his large hands around your thighs, lifting you with an astounding amount of ease.

You let out a soft giggle, wrapping your arms around his shoulder, digging your fingers into his soft hair.

Steve laughs, turning your bodies around, now he was pinning you against the wall.

Steve pauses a moment, taking you in.

“Hi” You smile, it’s soft and warm.

Steve feels a hot sensation building in the pit of his stomach, it spreads through his chest as you run your fingers through his hair, he really loved when you played with his hair.

“Hey sweetheart” Steve smiles back.

That smile has your heart fluttering, a tingle of warm zinging right through your body. Steve’s gaze is piercing, like he can truly see all of you, he wants to see all of you. His love for you bleeds through every glance, those warm honey brown eyes, a pool you’d love to swim in.

Steve kisses you again.

It’s a little slower now. A little warmer.

Steve holds your body, hands digging into the meat of your thigh, your back is up against the wall, cold cement chilling you through your top.

Your tongue slips past Steve’s lips, he groans loudly, lips parting, tongues brushing.

“Guys, Nancy and Jonathan are here, there’s gonna be a--Seriously!”

The door to the basement is slid open, Robin bounding her way down the stairs with Nancy and Jonathan coming in behind her.

Steve drops your thighs, your legs slam down very gracelessly, you wince as your boot clad feet smack against the concrete. Steve spares you a sorry glance.

“Again!” Robin exclaims, standing on the stairs, hands on her hips.

Nancy and Jonathan are struggling to muffle their laughter, taking in Steve’s flushed cheeks, and your down cast eyes, not feeling brave enough to lock eyes with Robin.

“I told you to keep your hands to yourself Steve!” Robin exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

Steve scoffed.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t the one who started this” Steve muttered, motioning between the two of you with a waggaling finger.

“Steve!” You cried, slapping his arm.

“Ow! Sorry!” He said, clutching his arm, looking at you with wide eyes.

“Okay, keep it in your pants you guys” Nancy joked goodnaturedly.

“The radio station, that’s what gets you going huh?” Jonathan snicked behind his hand.

“Shut up” You mutter.

“I can’t believe this” Robin is running her fingers through her hair. “I thought Steve was the menace in your relationship, turns out I was wrong”

You rolled your eyes.

“Can you blame me?” You say, but it’s quiet, and lacks the confidence your candance normally carries.

“Not in our place of work!” Robin chastised, like you and Steve were a pair of dogs she was training.

“All right,” Steve waved her off. “We get it, we can’t do it at the station, or in my car or in our own freaking apartment, just let us know where and when then”

Steve puts his hands on his hips, looking expectantly at Robin, whose cheeks are a soft shade of pink.

“Not the time or the place lover boy” Nancy cuts in.

“It’s crawl time” Jonathan finishes the statement. “So both of you, behave”

Maybe next time, you’d finally get it right.

FOUR ― THE PARTY

Steve buys tickets for the first movie on the list, not interested in watching anything in particular. You are waiting on the sidewalk, hands in the back pockets of your jeans, swaying from heel to toe.

Steve grins.

You are so goddamn pretty.

“Two tickets for the lovely lady” Steve muttered softly, coming up behind you, wrapping one arm around your waist, while the other hand waved two tickets in your face.

You giggle softly, taking your hands out of your pockets, wrapping one hand around his wrist with the tickets on hand, while the other rests against the large hand pressed against your stomach.

“What’re we watching?” You asked.

“No idea” Steve shrugs, though you can’t see it, you feel the motion against your back. “It’s a dark theater, away from everyone we know, I couldn’t care less what the movie actually is”

You laugh, turning your head, looking at Steve over your shoulder.

“Let’s go inside, before you jinx it”

“Why would I be the jinx here?” Steve asked, bewildered. “They come looking for you, not me”

You take Steve’s hand from your waist, winding his fingers around your own. You let his other hand go, turning on your heels, facing him. Using your now free hand, you press softly against his chest, nudging him to the movie theater.

“Can’t help it if I’m your better half” You sigh, like it was a tough job.

Steve scoffs, but there is a smile on his face, using your conjoined hands to swing his arm around your shoulder, holding you close to him. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Don’t I know it”

You and Steve enter your designated theater, the room was fairly empty, only a few people milling around the small room.

You and Steve take a seat in the very last row, right in the middle of the row. You nestle down in your seat, Steve’s arm still around your shoulders, as he sits in the seat beside you.

“It’s a rerun of some movie” Steve whispers in your ear. “They’ve been showing it for two weeks now, there’s no chance they’re gonna be here”

“What movie is it?” You ask, tilting your head.

“Who cares, are you actually gonna watch it?” Steve asks, tilting his head, mirroring your actions, making you smile. “While all this is sitting beside you”

Steve makes a sweeping motion with his hand, trailing from head to toe, as if him just sitting next to you, was temptation enough.

And right now, it was.

It was driving you crazy, just being this close to Steve.

Just having his arm around your shoulder was sending you into overdrive, the soft smell of his aftershave clinging to his sweater, feeling his warmth pressed to your side.

The interruptions to your alone time were seriously messing with your nervous system.

You and Steve have never gone this long without…well doing anything really, you didn’t have room to breathe around each other, before someone was knocking on your door, or walking into something they really shouldn’t have seen.

And, it seemed, it was affecting Steve just as much.

He was leaning into your personal space, more than usual, like he had to have a hand on you at all times, it was the most action he had seen in weeks.

“What movie?” You asked, playing dumb, leaning further into Steve.

And he grins like the cat who caught the mouse.

Steve unlaces your fingers, using the hand around your shoulders to press against the back of your head, tangling in the strands of hair, holding your head gently as he presses his lips against yours.

His lips are persistent, hungry, looking for the one thing he’s wanted.

You aren’t much better.

You meet his lips with just as much enthusiasm, pressing one hand against Steve’s thigh, using it as leverage to push your body closer to his, though the arm rest was digging into your stomach, you paid it no mind.

Steve groaned softly at the feel of your hand against his thigh.

“God” He mumbled against your lips, kissing between his slightly slurred words. “I feel like a horny teenager again”

Steve muffles your laugh with his lips, not giving you the space to part from him.

You and Steve kiss like this might be the very last kiss you’ll have.

You feel Steve’s teeth bite down on your lip, it’s harsh, and you wince a little, but the shiver that runs down your spine is a good distraction.

“Steve” You whimper softly.

Steve’s fingers, which are wrapped up in the strands of your hair, tighten, liking the sound of his name on your tongue.

He wanted to hear that and only that from your lips from now on, until the day he dies.

You guys really needed to fuck before you both combust.

Making out in a movie theater was not a new concept for you and Steve, you’d done it before, recreationally. It was always a little bit of daunting fun, doing something crass in public.

But now…

It was the last place you and Steve had thought of, because everywhere else had been invaded.

And you guys loved your friends, you really did, but right now, you hated them very much.

You just wanted to jump Steve’s bones.

Steve’s other hand had wound itself around your waist, his forearm digging into the arm rest, but that was the least of his concerns.

He was currently trying to find a way to super glue your body to his, in the most nonchalant way.

You use your other hand to grip Steve’s sweater, the fabric smooth and warm beneath your clenched fist, you want to yank him right out of his chair and on top of you.

And you might have just done that.

If you hadn’t heard a crowd of familiar voices.

“What the hell Harrington!”

Steve’s groan is immediate, annoyed right to his core.

He, very reluctantly, pulls away from your kiss. He looks over his shoulder, to see a very annoyed Dustin.

He had a rather large popcorn clutched in his arms, looking at Steve like he had betrayed him.

Behind Dustin stood Max and Lucas, who were enjoying the agony on Steve’s face way more than they should be. And next to them, Mike is smirking from ear to ear, El clutching his hand with a gentle smile. Will is standing beside Dustin, looking like he wished he was anywhere but here.

“Fucking Henderson” Steve muttered, hanging his head, pressing his face into your neck, as if that would get the teenagers to disappear.

You patted the back of his head, as Steve grumbled into the softness of your sweater.

“I tried calling you like a million times” Dustin continues on, not missing a beat. “You could have at least told us you were gonna be here tonight, we needed a ride”

“I didn’t tell you idiots on purpose” Steve muttered against your neck, his breath fanning across your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake.

“Mike’s mom had to take us” Dustin grumbled, making his way down the row, intent on berating Steve up close and personal. “Could have saved us the trouble”

You run your fingers through Steve’s hair, tugging softly at the strands of brown hair, making Steve’s breath hitch, the hand he had resting on your waist, tightens its grip.

“Dude” Max scoffs, she lingers somewhere behind Dustin, further down the row. “I don’t think they wanted your company”

“Shut up” Dustin mutters, throwing himself down in the seat beside Steve, spilling popcorn in his lap in the process.

“What are you guys even doing here?” Dustin asks. “You guys know this is a Star Wars rerun right”

“Oh my god” You whisper, feeling Steve tense, you stopped tugging at Steve’s hair.

“Yeah” Lucas's smug voice joins the ranks, leaning over in his seat. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Shut it, Sinclair” You mutter, tossing a mean look over at the boy, who sat back in his seat, snickering with Max beside him.

“I didn’t know you were a Star Wars fan Harrington” Mike chimes in, and you’ve never wanted to smack a bunch of kids before, but they were making it really difficult right now.

Steve pulls his head away from you, snapping in the direction of the six teenagers filling up the row, he scowls at each and every one of them.

“I’m gonna kick your ass Wheeler” Steve points a finger at Mike, who grins even wider, nudging El with his elbow, and she smiles at the way the vein on Steve’s forehead becomes more pronounced.

And Will, god bless his sweet soul, send you a very sorry look, his cheeks were a bright red.

You smiled gently at him.

At least one of the six of them was decent.

The light starts to dim around you, and the kids are nice enough (for now) to leave you and Steve alone.

“I can’t believe this is the movie you picked” You hissed the words between you and Steve, not willing to speak any louder, less one of the little gremlins heard you.

“I wasn’t paying attention” Steve whined, looking back at you with those soft brown eyes, the very ones you had trouble saying no to.

“The name Star Wars didn’t tip you off?” You questioned, tugging at his hair, a little harsher than you meant to.

Steve winced, cheeks flushing, flustered over being found and humiliated by the very people you had been avoiding.

“I’m sorry”

He looked kind of pitiful, and you really couldn’t stay mad at Steve. It did help that you were already annoyed that you guys had been found, once again, you and Steve were sharing this ruin.

You sigh, leaning over to smack a kiss on Steve’s cheek, loudly and over the top. Dustin looks over at the pair of you, mouth full of popcorn, and disgust clearly written on his face.

“Don’t worry about it” You shook it off, settling back in your seat, Steve followed you down, resting his head against your shoulder. “We’ll get it right eventually”

Steve sighed.

FIVE ― ALONE AT LAST

You and Steve were determined.

Robin was out with Vickie. Nancy and Jonathan were at the Wheeler house looking after Holly. Mike, Dustin, Lucas and Max were at the arcade.

You were finally, finally, alone.

And you were taking advantage of it.

You pulled your top off, throwing it somewhere around Steve’s bed, reaching back to unclasp your bra, sliding it down your arms, throwing it down with your shirt.

Steve follows suit, tugging off his thick brown sweater, kicking off his sneakers and un-buttoning his jeans, his checkered boxers peeking out of the waistband.

“Come here sweetheart” Steve motions you over.

You go willingly, slipping your hands around his waist, his skin flushed and hot. One hand lands at the back of your head, fingers buried between strands of your hair, the other hand is cupping your cheek, thumb caressing slow sweeps over your cheekbone.

“You gonna kiss me or what Harrington” You teased, all breathy and like, leaning into his hand.

Steve smirks.

He plants his lips on yours.

You breathe a sigh of relief, like he’s your lifeline on a sinking ship.

The kiss isn’t inherently desperate, but there’s an underlying feeling of need, wanting each other, needing to feel his skin on your skin, without barriers or interruptions.

Steve stumbles you both to the edge of his bed, lowering you both onto the plush mattress, feeling his cool covers gliding across your back.

You sigh against his lips.

Steve lets go of your hair, maneuvering his hand down to the waistband of your jeans, undoing the button with ease, sliding the zipper down, until his fingers are brushing over the smooth cotton of your underwear.

He doesn’t waste any time, slipping his fingers inside, rubbing circles directly on your clit. You were wet, turned on and ready.

Your back arches, inviting his fingers to slip in a little further. Steve takes the initiative, sliding his fingers down until they prodded at your entrance. You clench around nothing but the thought of Steve’s fingers, buried deep inside your pussy.

“Yes” You whisper, nodding your head, biting your lip.

Steve slips a single finger inside your pussy, feeling your wall clenching around the appendage.

“Like this?” Steve murmurs the words in your ear.

His finger slides out, you keen loudly, pleading for him. Steve grins, slipping his finger back in, repeating the motion, before slowly easing a second finger inside your wet heat.

“Just like that” It’s a breath sigh, words barely finding their way out of your lips.

Steve’s fingers work wondering, and to make a pleasurable situation better, his thumb reaches up to rub circles on your clit.

“Want to fuck you sweetheart” Steve’s voice reaches your ears, it’s low and grumbled, his hips rutting against your thigh, you can feel his hardened cock beneath his jeans. “You gonna let me fuck you?”

“Yes, yes” You nod so quickly, Steve wonders how you haven’t given yourself whiplash.

Steve pulls his fingers from your pussy, wiping them on the back of his jeans, before he reaches down to tug your jeans from your legs, leaving you in a pair of red cotton underwear, with a pretty white bow.

“So pretty” Steve sweeps his hair away from his eyes, brushing his knuckle over the damp spot on your underwear.

Your hips arched, pussy aching for his touch.

“Take your jeans off Stevie” You say, reaching a hand out to brush his jean clad thigh.

Steve shuddered, coming to stand at the end of the bed, shucking his jeans off his legs, kicking them away, standing only in his boxers.

“Those too” You pointed to his boxers.

Steve smirks, pulling his underwear down his legs, slowly, watching you watch him, enjoying your eyes on him.

Steve’s boxers fall around his ankles, his cock standing proud, tip a ruddy red colour, weeping slightly, standing tall against his stomach. His large hand comes around the base of his cock, jerking his hand up and down the length, slowly, torturing you.

“Please” You whimper.

Steve crawls his way up the bed, up your body, his cock brushes the length of your leg, until it settles right between your legs, the tip of his cock barely touching your center.

“You want my cock, don’t you sweetheart” Steve pressed his lips to your neck, lathering you in slow, open mouthed kisses.

“So much” You say.

Steve reaches between the two of you, grasping his cock once more, sliding this tip up and down your pussy, tip catching on your clit with every brush.

You moan loudly, hands grasping Steve’s broad shoulders. Steve shuddered at the feeling of your essence coating his cock, slipping through your folds with ease.

Steve lips his cock down, until the tip was nudging at your entrance. He pushed, gently, slowly and watched as the tip, just the tips, slipped easily into your wet heat.

“Fucking finally” He breathed out, feeling like he was finally where he should be.

“Oh” You gasp, as Steve pushes his cock further into your pussy, the stretch mouthwatering.

You’re warm and wet, practically gushing around Steve’s throbbing cock, clenching around him.

“So wet sweetheart. So tight” Steve groans, head bent, watching every inch of his cock slip inside your weeping pussy.

You know Steve’s cock is big, you’ve known it for as long as you guys have been together, but it feels bigger now, longer somehow. You peer down, seeing about half of Steve’s cock buried inside you, and you already feel full to the brim.

“Shit, Steve”

Your nails grind down into Steve’s smooth skin, crescent indents in their wake, but it only urges Steve on, the sharp pain eliciting a loud groan, pressing his head against your sternum.

His hips buck suddenly, pressing his length further inside your wet heat.

You shudder.

Steve moves his hips, until your pussy is flush against his pelvis, cock buried deep inside, throbbing against your clenching walls.

“So fucking deep” You breath, biting your lip, head thrown back, eyes fluttering closed.

“Pretty pussy sucking me in so good sweetheart” Steve hums, lips pushing hot air against your skin, his sweaty forehead sticking to your chest. “Wanna be buried in you, fucking forever”

Steve pulls his hips back, before snapping forward in one sharp thrust.

The sound of skin on skin, wet slapping sounds, your breathy whimpers and Steve's sharp groans reach every inch of the room, echoing in your ears, bouncing around your brain.

Steve places both his hands on your hips, sitting up on his knees, keeping his cock buried deep in your pussy. He spreads his knees, situating himself, giving him the perfect view of his cock inside sliding in and out of your wet heat.

His hips pick up their pace, pistoning back and forth, cock slipping in and out of your pussy, your wet heat fluttering at the new pace, gut clenching, mind shattering.

“Yes, Steve!” Your back arches further, barely touching the bed at this point, head burning into the soft cushions.

“That’s it sweetheart” Steve mumbles, words low and raspy. “Take it, take all of it”

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

The wet sounds have you clenching around Steve, who groans, throaty and deep.

His fingers are digging into the fat of your hips, leaving little indents, marking your skin for days to come, little finger shaped bruises.

Your hands are clenching, one grasping the soft sheets, while the other clenched around your tit, tugging at your pert nipple, twisting and pulling, pleasure shooting through you from head to toe.

“Want you to come” Steve huffs, sweat pearly on his skin, slipping down his focused face. “Want you to come on my cock sweetheart, you gonna give it to me?”

“Uh-huh” You agreed, nodded your head quickly, words seemed foreign on your lolling tongue.

Steve’s hip snapped up, his hands gripping your hips, raising you up until your hips were hovering off the bed and resting on the edge of Steve’s knees, snapping back and forth.

You were dripping, his cock shiny with your essence.

Your fingers tightened around the sheet.

Your eyes flutter open, looking up at Steve, lids droopy, lips parted, sharp breaths of air.

Steve looks in his element.

Brows furrowed, skin shimmering with sweat, biting down on his lips so harshly, you might have been worried about him bleeding. But you couldn’t quite think past the feeling of Steve’s cock throbbing inside your pussy.

“Stevie”

Your guts coil, your thighs start to shake, brain turning to absolute mush.

Steve keeps his pace steady, watching as the pleasure eats at your body, taking over every thought, every movement, every shudder and shake.

“I’m--I, shit, Steve--”

You clench around Steve, together than before, wall fluttering, juices squelching.

“That’s it sweetheart” Steve groans.

You feel like a wave of white washes over your vision, ringing bells in your ears, you feel like your stomach is on fire, your toes tingle and twitch, your thighs shake, heels digging into the mattress.

This orgasam is unlike any other you’ve had.

Your voice is loud, moaning out Steve’s name as you come. You can feel your pussy gushing around Steve’s cock, slick, wet, sloppy.

Steve groans.

It’s the first thing you hear, as your mind tries its best to ground you.

“So fucking pretty” Steve nods, letting your hips fall back onto the bed, pressing his body over yours, forehead resting against your temple, lips brushing your heated cheek.

You bite your lips, body jittery, riding out the pleasure.

“Gonna come inside you” Steve mumbles, you can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears, but you nod your head, lips pouted, whimpering softly. “Right inside this pretty pussy, my pretty pussy huh sweetheart”

Steve’s hips are losing momentum, his sharp thrusts have lost their stamina, his rhythm is off, titering on the edge.

Your hands press into Steve’s hair, holding him to your body.

Steve’s hips slow, until they come to a shuddering stop, burying his length deep in your pussy, legs quivering as he comes. His eyes are screwed shut, nose nudging your cheek, breaths coming out staggered, shaky and hot.

“Fuck” Steve whispered, the word hot on your skin.

Steve’s body is heavy against yours, his skin pressing against yours, there isn’t a part of you that isn’t touching him, you can feel his heart beat against your chest.

“We finally did it” You murmur softly, still trying to catch your breath.

Steve chuckles, sounding just as breathless.

“Took us a minute” Steve mused softly, voice shaky. “But we got there, and it was fucking worth it”

You sigh happily.

“But let’s not wait so long next time”

Steve agrees, burning his face in your neck. You kiss the crown of his head.

It took a while for you and Steve to find each other, alone, but it was certainly worth the wait.

El has passed out with her head in Robin’s lap, the older girl gently stroking El’s hair not unlike one might pet a cat while she’s engaged in some lively debate with Dustin about…well, Steve’s not entirely sure; he hasn’t been paying much attention. Lucas snuck off with Max a little while ago after receiving a very stern glare from Steve that promised pain if the shit-head didn’t keep everything above board, leaving Will and Mike to sit together with their heads bowed as they discuss their current campaign.

And then there’s you.

Steve spent most of the early evening keeping the strictest of eyes on you and Robin; he may not have protected his frontal lobe while it was developing, but he knows better than to leave the two of you unsupervised for an extended period of time, even more so when there’s alcohol involved. 

But as the night drags on, you’ve gone soft and pliant in your seat beside him, leaning heavily into his side as you play with his hand that you’ve trapped within your grip. You’re so still, so calm, that the only reason he knows you’re still awake is by the way your fingers trace the creases of his one hand while he nurses a warm, nearly flat beer with his other. 

He’s about to ask you how you’re feeling, if you need anything, if you’re almost ready to leave, when you – his sweet, lovely girlfriend – ask him a question. 

“Steve?”

Your head never strays from his shoulder, as though lifting your head is an impossible feat, to peek up at him through your lashes only to find him already looking down at you. 

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering if you’d please be my boyfriend,” you continue, very polite in your request. 

A funny smile takes over Steve’s face as he tries not to laugh at you lest the night devolve into wounded tears. He’s been your boyfriend for almost two years now.

“You’d like me to be your boyfriend?” He clarifies, earning him a hum of agreement from you. 

He squints and purses his lips, pretending to consider it. “Well, I don’t know…what would I get out of it?”

And, God love you, you actually take a minute to consider that. What could Steve Harrington possibly get out of being the sweetest, prettiest, funniest, loveliest girl’s boyfriend? 

Beats me, he thinks sarcastically, happier than he’s ever been with you hanging off his arm.

You’ve turned your attention back to his hand, manipulating his fingers and wrist this way and that way though your grip never grows mean. In fact, you’re impossibly gentle with him, so tender that he feels it like a solid weight in his chest. Whatever response you manage to come up with, you mutter it at his hand.

“Hm? What’s that?” Steve encourages, nudging you with his elbow which sees you craning your neck to lay your head back against the couch; he thinks it might almost be time to get you home to bed.

“I d’know what you’d get,” you admit with a sigh, blinks heavy as though your lashes hold a new weight. “Just thought it’d be nice to do this more.”

“Do what?” Steve asks, thoroughly delighted. “Do this?”

You hum in agreement when he squeezes your hand. “It’s nice to cuddle, isn’t it?”

“The nicest,” he agrees. “Do I not cuddle you enough, sweetheart? Is that what all this is about?” 

Your answering hum is noncommittal at best, wary at worst. Steve hates the thought that he’s somehow left you wanting, though he already fields insults from Robin who calls him a velcro-boyfriend. He’s not sure how much cuddlier he can get, but he can try. 

“S’just that I think you’d be a very good boyfriend.”

Well, isn’t that just the best compliment a boyfriend could get. “Yeah? Thank you, baby. I’d love to be your boyfriend.”

Your grin is a sticky, gooey thing; drawn out and intentional as you peek up at him again. Between the speed (or lack thereof) of your blinks and your smile, Steve isn’t expecting the surge of movement that finds you clumsily clamoring into his lap.

He quickly abandons his room-temp beer, freeing his hand to provide you the leverage needed to maneuver yourself while the other settles over his lap, protecting his crotch from any errant elbows or knees. 

“Jesus, easy, easy; watch the goods,” he hisses as you settle heavily on top of him, eliciting a breathless oof from the both of you. “Better?”

“Th’best,” you hum in appreciation, nuzzling your cheek into his shoulder and reclaiming the same hand of his you’d been fiddling with before, tracing the creases in his palm.

Steve grins, looking up to find Robin smirking at him from across the room with a knowing look on her face. 

He shrugs his shoulders and gestures towards you, making a face as though saying can you believe this girl? 

Robin mouths something that looks an awful lot like velcro. Steve flips her off with the hand behind your back; you remain none the wiser to anything that isn’t Steve’s love line. 

The image presses against your chest, heavy and accusing, like some high school bully taunting you. It’s unfair, cruel how powerless you feel, how small, as if the world has condensed into the space between fear and regret, and there’s nothing you can do to reach him.

Tears well up in the corner of your eyes, hot and sticky and unrelenting. You try to swallow them back though your throat feels dry with an upset you don’t want to happen.

You don’t want Steve to return to a you who is a lot more upset than you were before he left. You’ve been faking a version of you that is stronger for a lot longer than you’d like to admit. But it’s okay, because Steve will return just like he said.

The tears get thicker and your breaths get ragged. You try to stay focused, listening for snapping of branches in the distance or the wind picking up when it shouldn’t be. Any sound of foot prints in the distance that Steve is right there.

You call his name until your voice cracks. Words marred with a mouth full of tears and hiccups that break through the end of your desperate pleas.

It wasn’t just Steve being gone that hurts you, it’s everything finally arriving at the same moment, uninvited and unavoidable. All the fear you’d swallowed and promises made in chaos have come crashing down at once. You’ve been holding yourself together with borrowed calm and adrenaline, telling yourself you could fall apart later, that there would be time. But waiting for Steve, seeming helpless, feels like the final thread pulling loose.

Your breakdown doesn’t explode. It collapses. You sink to the wet ground at the base of a tree and let the moss and mud cake your pants and boots. Forehead pressed to your knees, fingers digging into fabric like you could anchor yourself to reality by force.

Your chest hurts in a way that feels foreign, too big for your body, like grief has buried itself between your ribs. You whisper his name like a confession, like a prayer into the void. If he can hear you, you needed him to know how much he mattered. How much space he occupied in your life. How wrong it felt to exist without him in it.

You don’t even know if everything is actually okay. You could be jumping the gun. But Steve never lies, never gives you false hope or empty promises. If he says he’ll be back, that he won’t leave you, he means it. You have no reason to not trust him. Worry like this is making your head spin.

You don’t hear it at first. Not really. A shift in the air, a sudden pull, like gravity reasserting itself. Voices rise in the distance, and your head snaps up, heart slamming so hard it steals your breath. You’re on your feet before you realise you’re moving. The forest blurs as you run, fear and longing tangling so tightly you can’t tell them apart.

Steve stumbles out of the gate like he’s been kicked from a nightmare, coughing, bat slipping from his grip, hair worse than usual and face smeared with dirt and red ash. He’s breathing hard, alive in the loudest way possible, and the sound of it shatters something inside you completely.

Steve falls to the mud and then you follow him. He catches you in a hug, your arms are so tight around him he grunts — pulls a sharp breath between his teeth, followed by a baby.

“Where were you!” You punctuate every word with a slap to his chest. You’re not as hard as you’d like to be. You can’t bring yourself to hurt him as much as you want to. You were scared.

“Hey!” he huffs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He hugs you tight. You cry like you’ve been holding your breath for days, like the fear had fermented inside you and finally found a way out. Your words come out broken and useless, apologies and accusations and his name tangled together in a sob.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, into your hair, over and over. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It took longer than I thought. I should’ve— I know. I know.”

He pulls back and looks at you like a scared puppy. Like looking at you was worse than whatever he just faced in the Upside Down. He looks like he might cry, something you’re not used to. He squeezes your arms and your leather jacket squeaks under his hold. It’s grounding. His hands on your arms, the smell of his cologne, clouded with his sweat. The feeling of his waist under your hands.

“I thought you’d…” You can’t say it. Speaking it into the universe feels too much. The thoughts you’d had between and now were enough. Saying it out loud is too much for you.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He can’t stop hugging you. You don’t want him to. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He’d seen the hurt flash in your eyes as he’d driven past you on Main Street, your lips painted a pretty shade of rose and your new skirt on, looking entirely stood up as you walked away from the new Italian that had just opened up across from the coffee place. He’d slammed on the brakes, heart in his mouth and Jonathan had almost ended up through the windscreen.

He hadn’t cared, not really. Not about Byers. Not when you were shaking your head at him with your arms folded across your chest, the cold eating at your exposed skin and he wanted to kiss it better, he wanted to get down on his knees and drag himself across the road to beg at your feet. Instead, he got caught fumbling with his seatbelt for a moment too long and you were walking away, down into the side street past the old arcade and Jonathan was yelling at him about the signal, how they were losing Hopper.

He panicked, he lost sight of you and well— he drove off with Jonathan yelling about decibels and interference.

But you’d actually answered his call and listened to his pleas and apologies and heartache for a few minutes before you sighed, heavy sounding and tired, the shuffle of your pillow and duvet making Steve wish he’d driven straight to yours instead.

And then you’d told him, “that’s the third time this month, Steve. What am I supposed to think?”

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. Nancy’s crawl plans didn’t factor in perfect excuses to give your girlfriend when cancelling another date night. They had weapons and maps and tunnels under the town but god forbid anyone had any advice to give him on maintaining a healthy relationship.

“Keep her out of this.” Hopper had once growled at him. “For our sake and hers. And especially yours. We don’t have time for another dead body, we don’t have time to fix the people that are grieving. Not anymore.”

No one has said any different, not really. Robin was attempting the same thing, after all. And Lucas? Well Lucas had told him his girlfriend seemed really nice and then he went to spend his weekend at Max’s bedside.

So when Steve finally found his voice, strangled and strained sounding, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to tell himself that lying to you was his very best option. Your very best option.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. I- I forgot I picked up an extra shift. I didn’t mean to-”

“To what?” You’d burst out. You were snapping. He could hear the tears that were stuck in your throat and the sound of it hurt him so much more than any interdimensional creature ever had. “To let me see you driving around town with Jonathan Byers? For what? A burger run? For the hell of it? Whatever, Steve.”

That had been fourteen hours ago. And now he was stuck working into the early hours of the morning so Robin could take Vickie to Enzo’s and Steve wanted to punch a hole in something. He sighed for the upteenth time that hour and pushed himself away from the desk, his chair wheels squeaking as they struggled across the old carpet that lay in the sound booth like a rug. The lights were low and almost too warm, the small room bathed in a yellow-orange glow and the whole place smelled like old cigarettes and mothballs, like its old host.

Solomon Burke was fading away now and Steve didn’t bother with any conversation before he loaded up another song, one just as heartfelt and soppy as the last. He’d been playing love ballads for most of the evening, interjecting between each one in the hopes that you were listening. You usually would have been here with him by now, perched on the table edge or even his lap, sharing the quiet space together in a rare opportunity to be alone. You’d bring him dinner, sometimes from the diner out past the trailer park, sometimes cooked in your very own kitchen. He liked those nights the best, he kissed you extra soft when you walked into the station with a bag full of Tupperware, your smile proud as you handed him pastas and soups and homemade cookies.

The place didn’t seem as warm without you in it. He groaned into his hands, his fingers catching on the wire that led to his headphones and pushed at it, annoyed, frustrated. He’d really fucked up. And smooth jazz couldn’t fix it.

Just as he wondered what the longest song was in the station’s catalogue, he heard the door slam.

There you were.

Soft in a pair of leggings, in an old rugby style shirt that once belonged to him. You had a bag in your hand and a scowl on your face, as if someone other than yourself had forced you into coming. Solomon Burke, perhaps, Steve thought.

With his heartbeat thundering in his ears, Steve fumbled with the tape deck. He had a new pulse now and it was electric, it made his hands jittery and his eyes wide. He pushed in a Beatles mash-up that Robin had created on a rainy Sunday and unplugged his mic, only just remembering to shove his headphones off just before they were ripped off his ears as he lunged to the door.

He got to you in a few steps, approaching with his hands out and palms facing up, as one did when facing off with an angry animal. “Hey, hey baby.” Steve’s voice was saccharine and soft, that gentle scratchy way you loved. He could smell food from the bag you carried something spicy and garlicky, something that smelled like fudge brownies underneath. His stomach growled and your brow lifted. “You still brought me dinner?”

You sniffed, side stepping him and moving into the booth. “Maybe,” was all you said. “But if you’re only interested in food, I’ll leave this here and go—”

“No! Nonono, baby, c’mon.” Steve was at you in an instant, hands catching at your elbows and he tried his luck, tried to bring you into his chest but you stood firm. “Can we talk? Can I, can I talk? Please?”

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t leave either. So Steve took that as a sign and breathed out a loaded sigh of relief. He closed the booth door back over and offered you his chair, and when you sat, he knelt on the floor in front of you, his warm hands covering the tops of your knees.

“Baby,” he started, his eyes wide and his brow creased. Fuck, he hated this. He hated the way you didn’t want to meet his eyes, he hated the way your brow was pinched, the way your bottom lip wobbled even though you were trying to act tough. “Baby, please, you gotta believe me, I—”

Shit.

You scoffed, coming to life in a flurry of anger and fury. Eyes narrowed, you finally set your gaze on him. “Believe you? Believe you?” You laughed, humourless and still edging on tears. “Don’t make me laugh, Steve Harrington, I know you better than I know anyone. Or at least I thought I did. You’ve been lying to me for months. Extra shifts? Family dinners? Robin in the hospital?”

Steve swallowed the brick that was stuck in his throat, wincing as it scratched and scraped on the way down. He felt sick.

“Come off it, Steve. Vickie works in the wards. Robin was never sick in the hospital, you weren’t working late last night. Why was Jonathan in the van with you? Was Nancy there too? Huh? What’s even going on? Would you just rather hang out with your ex and her boyfriend than have dinner with me? Is that it?”

“No! No, god,” Steve whispered your name and pushed the heels of his plans to his eyes, pressing until it hurt, pressing until he could think of something to say to fix this. What the fuck was he supposed to say? “Babe, baby, please, please you gotta believe me, okay? I swear, I— I was—”

You stared at him, eyes shining in the low light, glassy and full of the hurt Steve had put there. He wanted to put his own head through a wall. He felt like the worst kind of person there was. He felt like he was six years younger and didn’t know how to treat another person properly yet.

“You were what, Steve?” You challenged him, chin held high despite the one tear that had escaped and was tracking its way down your cheek.

Helping to save Hawkins. Maybe the world. Helping get rid of an evil monster that came from a place underneath our feet that no one else really knew existed. Helping a girl with superpowers find out where the bad guy lived.

Helping to keep you safe.

Helping out just enough to keep you away from all the bad shit he’d witnessed the year before. And the year before that. And the year before that.

Helping keep you alive, he hoped.

Instead Steve clenched his jaw and moved closer. His big hands pushed gently at your knees, hopeful and experimental and shit, he held his breath until your legs gave way, spreading just enough for him to move into the cradle of your hips. He was eye level with you as he knelt uncomfortably on the floor, desperate amongst the discarded tapes that no one had ever rewound properly.

Steve took your hands in his, brought them to his lips as he kissed over each knuckle and he hated the way you avoided his gaze once again. You were crying freely now, tears rolling down your too hot cheeks, anger and frustration and hurt creeping into every one of your pretty features. Steve hated it. Hated himself.

“Baby,” Steve tried, his mouth grazing over the back of your hand, your skin warm and smelling like cinnamon. Probably from the dessert you’d baked him. “Honey, please, look at me?”

Eventually you did, with a sniff and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You didn’t say anything, you just stared down at the boy before you on his knees, his hair fluffy and in a mess from the too big headphones he’d worn all evening. He looked stressed, his brow creased and his brown eyes too wide, worry flooding from him.

You’d never heard him so serious when he spoke next, his lips at your hands, mouthing over your skin as he said, “do you trust me?”

You thought over each word, what it meant, what he was asking. You heard the conviction in his voice, the hope, the desperation. He held onto your hands like a lifeline, thumbs stroking over your fingers, both of your hands clasped between his own like a prayer.

You’d spent the day wondering if your boyfriend was growing tired of you, if Steve was seeing someone else, if he was avoiding you. Each thought had made your stomach knot, a ball of anxiety settling somewhere deep inside of you until it grew too big to be ignored. It turned over and over, made your stomach roll and your chest hurt, an awful type of heat crawling from your chest to your neck to your cheeks until each new scenario made tears prick at your eyes.

You’d turned on the radio as you made dinner, the default setting immediately allowing Steve’s voice to fill your tiny kitchen. He sounded morose, far away. Not at all how a radio host was supposed to be. And as you added garlic and tomatoes and basil to the pot on your stove, Steve played love song after love song. He lamented about partners, about that special someone, about how saying sorry was the easiest thing to do when you loved someone. He did everything but say your name, keeping it as professional as he could despite what seemed to be a lovesick trauma dump.

And despite all the awful thoughts that had haunted you, you packed up some dinner and got into your car before you’d even had the plate you’d dished up for yourself.

Because despite everything, despite your heartache and disappointment and just sheer confusion at Steve’s actions of late, you didn’t think he found someone else. Not really. Not at all.

Not when he looked at you like he did. Not when he kissed you the way he did. Not when he knew how that pain felt.

So you tried not to let your lip wobble anymore than it already was and you nodded.

Steve’s sigh of relief made his entire body sag. His shoulders fell forward, forehead touching your own, noses brushing and he felt how damp yours was, tears tracking over the bridge of it but Jesus Christ, you weren’t pushing him away.

You trusted him.

That made the next part a little easier. Maybe.

Steve smiled as he met your gaze once more, eyes softer than ever, a little dopey with love and relief. “Yeah?” He kissed your hand, his lips warm against your palm and he let his touch skim up your arms, catching at your shoulders before he cradled your jaw between his fingers and thumb.

He pushed away a tear that had made its way down to your chin, frowning at the sight of it. “I’m sorry, baby. I really am. But please, please believe me when I say I can’t tell you what I’ve been doing.”

The words sent another ache of anxiety through you, your face crumpling at the prospect of battling again before what the fuck did he mean?

“Steve, what do you expect me to even say to that?”

“I know, I know,” Steve urged, his voice quiet and still soft and fuck, he hoped Robin had made that tape extra long. “But listen, yeah? If you trust me, then please, baby. Please understand that I’m trying my best. I’m— I’m trying to help a friend, okay?”

Steve swallowed, the sensation of it feeling like glass in his throat because he wasn’t lying, not really. Not like the other times he had to abandon you for crawls and meetings at Hop’s cabin. Not like his shitty excuses of hospital trips and late shifts at work.

No, this time he’d lay it out as best as he could. Within reason. In whatever way kept you safe.

But shit, it still sucked.

“I’m helping a friend do something pretty important. And it’s… it’s not really safe.” Steve grimaced as he saw your eyes widen, scrambling to ease the panic he saw rise in your features and clasped your face in both of his hands, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones in a way he hoped to god was soothing.

“It’s okay though, I promise. It’s not illegal or anything like that.” He wasn’t even sure if that was a lie. Steve didn’t have a fucking clue what kind of laws the military had put down in Hawkins, he just took everything they said as a rough suggestion, as did the rest of the party. A suggestion they all chose to ignore.

“Are you in trouble? Steve, do you need money? ‘Cause I can work extra shifts, I can try and help—”

Steve swore he felt his heart grow too big for his damn chest, your words making his entire being hurt. You were too sweet, you were too fucking good for him, or at least that’s what Dustin liked to remind him. He didn’t often disagree.

He leant forward, kissing at the apple of your cheek and when you didn’t pull away, he snuck another one to your lips, quick and fleeting and soft. “No, baby, no, nothing like that, I swear. It’s just, it’s just a little complicated.” Steve was almost certain The Beatles were running out of songs by now. “I know it’s really shitty of me to try and ask this of you. Like trust me, I get it. But you gotta know I would tell you if I could, alright? I swear. I promise, honey.”

Steve needed you to believe him more than anything. He wasn’t quite sure he’d do very well if you walked out on him. In fact, he was pretty sure he was bound to die off if he didn’t get to kiss you properly soon. Despite your tears and smudge mascara, Steve was positive you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He could wait to tell you that, but he knew well enough to wait until you were a little less mad at him. And perhaps after you stopped thinking he was running Hawkins newest drug cartel.

After what seemed like far too long, you brought your hands to his wrists and curled your fingers there. Thumb stroking over his skin, you nodded at the boy, a quiet acceptance. “Okay,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

And you did. Whatever Steve was telling you, or not telling you, you knew it was for good reason.

Steve let out another too big sigh, his lashes fluttering as he blinked at you before pulling you into him by the nape of your neck. His lips landed clumsily on your own for a kiss, closed lips but desperate, peck after peck landing on your mouth, your cheeks, your nose.

“Thank you,” he murmured into you, his nose brushing your hairline as he pressed his affection and his words to your forehead. “Shit, thank you, baby. And I’m sorry, okay? I’m so fucking sorry, I swear I’ll make it up to you ten times over, I’ll- I’ll take you Enzo’s, to the city, whatever you want.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh at his declarations, the knot of anxiety unraveling itself from inside you. It was a gradual dissolution, a slow ease back into feeling normal and it didn’t happen quickly. Sore chests and hurt feelings still lingered, as did the hidden truth of Steve’s new hobby.

You smiled at him, tight lipped and with a crinkled brow. “You’re safe, aren’t you? You’re okay?”

Steve didn’t know how to answer that without lying to your face. Because no, what he did wasn’t safe.

There was more than a baseball bat under his bed now. There was a small arsenal stashed in his bedroom cupboard, under the seats of his car and scattered around his home. He knew how to load a shotgun now, how to navigate the town he grew up in via underground tunnels and he knew what the things were that went bump in the night. He had panic attacks when the town lost power, his breathing went funny at the flicker of a light and he wasn’t allowed to tell the girl he loved that she was living in a real life horror movie.

So instead he smiled, as real as he could and Steve brushed your hair from your eyes. “Yeah, baby.” He ached to take you home, to pull you into his bed and into his arms. To sleep this shitty day away and wake up in a new one with you against his chest. “I’m okay as long as you are.”

The smile, like always, was followed by quiet humming and a little skip in your step as you’d hurried to pack what few possessions actually mattered to you.

The reason for this temporary insanity was simple: whatever despair and destruction the Capitol had thrown at you, they’d also given you something to make up for it, even if it was purely unintentional. The apology came in the form of Finnick, another victor who’d shown you the ropes after you’d been crowned the year after him.

Being from different districts, the only time you were able to see him was when you’d both been called to the Capitol.

Gazing out the window as the station came into view, you sighed and imagined what you’d do upon arriving.

You take in the bright pinks and yellows of the stone streets, the rainbows that glittered against stained glass windows as the sun shone through them. The looming presence of snow-capped mountains provided a dramatic background and suit of armor around the Capitol, a stark contrast from the bright, bubbly city. 

For such an evil, awful place, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Your body had the same reaction it did the first time the train had screeched to a halt: completely frozen in time, so still a breath could not be squeezed from your lungs.

You hated the feelings that overcame you, of such paralyzing fear it made you weak. Hated how your fingers became so shaky it took you several attempts to button up your coat. Hated how your legs were so unsure of themselves you feared you’d collapse if you stood up too suddenly.

All of a sudden you were sixteen again, a terrified  tribute arriving in the Capitol like a lamb for slaughter.

You hated coming back here every six months at the very least — once for the Games, once for the tour, and however many times you were summoned by Capitol citizens. 

The Games were obviously hard–and so was the business you did in the Capitol–but the Victory Tours were a special form of torture. You hated looking at the winner, because they always seemed so lost and terrified, trembling like a lone leaf on a branch as the wind whistled through.

This past year had been a little different — there'd been two Victors this time, and their win sparked something in the districts that you’d never seen in your life. You didn’t hold any hope there would be long lasting change, but you were glad to see this year’s Victors weren’t alone. You wished you could’ve had that.

A gust of wind sweeps through the door as a Capitol attendant opens it, bringing you back to reality, and you force a small smile as the sunlight hits your face.

Waves of bronze hair catches your eye, and it takes everything in you not to jump from the platform and run to greet him.

He’s as beautiful as ever; the sun turning his hair a nice gold. His skin is a little paler and his hair is a little darker, given the winter months, but it’s only noticeable to you because you’ve spent hours running your fingers through it; spent days admiring the way water sluiced off his skin and glistened while he swam. 

You notice him immediately–not just because you’ve been subconsciously searching, but because he’s never greeted you at the station before. It’s then you notice dark circles under his eyes, the way they’re glassy with fatigue, and the rigidness of his posture. Your eyes narrow slightly and you open your mouth to greet him, when his arms open wide in invitation to his embrace. It’s then you know something’s really, really wrong.

Because as much as you care for Finnick, and as much as you know he cares for you, he’s never been so openly affectionate with so many people watching.

It’s part of the agreement you have; around others you’re polite, friendly even, and everything else you actually yearn for is tucked away behind closed doors.

So, when you wrap your arms around his neck, you’re hoping it's brief, because you don’t want to get used to being so close to him in public. And when you begin to pull away, you’re startled to find him gripping you close to his body, lips brushing your ear so he can whisper something without anyone else knowing or overhearing.

“I need you to meet me in my room in half an hour. It’s important. Don’t be late,” he says quietly, urgently, before suddenly releasing you. It doesn’t sound like one of your late night rendezvous, unless he’s wound really tight and that desperate for release — no, this seems far bigger than that.

When he finally leans back, you grasp his forearms and study him, searching for answers in his eyes and only being met with apprehension. 

Forcing a small smile, all you can say is, “It’s good to see you too, Finnick.”

He squeezes your hand in his own for a brief moment before disappearing, leaving you alone with two Capitol attendants who are supposed to just be carrying your bags to your quarters — but you know they’re guards in disguise, making sure you have nowhere to go.

It’s exactly twenty eight minutes later when you appear in front of Finnick’s door, a hand raised to knock when it flies open. 

He’s a little more relaxed, though you can see the tension in the ticking of his jaw and the tight grip he has on the door. Still, the corners of his mouth lift upward in a smile as his eyes land on you. “I was worried you’d be late. Y’know, you’ve never been a very punctual person.”

“I’ve never seen you so high strung before.” You shrug, “Thought I might hurry my ass up for once, in case you had a heart attack.”

He laughs, a lovely melody that makes your insides melt a little whenever you hear it, but you can tell his mind is occupied. “We should get going.”

“Yeah, about that… where exactly are we going?” You ask, though you know deep down you’d follow him anywhere. 

“You’re asking so many questions. You don’t trust me?” He asks teasingly, flashing you a smile, and you’re overwhelmed for a moment because Finnick was like the sun — golden and glowing, blindingly radiant from the smile on his lips down to the tips of his toes.

You do trust him — and as he leads you to an awaiting black car, you reassure yourself that he’s not leading you to your imminent death.

Well, maybe you were wrong. Because the words coming out of Finnick’s mouth–backed by Plutarch Heavensbee of all people–are nothing short of treasonous. And in Panem, treason is inevitably followed by death, or a fate so much worse death seems merciful.

“You’re sure she’s not going to say something?” Plutarch asks, and you think it’s because you haven't said a word since they told you about it all. About District 13, the stirrings of rebellion in the Districts, the plan to escalate into a full scale rebellion with the newest victors from 12 — Katniss and Peeta — being the face of said rebellion.

“No, we can trust her. I promise,” Finnick nudges you with his shoulder, as if urging you to confirm what he’s said.

You look around to the others in the room at the Heavensbee mansion: Beetee Latier from Three, Johanna Mason from Seven, and Haymitch Abernathy from Twelve. They don’t look nearly as surprised as you do, so you suspect you’re one of the last people to be told this news. 

“Yeah— I just… you really think it’ll work?” You cringe as your voice comes out in a dry croak.

“We won’t know unless we try,” Plutarch says, and you wonder why he’s in on whatever this is. He’s just been promoted to Head Gamemaker, and he lives in this mansion that spans the entire street and is packed to the brim with books and priceless art. Surely there’s nothing wrong with his life that would make him want to rebel. “You and Six are the only ones we haven’t talked to… and we need as much unity between the Districts as we can get.”

“Okay,” You say after a moment, willing your voice not to shake. It's less fear and more excitement at the prospect of something better in your future. 

You can hear Finnick’s audible sigh of relief, hear the soft scratch of his chair against the floor as he pushes it back, and feel the softness of his lips against your temple as he kisses you.

You wish he wouldn’t do that. Not because you’re embarrassed that anyone would see it, but because it just serves as a reminder that he’s just out of your reach. Every touch or kiss was on stolen time, and one day, the feeling you got around him would catch up to you in the most devastating way possible.

So, instinctively, you duck down in an attempt to escape him, and try not to notice the slight frown that overtakes his features.

“I’ve kept you all long enough,” Plutarch says in  dismissal, checking his watch. “The victory party is tonight, and I would hate for any of you to miss seeing the little lovebirds.”

“C’mon.” Finnick grabs your hand and tugs you to your feet. “We’ve got to get all prettied up.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff. “I’m perfect just the way I am. You on the other hand…” you look him up and down. “Well, we’d better hurry up.”

He gasps and clutches his chest like he’s been struck. You know he knows it's a joke, because there truly is nothing prettier on this earth than Finnick Odair.

The brief joy you feel when you see Finnick can only last so long.

While they’re not particularly awful, just annoying, looking into the faces of your prep team makes you nauseous. All it does is throw you back to nearly a decade ago when you were a tribute. 

And, sometimes, being constantly reminded of the horrors you endured made you wish you died in that arena. Not all the time, but sometimes.

“Arms up!” Shrills Iris, who resembles a lemon the way she’s dressed head to toe in bright yellow. You obey the command on instinct. Something cool, almost metallic, slides over your body. The dress is made of a thousand tiny silver-white jewels, each rope swishing and clicking against one another when you move. Matching jewelry weighs down your ears and neck, twinkling and making you appear to be a jewel yourself.

“All done!” The woman beams, clapping her hands together and practically shoving you out the door and towards the direction of the car waiting to drive to the President’s mansion.

You’re sure making victors attend every celebration in the Capitol brings Snow a special kind of pleasure. It’s probably the only kind of joy he ever feels in his life, looking at the miserable faces of past tributes and knowing that because of him, their bodies have either been sold to the highest bidder or withered away due to addiction — or sometimes, in the worst cases, both.

You are grateful for the chance to see the newest Victors, though. You want to be in their presence and somehow have them light a spark of hope in you.

“You were right,” a voice behind you says. You turn to see Finnick. 

“What?”

“Earlier,” he continues, his eyes briefly flitting to your dress before returning to your eyes. “You are perfect just the way you are.”

“I—” Stupidly, you can feel a hotness in your cheeks, and know he’s managed to make you blush. He always does that, finds a way to make you stumble over your own words. “Thanks. I think I was right, too.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.

“You do look so much better all dolled up,” you tease, using this as an excuse to take him all in. He, of course, looks breathtaking, which is a bit annoying because you’ve never seen him be anything less. He’s wearing a seafoam colored shirt that brings out the green in his eyes. It’s nearly see through, mostly where his muscle strains against the fabric. It gives everyone a glimpse of his body you feel honored to have seen up close, but it also makes you feel sad at how obviously he’s being objectified. His trousers are a light linen, and you frown again at how… Well, conservatively he’s dressed, despite the sheerness of the shirt.

“I haven’t seen you this covered up in years, shouldn’t you be practically naked?” You blurt out, and you’re rewarded with another laugh that makes your heart sing.

“If you want to see me naked, sweetheart, all you have to do is ask,” he grins, the tips of his teeth peeking through his lips.

“I meant,” you clear your throat and will the blush in your cheeks to subside, “Normally you’re a lot more… distracting.” Well that doesn’t sound any better now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Distracting, hmm? I’m free in…” He pretends to check the imaginary watch on his wrist. “Just a couple hours, if you are. Your place or mine?”

“Finnick,” you grit your teeth. You know he knows what you mean, and yet he still teases.

“Ye-es,” he replies in an almost sing-song voice before his expression becomes a little more serious. “I’m not supposed to take away from the lovely couple tonight. Apparently I can be a little distracting. Did you know that?” His eyes twinkle with more laughter you’re dying to hear.

“You? Distracting? Never,” you reassure him, patting his chest as you move past, trying not to notice how his eyes linger on you.

You disappear into the crowd, not only in search of a drink, but some different company. You, Finnick, and alcohol were a deadly mix you swore you’d never combine again. Luckily, there's no shortage of people holding trays of drinks, from bubbling champagne to deep red wines, and you quickly pluck a glass of rosé. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed, all you know is that you’ve just finished your third glass and are reaching for a fourth when your stomach starts rumbling. You realize then you haven't eaten since you’d been on the train. It’s not that there wasn’t any food at this party, there was, in fact, an excess, but it was so rich you were worried it would only further upset your already queasy stomach.

The voice that finally made you understand the phrase butterflies in your stomach calls your name, and you can't help but smile as you turn around and see Finnick holding a plate of shrimp drenched in a red sauce, setting it down on the bar in front of you. Your favorite. 

“Thank you!” You can’t contain yourself as you throw your arms around his neck, nearly brought to tears as you think of how delicious the shrimp would be. “I am sooo hungry.”

Finnick doesn’t even budge at the force of you throwing your weight towards him;he probably knew you were going to do that, just as he knew you hadn’t eaten. He knew you eerily well, Observing you must take up a lot of his time. “I figured you could use a break between all that wine.”

You smell the alcohol on his breath and know he's been doing his fair share of drinking, but that’s not the only indicator — the touching becomes almost second nature when he’s got enough alcohol in him. 

Although you’ve pulled away from him, his fingers curl around your waist to keep you in front of him, his thumb drawing circles on the small of your back. You can feel his chest pressed against your back, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as you lean into him. He’s a sturdy and comforting presence behind you. You tell yourself as you lean back that it’s to steady your feet, but you know deep down you long to feel his skin against yours, and you’re too drunk to think about the consequences of people seeing you.

“How much longer do we have to stay here?” he whispers, and you suppress a shudder at the tingles that erupt up and down your whole body, starting where his lips touched your ear.

“We haven't even seen Katniss or Peeta yet.” You hate how breathless your voice has become as his hand trails down to rest on your hip.

“I was being serious earlier, you know,” he says, and you're so close to him you can hear his heart race. Why would he be nervous to ask you to come over? It was casual, you were friends. Friends who helped each other out sometimes, but friends above everything. Being anything more terrified you.

“Really?” You pretend not to notice the pounding of his heart or the sharp intake of his breath. “Mine or yours?” It's funny to pretend either of you really have a place here — the training center’s living quarters hardly count as home.

“Mmm, we can decide later,” he says, suddenly pulling away. Cold air nips where his body once stood, and you’re thinking he’s finally come to his senses about being so handsy in public, but then he’s dragging you to the tile platform where people are dancing, and he’s sweeping you into his arms. 

The shrimp is long forgotten, as is the grumbling of your stomach. It’s too busy forming knots as you sway.

“You didn't even ask if I wanted to dance,” you smile, one hand instinctively going to Finnick’s shoulder while the other grasps one of his. His free hand rests on your lower back.

“Do you want to dance?” He drinks in the sight of you, savoring how close you’ve become.

“Yes,” your voice is barely above a whisper. The music is slow and soulful, and all you can do is stare at one another.

“Good,” he says, but you’re not sure how good this really is.

There was a reason you’d created rules for this whole… arrangement in the first place. You drew a hard line in the sand that Finnick kept trying to cross.

When Snow first told you what happened to desirable victors, you hadn’t believed him. And then, two days later, your boyfriend wound up dead. A freak accident at the power plant, they’d said, but you knew. Deep down you knew the timing was too close to be a coincidence, that Snow really did mean what he’d said about everyone you loved dying if you didn't comply.

You were terrified of the same thing happening to Finnick, so much so it was the only recurring nightmare that occupied your brain.

He’d been the one to suggest it be nothing more than just sex, though, probably for the same reasons that had held you back from asking for anything more. And, yeah, that should’ve been what you wanted, but you could admit to yourself that you were a hypocrite. For wanting all the good parts of him, but not the danger that came with it. For wanting him to be able to look past his own fears and want more from you, but not being willing to do the same. 

“When should we leave?” Your palms have grown sweaty at the unspoken desires racing through your brain, so you use it as an excuse to disentangle your arms from his body and rearrange them to clasp around the back of his neck.

To steady yourself, of course.

Now, both of his hands are on your hips and he draws you even closer so that you’re chest to chest, so close your breaths become one.

“Not yet.” His voice is soft, even pleading. “One more song.”

Upon closer inspection you find he’s tipsy, but not drunk. He’s a little looser but still of a sound mind, which is why it’s even more terrifying to look at him, because you can't think of a time where the two of you have acted like this fully sober. Neither of you are under the influence of drugs, or alcohol, or even overwhelming emotion that would make you do crazy things. Except the morning after the first time.

The sexual attraction had always been there, but the first time either of you acted on it had been after a particularly wild night that left the both of you to fill in the blanks as you woke up next to him, naked in your bed.

“I’m so sorry — so so sorry! Things got so out of control last night, it was a mistake,” you’d said hastily before he could say the same. You’d rather not be rejected when your head was pounding and you’d felt so sick. You’d clutched the sheets tight to your chest, suddenly self conscious by how bare you were.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he'd said it so casually you thought you'd misheard him at first. You probably looked as confused as you were, because he continued, “ It doesn’t have to be a mistake. I like you, I like… this,” he gestured to the two of you, and when you said nothing, he added hurriedly, “It doesn’t have to be anything. Actually, forget I even said—”

You'd cut him off with a kiss, and had fallen back against the silk sheets with the intention to burn every inch of him to memory, since you couldn’t remember the previous night and cursed yourself for it.

“Hello-ooo,” Finnick’s voice tore you back to reality. “Did you even hear what I said? The song’s over, we can leave now.”

You don’t really want to leave, but you suppose it’s for the best, so you nod and let him lead you to one of the many black cars that sit outside the President’s mansion. One designated for the tributes and victors that only drove to and from the training center. 

Finnick wishes he could read your mind, especially when you get that glazed over look in your eye, the one that signals you were in a land far away from here.

All night, he’d wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked. 

Glittery, silver eyeshadow made it look like your eyes were really sparkling when you looked at him. In a dress that was tailored to fit you just right, hugging you in all the right places and flowing down to your ankles, yet somehow leaving a tantalizing amount of bare skin exposed.

Your smile completed everything, though. The way it met your eyes when you saw him across the room… he’d do just about anything to make sure you’d smile at him like that again.

When he’d led you to the dance floor in the gardens, it’d been for his own selfish reasons. Not just that he wanted an excuse to hold you close to him, but because he knew you’d look exquisite against the night sky littered with stars. The moon bathed you in a softness that made you glitter and glow, every beam that struck your figure only further highlighting your beauty until he was certain you were from another world entirely.

He’d especially wanted to tell you how you looked then. But like the rest of the night, whenever he opened his mouth, his mouth went dry and his tongue became stuck in the back of his throat, forcing him into silence.

You might think he was the sun, but he thought you were the moon.

He looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky every night just for him.

If only you were willing to see it, instead of whatever twisted reality you’d decided was the truth.

He feels like he’s in somewhat of a daze as he leads you to the car, feels out of his body when the two of you push past his door in a tangled mess of hands and teeth and tongue. 

It’s rough and fast and everything he’s not feeling as your lips attach to different spots on his neck and suck hard enough to leave marks. When he’s sure there’s not a spot left untouched by you, he begins to return every bruising kiss you’ve left with some of his own with enough force to match. His lips detach from yours and dip down to your neck, your chest, until he’s biting at your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth with a hunger he hasn’t felt in so long.

He wants to feel you, taste you, hear you — he wants his whole being to be consumed by you. He removes his mouth to continue his kisses down your body, relishing in the soft moans he manages to elicit from you and committing every sound to memory, like he’s never going to get this opportunity again. He kisses between your breasts, down your stomach, and purposely skips past where he’s sure you want him most before settling his lips on your inner thighs, his kisses turning almost lazy.

He wants to continue this slow pace, like you have all the time in the world, but that’s just not how the two of you do things 

It’s not a show, or even a display of real passion — no, it’s just two pathetic people making the best out of a lousy situation, acting like physical pleasure will somehow cure the constant ache of your hearts.

He fears the sweetness he seeks from you is souring at that realization.

It’s not that he doesn’t want this. Oh no, he’s been thinking about this since the moment he saw you in that dress and measured how difficult it would be to take it off. Actually, if he was being completely honest with himself, he’d been thinking about this the moment he saw you step off the train platform.

It’s that he wants all of this and more, but he’s not sure how to go about it. It’s not like they’re being totally subtle, but if Snow found out… he’d likely use it against both of you. You’d be just another thing for Snow to hold over his head, another person for him to worry about, and Snow would probably do the same to you.

So maybe, if Finnick continued pretending this was nothing more than casual sex and you were nothing more than a good friend, Snow would be convinced too. 

“Finnick,” you’re breathless beneath him. “What’s wrong? You sort of spaced out for a sec… we can stop if you want.”

No, he doesn’t want to stop, but it’s probably the first time he’s ever been asked that. 

He shakes his head, both to answer you and to clear his head, and leans over to kiss you again. 

He’s glad you don’t press it further, not as his tongue finally laps at your clit and elicits a loud gasp from you that gives him the self satisfaction to continue.

Your fingers card through his hair and pull instinctively when he adds his fingers. Now it’s his turn to moan, and the vibrations make you shudder.

All this does is spur him on, wanting to hear the little moans and whimpers from you that he’s grown so familiar with. They only make him harder to the point where it’s almost painful, but it does nothing to slow him as he continues flicking and swirling his tongue. In fact it has the opposite effect, he only becomes more earnest and determined in his efforts.

When he adds a finger he feels a sharp tug at his roots and knows he’s doing the right things.

Since that very first night, Finnick Odair had thought you were too good to be true and too easy to slip through his fingers. So he made it his mission to commit you to memory, treating every encounter like it would be the last one. As a result, he knows every sensitive spot you have, every noise you make and what they mean.

When he gently sucks on your clit and lets his teeth graze it, he knows it’s only a matter of minutes before you become undone. Your hips buck towards him, begging for more, and he obliges with sliding in another finger.

He detaches his mouth for a second so he can soak up the memory of you like this. Your head is thrown back against the pillow and your hair strewn in every direction. A faint sheen of sweat has appeared on your face as you pant, eyes are screwed shut with pleasure.

You’re so beautiful he cursed himself for stopping, even for a moment. At that moment, he doesn’t care about his own pleasure, all he can think about when he closes his eyes and returns his mouth is the image of you.

You’re together when the theme of the Quarter Quell is announced.

The day starts out normal enough. You both have your… clients to attend to, but when Finnick walks through the doors of the apartment you’d been given to share with several other Victors who were bought by the Capitol, you can push the awfulness of the day aside to soak up as much of him as you can before one of you is sent back to your district.

When he suggests a shower, the horrors of the past few hours are washed down the drain when the hot water pours over you. It’s so hot that Finnick begins to complain that he’s starting to feel — and look — like a lobster being boiled alive.

“But now I’m cold,” you whine with your back to him, clattering your teeth together for dramatic effect.

“Really?” He’s inched closer, and suddenly you’re not shivering from the cold.

He is all consuming.

When you emerge from the shower you find your fingers pruney and the mirrors all fogged up — you've been in there far too long.

The two of you finally separate to get ready for bed, and when you finally slide into the bed next to Finnick, his arm instinctively goes around your shoulders. 

He’s flicking through different Capitol channels that are all different forms of mind numbing torture, before landing on the official news station where Snow is about to read from a card announcing the twist of the Third Quarter Quell.

“Oh! Wait, stop here, I forgot they were announcing it today,” you say.

“I don’t think it matters that much,” Finnick’s expression is sour, but he doesn’t turn the television off. “It’ll be just as difficult to mentor as any of the other Games.”

“I don’t know… I mean, I couldn’t even imagine trying to train two extra tributes,” you muse, thinking about the last Quell, and almost miss what Snow says next.

In the next moment, you almost wish you had missed it.

“...shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

The two of you have vastly different reactions. Finnick immediately springs up from the bed and begins to pace, only stopping when he hears the sound of strangled sobs fighting their way past your lips. 

In an instant he’s next to you, wrapping both his arms around you and tugging you close to his chest. “It’ll be okay,” he tries to soothe, but his own voice is shaky and you suspect the embrace is meant to comfort him just as much as it is you.

I’ve wasted so much time, you realize, and the awful, choked noises you make turn into something so much worse.

You begin to weep, utterly defeated. There’s no fight left in you, and that’s why it’s worse than the short cries, or even hot, angry tears. Realizing the past nine years of torture hadn’t been worth it, and you really should have died in that arena. It would’ve been so much more merciful than whatever this was.

You’re the only living female victor from your district, there’s no hope for you. Finnick, at least, has a chance at not being reaped at all.

“We’ll figure something out,” Finnick continues. “You know… with everything that’s been going on.”

His reference, although vague, makes you think long enough that your cries have paused. Plutarch and Thirteen, you realize. Surely they would be scrambling to come up with a plan right now, because how could Katniss — their beloved Mockingjay — perform for them if she died in another arena? But saving her didn’t leave much room for the rest of you.

“You’re right,” you force out even if you don’t believe him, because you don’t want his calm demeanor to disappear. If he starts to panic you’re sure you’ll lose it completely.

“We should get to bed,” he says abruptly. “I think we’ll have somewhere to be tomorrow.”

There are three of you victors gathered around the dining table in Plutarch’s mansion with him. You, Finnick, and Beetee. You know there are more victors in on it, but you three are the only ones currently in the Capitol, and nobody wants to waste any time. When everyone else arrives for the games, whether as a mentor or tribute, they’ll be informed.

“We have a military, we have political unrest, and we have our symbol. We have everything we need to make this work. Do you know how rare this is?” Plutarch laments. “Thirteen has hovercrafts, so we’ll have a way to get you all out if we can figure out how to work around the forcefield.”

“Which is easier said than done,” Beetee adds. You’re not sure how to feel about him — he’s incredibly intelligent, that’s for sure. He’s such a genius you feel out of place in this discussion, because what could you possibly have to add when he could solve basically anything? 

He carries himself with such palpable sadness, though. His shoulders are always hunched like they’re physically weighed down with emotion, and you’ve never seen him without deep circles under his eyes.

“Can’t you just turn them off?” Finnick asks, turning to Plutarch, “You’re the head gamemaker.”

“I wish it was that easy, but it won’t work,” Plutarch shakes his head. “It’ll give Snow too much of a warning, we need it to be so sudden he’s left scrambling.”

“We have to blow it up,” Beetee squints his eyes, deep in thought. 

“Tell me what supplies you need and I’ll make sure they’re in the Cornucopia,” Plutarch promises. “But do you know how to do that? Can you figure it out?”

“It’s Beetee,” Finnick insists, “Of course he can.”

Beetee brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head. “It will require a lot…” he pauses at an odd place in the conversation, a habit of his you’ve picked up on, “... of calculations.”

“I could probably help with that,” you interject yourself into the conversation for the first time. “With the calculations, I mean. We do a lot of stuff like that at the power plants in Five.”

Plutarch breaks into a smile while Beetee nods his head slowly. “Excellent. Tell me what numbers you need, and I’ll get them for you.”

You nod earnestly, your chest swelling with a mix of emotions you haven’t felt in forever: confidence, pride, and hope. Like it isn’t just the talk of four lunatics around the dinner table, but a feasible option. A better future for Panem was being dangled above your head, just out of reach.

By the time you see Finnick again, that hope has been completely squashed in all the fuss of the week.

Right now, you’re both just tributes changing out of the ridiculous costumes you’d donned during the opening ceremony.

You’re not talking to him though, not after you saw him cozying up to Katniss Everdeen in nothing but a knotted golden net.

Rationally, you know you’re being a little ridiculous. The net isn’t his choice, it’s his stylist’s angle to get him sponsors. And he’s talking to Katniss in that awful persona he takes on when he’s in the Capitol, the personality everyone expects him to have.

Still, bile rises in your throat at the sight of them.

Trying to slip away unnoticed, though, proved to be difficult due to your illuminated costume shining bright against the evening sky. At least your stylist tried to make your outfit unique this time, dressing you up as lightning to represent Five’s industry of power. It’s still a poor imitation of Twelve’s fire costumes though, because they blow everyone else’s outfits out of the water with no competition.

You hear Finnick call your name as you hurry towards the tribute center and ignore him. You reach the elevator alone and turn around quickly, only to see Finnick standing as the doors closed on him.

Well, almost closing. A hand jutted through the elevator doors and forced them open again, revealing Finnick in all his glory — he hadn’t changed out of the net.

“Almost thought you were trying to avoid the pleasure of my company, honey.” His voice is annoyed and the nickname is not endearing but patronizing.

“Why don’t you go ask Katniss to keep you company?” You didn’t want to say anything, because really it’s irrational to think anything could be going on between him and Katniss, which just means that you look like a jealous fool and nothing else. But seeing him with someone so strong and sure of herself, the complete opposite of you, made you realize how quickly Finnick could slip through your fingers. He was so easy to lose.

“Sweetheart…” he begins, and you can tell he’s trying not to sound too amused, “The whole reason she’s in this mess is because she’s with Peeta. And… she’s seventeen. She’s a kid.”

Both good points, which only annoys you even further because it just proves you have no reason to feel the way you do. “Whatever,” you scoff, turning away from him and wondering how much longer this elevator is going to take. Please, let it be done.

It’s like someone’s answered your pleas because the door rings at the level four and it’s Finnick’s cue to steps off. “By the way,” he says over his shoulder. “I didn't know you were the jealous type. It’s cute.”

The door shuts before you have the chance to retort.

In training, it’s hard to do anything at all. The only things flashing in your mind are the faces of the tributes in your games and the tributes you failed to train. All of whom have been dead at least a year, but they haunt you just as much as they did on the first day. 

You’d gotten so close last year. Finch — a clever, redheaded girl — had made it to the final four before she’d died. It was the closest any of your tributes had gotten to victory since you’d been crowned.

She haunts you the most, the way she was little more than skin and bones by the time she died. A direct failure on your part; everyone had been rooting for the star crossed lovers or the stereotypical career from Two that they’d overlooked your tribute, no matter how hard you’d advocated for her and practically begged for sponsors.

“You alright?” Finnick sidles up beside you, holding a thick rope in his hand that’s tied suspiciously like a noose.

“Yep!” You force out a more cheery tone than you’d wished, and cringed at how sharp and on the verge of a breakdown you sounded. “I’m going to help Johanna out.”

Johanna Mason did not need help. She was throwing axes at one of the weapons stations when you popped up behind her and forced out a greeting.

She gives a little shriek and drops the axe dangerously close to her toes. “You see a girl with an axe in her hand and decide to jump her?” She seethes, “Do not do that! Or it’ll drop on your toes next time!”

Her words are furious, but you know she’s harmless at the moment. You know her well under unfortunate circumstances, from two years ago when your tributes had formed an alliance and the two of you had been forced to work alongside one another as mentors. 

Until the tribute from Seven split your tribute’s head open with an axe.

“Sorry,” you huff, picking up an axe and marveling at the weight of it. “I had to get away from Finnick. He’s been freaking me out lately.”

“Freaking you out… how?” Johanna narrows her eyes, and it's then you remember she’s in on the rebel plot to break Katniss out of the arena, and the rest of you if you were lucky.

Your eyes widen as you realize what she’s thinking. “Oh— not about that, he’s just… hovering. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time with him during the daytime since we first met.”

Johanna visibly relaxes and then rolls her eyes. “Please tell me you guys aren’t still doing that stupid friends with benefits thing. Please.”

“It’s not stupid!” You object, a little offended by the way she’s framing it. “I told you, it’s for the best… right now, at least.”

“You guys are such idiots,” she sighs, eyeing the axe in your hand. “Are you actually going to use that?”

With a shake of your head you hand it off to her carefully. “It’s just that… you know, with… Snow…” your voice drops to a whisper.

She cuts you off. “Yeah. I know.”

Oh. Yes, she does know exactly what you mean. A wave of shame overwhelms you and you open your mouth to shower her with apologies but she cuts you off.

“I don’t need you to pity me. Well—” She thinks about this for a moment and changes her mind. “Actually, if it makes you listen to what I’m gonna tell you, then yeah, poor me, all alone. Whatever. I’m telling you, you’re being a fucking idiot.”

“I am not—”

“You are!” Johanna hurls an axe at the board with so much force it breaks completely. “He likes you. It’s kind of sickening, actually, and so obvious. I mean, he’s literally staring at you right now— no, don’t look, brainless!”

“Johanna,” You begin, watching her pick up another axe. “I appreciate this tough love… aspect… whatever you have going on, but—”

“If you want to waste your last week alive pining for a guy you already have… be my guest. But don’t talk to me about it, it’s annoying.”

She’s crude, and mean, but she’s right. All the worries you have will be gone in a week. Either one of you will be dead, or you’ll be freed from the Capitol’s chains and in the safe hands of Thirteen.

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you say abruptly. “How are you doing with this whole Quell thing?”

She snorts and throws another axe, her jaw tight with anger. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”

You’re starting to feel that maybe she hates you when she asks, “Have you ever thrown one of these before? I mean, probably not, judging by the way you were holding that one, but…”

“Yes, I’d love to learn!” You know that’s what she’s trying to ask. It’s her version of trying to be kind, even if it’s laced with insults and sarcasm.

A hint of a real smile appears, and you can't help but admire how pretty she is, behind all the anger.

For the next half hour, Johanna teaches you how to throw an axe, while you chit chat about mildly unimportant things. She soon gets bored of small talk and starts cursing the Capitol six ways to Sunday, and you think how nice it must be to be free about how you feel. 

Not that Johanna hasn’t paid the price for it— no, the Capitol deserves every spitting word she throws their way. You brush off her rants with nervous laughter and look around to see if anyone’s listening, because you still have your family at home, but deep down you agree. 

It’s refreshing though, to talk with a real friend who’s unafraid to speak her mind and actually understands what you’re going through. Your friends back home, however sweet, couldn’t even begin to know the half of it.

“I wish I could teach you something,” you say ruefully, wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead. “Working in power plants doesn't really prepare us for the Games.”

Johanna shrugs. “It wasn’t a trade, I was just helping you out. And… you’re the least insufferable person here, so I'd rather talk with you than anyone else.”

You’re sure it’s the kindest thing she’ll ever say to you, so all you do is grin and hand her an axe back. She catches your arm and pulls you close, like she’s going to hug you, but instead just leans in and whispers in your ear, “Don’t back out. Or I’ll actually have to kill you.”

You know what she’s talking about, and you know she’s not kidding this time.

Now it’s time to find another victim — err, friend — at a different station to continue avoiding Finnick. You spot him with Katniss, again, but to her credit she looks less than amused at whatever he’s saying. You squash the flame of jealousy beginning to burn in your stomach, because you’ve been over this with him already. That, and the fact that you don’t really have the right to be jealous in the first place.

Finnick looks up from the rope he’s fiddling with and his eyes find you, which now means you have to scramble to find a station.

You spot Cashmere at the archery station and make a beeline, relieved to see her brother is not with her, because it makes the introductions and inevitable awkward small talk a little more manageable.

“Hi,” you force out. Cashmere fixes you with an icy stare but says nothing for a long moment, she just observes. She’s terrifying, to say the least. To busy yourself you pick up a bow and fiddle with it a bit, examining the craftsmanship in an attempt to look busy.

“You shoot?” She says after a minute, her voice almost making you jump.

“Not… really…” And just like that, you’ve lost the singular ounce of interest she held for you.

You listen to the instructor as he tries to teach you how to shoot, but it's clear after the first few tries this is not your strong suit. 

You wish you’d been born into a district that gave you a natural advantage in the Games; you’d won yours by nothing more than sheer luck. Everyone who hadn’t been killed by starvation, dehydration, or mutts were too busy killing one another before they paid any attention to you.

You hear him before you see him, the soft chuckle as one of your arrows misses the target entirely. “You should take lessons from Katniss,” Finnick says lightly, but it only makes you frown.

“I’d like to see you try,” you grumble, but you don’t actually want him to try because you’re sure he’s legally required to be perfect at everything he does.

“Why don’t I show you how to throw a trident instead?” He suggests, and that's the last thing you want to do. What you want is time. Time to think about what Johanna said, if all this angst was even worth it when you’d be dead in a week. Time to think about what you actually want. 

Time, unfortunately, is a luxury a victor would never be able to afford, often wasting it locked in a prison of their own minds.

“Okay,” you concede finally. “I guess you’d be an okay teacher… I’ve heard you’re not half bad.”

The training week has come and gone, the interviews with Caesar Flickerman having been the last hurrah before they sent you all off to die. 

You tried, unconvincingly, to remind yourself of the rebel plot to break everyone out, but it did little to soothe your nerves. You suspected they didn’t let you in on everything; that much was clear by the silent communication between Finnick and Johanna.

All of these thoughts are racing through your mind and keeping you from sleeping. The pillows have been thrown around and the sheets have tangled and bunched around your legs as you toss and turn, trying to find a position that would pull you into at least a few hours of slumber.

All of your thoughts circle back to Finnick. Throughout the week you’d spent several nights in his bed, but tonight you’d both agreed you needed your rest to prepare for the day tomorrow. 

Still, you can’t worry about him any more knowing he’s just a floor below you. Throwing on a thin robe you make your way to the elevator, not exactly sure what you want but deciding your mind will be made up by the time you reach him. 

You don’t even have to raise your hand to knock, the door flies open and you’re met with sea green eyes that pierce right into yours. They’re clear of sleepiness and brighten as they land on you, so you know he’s been awake like you.

You walk past him and know he’s trailing behind you, closing the door to his bedroom once you’re both inside. “I want it to be like the first time.”

“What?” 

“You know, the first time we…” you trail off, suddenly shy, and hope he’ll fill in the blanks on his own. 

“Yeah… what about it?” Finnick’s eyebrows furrow into a slight frown, like he’s trying to remember that night, the one that’s hazy with emotions and drenched with alcohol.

“I just… I mean…” You struggle to find the words, because what about it is right. “I guess what I’m saying is I don’t want to think about the consequences.”

Not a whole truth, but enough of one. You want to be able to be with him one last time, and don’t care about the consequences because you're sure to be dead soon. 

There’s a long, drawn out pause as he looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s staring straight into your soul. It’s so silent you’re sure he can hear the pounding of your heart as blood roars in your ears, sure he can feel the air that’s become suffocatingly thick with tension.

“Okay,” he says simply, and that’s all you need before you close the distance and kiss him.

You’ve kissed him many times before, but this one is different. You’re expecting it to be like the others, desperate and rough like you’d lose each other in a second. 

This one is slow, like you have all the time in the world. For this one night, only two things are really certain: you have Finnick, and Finnick has you. The ones that follow that first one are just as deliberate and calm, so much so that you lose track of time. While it couldn’t have been that long, it was beginning to feel like hours, any pause being reduced to nothing more than short breaks to breathe before you reconnected.

You’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips against yours that you don’t even notice you’re moving until the back of your legs hit the bed and you almost fall back.

He steadies you with a hand on your waist and pulls you back in for another kiss.

“Someone’s eager to get me in bed,” he mumbles against your lips with a smile.

“Am I that obvious?” You ask with a giggle, a little embarrassed at how breathless you sound.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he pulls you closer until your body is flush against his and you can feel everything. “I think I’m a little more desperate.”

Yes, judging by the hardness you feel against your body, maybe he is.

This time you fall back intentionally, pulling him with you and savoring the feeling of his weight pinning you against the mattress.

You never want to stop kissing him like this. His lips are working in a way that’s so sweet and gentle you’re getting dangerously close to blurting out something you shouldn’t.

When he pulls back, propping himself up with his forearms on either side of you, you can really look at his face.

The green of his eyes are barely visible because his pupils are completely blown out, like even his eyes are desperate to get as much of you as they can. His bronze curls are beginning to stick to his forehead from the sweat beginning to dot his hairline.

The only thing that shocks you is that his cheeks are tinted a light pink, and his lips, reddened and glossy from the kissing, are pursed together in…

“Are you nervous?” You blurt out, eyes widening at the realization.

“No,” he mumbles, leaning forward to kiss you again, but you press a hand to his chest that forces him to keep your gaze.

“Why’re you nervous? We’ve done this like, a million times,” you laugh, but he’s not smiling.

Finnick’s answer surprises you so much that your own smile is instantly wiped from your face. “I just want to make sure it’s good for you. I want you to be happy… even if it’s only for a little bit.”

His tone is so earnest and anxious you’re sure you’re about to cry, because no one’s ever been this sweet to you. Except him. “Okay,” you whisper. Those funny three words are jumping in the back of your throat, and you have to swallow hard and kiss him to make sure they disappear.

Still connected by your lips, you roll over until you’re straddling him, his back propped against the headboard. You never want to stop kissing him; when his lips are on yours it’s like you’re in a whole different world. One without all the worries that weigh you down and pry you apart from him. It’s the most relief you’ve felt since your Reaping Day that you whine when his lips leave yours.

He laughs a little at your desperation, his hands sliding under your shirt and raising it above your head before tossing it aside.

Finnick makes quick work of the rest of your clothes and his own, and before you know it you’re both naked.

You’re glad he flips you over because you're a little embarrassed how wet you’ve become — not that it’d be a secret for long.

His hands slide down and gently pull your legs apart so he can settle comfortably between them.

Now it’s your turn to feel nervous, unfamiliar with the position you’re in — at eye level with one another. It’s so different from the impersonal ones you’re used to. 

When he’s behind you, you can almost be satisfied with it being just sex. You’re free to pretend it’s anyone, it doesn’t have to be Finnick.

But now, looking into his eyes and being met with a stare just as intense, you hope he can't feel your pulse skyrocketing.

Just as you feel the familiarity of one of his fingers working its way inside you, you’re hit with a force of emotion so hard it knocks the wind out of you and you have to hide a gasp. You realize, with a stab to your chest, you never want this to end, but know it will. Know you have to make this a memorable goodbye in case only one of you survives.

He makes you feel so good, knows your body so well it’s basically second nature when he pumps his fingers in and out in a way that makes you arch towards his hand, silently begging for more.

He’s just about to slide a second finger in when you know he senses the change in how you’re kissing him. It’s more like the desperate, hungry ones you're both used to. 

In a moment he’s withdrawn completely and you cry out at the loss. “Why’d you do that?” You groan.

“What’s wrong with you?” Finnick demands, holding your chin with one of his hands and forcing you to hold eye contact with him.

“Nothing, can you just get back to—”

“Bullshit.” He withdraws his body from you completely, leaving you cold and lonely as he sits back on his knees. His eyes widen as he looks at you, and you can literally see his pupils returning to their normal size. “You don't want to not worry about the consequences,” he realizes. “You’re just here to say goodbye.”

You want to protest and sit up, but he’s reading you to filth. “Finnick, I—”

“No,” he says with so much force it surprises you, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain. “No, I told you we’re going to be fine, why are you acting like this is the end?”

You can recognize the edge of terror in his voice and know he’s not really mad at you. He’s panicked, because if you don’t believe his words, why should he?

“Finnick,” you say again, gently this time, and he slowly opens his eyes. You reach your hand towards his face and cup his cheek, an act so tender you can feel your own heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach. “I want to believe you. About everything. Really, I do, I just… I just want to do it right this one time.”

And it’s true. You’ve been intimate with him countless times, but they all feel so wrong compared to the rawness of tonight.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, grasping onto the hand that’s on his cheek and bringing it down to his chest. You feel his heart beating a million miles a minute, thudding so hard against his chest it might just burst free.

You nod, knowing you don’t have the strength to argue. You want tonight to be perfect, just in case it’s the last time, and you’re already missing the feeling of his lips.

Finnick seems to have lost the internal battle he’s been warring against himself, because when he surges forward to kiss you, his words are seemingly forgotten.

His kisses are still tender and steady, but an edge of desperation creeps toward the end. As if when you pull away to catch your breath, it’s the last time he’ll ever feel them.

You return to the position of before and try to fall back into the rhythm that’d been temporarily disrupted.

His fingers find their way back inside you just as his lips reconnect to yours, but this time you’re impatient. You want to be ready and able to enjoy it, but you can’t stand wasting time without him inside you, knowing you only had a few hours left together.

He seems to sense this, too, because his fingers curl inside you and send shockwaves up and down your spine. Blindly, you reach for his pants and fumble with the waistband for a moment before slipping your hand inside.

Instantly you find his cock, hard and practically jumping at your touch as you wrap your hand around it. You’re rewarded with his hips jumping towards your touch and groan that’s immediately swallowed by your kiss.

Just a simple touch has him impatient, understanding your sudden desperation. The brief whine as his lips leave yours is replaced with a moan as you feel the thickness of him pressing at your entrance.

“Wait!” You cry out, so suddenly it startles him into jumping back.

“What’s wrong?” He looks panicked, then grief stricken, like he’s done something wrong.

“Nothing, I just needed to say—” Please, just let me say it, you beg your brain. “I love you.”

Finnick’s features instantly relax and he’s back against you in an instant. The smile that’s overtaken his entire face is the brightest you’ve ever seen.

“I love you too,” he says in between kisses, “I thought I was being pretty obvious about it though.”

He doesn’t even wait for a reply before thrusting into you. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he pauses, letting you adjust for a moment.

“I think you were made for me,” He breathes, forehead dipping down to connect with yours.

“Oh come on, don’t be cheesy— ah!” He’s setting a pace that’s been like the rest of the night, slow and sweet, but you know it’s only a matter of time before you both grow impatient with it.

For a while there’s only the sounds of labored breathing and skin against skin as he thrusts into you, until your gasps and moans grow more frequent and you both know you’re getting close.

He increases the pace to something much more demanding now, not caring about the path of scratches your fingernails are making down his perfect skin, marring his perfection ever so slightly.

“Please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for, because you know he’ll give you the release you so desperately crave. Still, with the coil wound tight at the base of your spine it’s all you can do in your sex-drunken mind.

You both come right after the other, completely in sync, there’s no hesitation when Finnick wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto his chest.

“I meant it, y’know,” you say quietly after a minute.

“Me too. All of it.”

The giddiness you feel at his words disappears at the reality of the situation. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner. We’ve wasted so much time.”

“I know,” he sighs, because that's all he can say.

Tomorrow, everything will change. Both your lives will be on the line for a greater cause, your next breath will not be guaranteed, and neither will his. But for these few sacred hours, before the first cracks of dawn seep through the curtains and drag you back to reality, you have certainty, you have contentment. 

A sigh escapes your lips, and Finnick looks down at you resting your cheek against his chest.

He hopes you can’t feel his heart accelerating when you begin to draw little patterns in his skin.

“What’s wrong?”

The look in your eyes makes him wish he hadn’t asked.

“I’m just going to miss you.”

He could protest. Could point you towards the logistics that favor both your survival, could ramble about how the rebels are going to get all of you out. How you won’t ever need to miss him because he plans on sticking to you like glue until he draws his last breath.

The little part of him that's just as scared as you are stops him from saying any of it. He’s agreed to sacrifice himself and everyone around him to ensure Katniss and Peeta make it out. He could do it without hesitation if he didn’t have to think about you.

Instead, he just presses a long kiss to your temple and pulls you impossibly closer. You think he’d burrow himself in your skin if he could.

“Me too,” is the last thing you hear before the lull of sleep, aided by the warmth and safety you feel in his arms.