The Night Court assumes Eris Vanserraâs mate is nothing more than decoration at his side.
They learn very quickly that some females do not need to raise their voice to remind a room exactly where power sits.
Requested by @alexof90s â I hope this is close to what you were picturing! (Once again I didn't proof read this at all so feel free to let me know if there are any spelling errors!)
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 Autumnâs new High Lord.
You did not correct them.
Eris noticed.
Of course he did.
The corner of his mouth shifted just barely.Â
You didnât look at him.
âTry not to look so pleased,â you murmured.
âI am not pleased.â
âYou are nearly smiling.â
âThat would be unbecoming.â
âThen by all means,â you said softly, folding your hands in your lap, âcontinue suffering.â
Across the table, Cassianâs brows rose.
Azrielâs 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.
âYouâve redecorated,â she said, glancing around the council room. âHow charming. I almost forgot where we were.â
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.
âWeâre here to discuss the border villages.â
âThen let us discuss them,â 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 MorâŠ
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, âForgive me if I find Autumnâs sudden interest in protecting vulnerable people difficult to believe.â
Erisâs 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.
Morâs 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.
âDifficult to believe,â you repeated.
Mor lifted her chin.
âYes.â
âHow interesting.â
Cassian leaned back slightly.
Azrielâs shadows went still.
Eris did not move beside you.
He knew better.
Morâs gaze narrowed. âDo you have something to say?â
You tilted your head.
âI was deciding whether it would be rude.â
âAnd?â
âOh, itâs terribly rude Iâm afraid.â
Rhysandâs attention sharpened.
You turned your cup once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at Mor.
âBut since we are clearly past the point of pretending this room is governed by courtesy, I suppose I might as well.â
Eris exhaled once through his nose.
Almost amused.
You continued.
âYou speak of Autumnâs cruelty as though anyone at this table intends to dispute it. We do not. Autumn has teeth. It has always had teeth.â Your gaze swept briefly toward Eris. âSome of us have spent years removing them one by one.â
Morâs mouth tightened.
âBut what fascinates me,â you went on, voice still calm, âis the Night Courtâs remarkable talent for selective outrage.â
Cassian straightened.
Rhysandâs face went very still.
There it was.
The shift.
The moment they realized you were not decoration.
You smiled again.
Softer this time.
âYou condemn Autumn for what it allowed to happen beneath Beronâs rule. Fair. You should. But I do find it curious how rarely that same scrutiny turns inward.â
Morâs eyes flashed.
âCareful.â
You looked at her then.
Truly looked.
âI would advise caution, Morrigan,â you said softly. âNot because I fear what you might say, but because I know what you have chosen not to.â
The room went still.Â
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
âCareless 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.â
Cassianâs jaw flexed.
Azriel said nothing.
Rhysand did not look away from you.
Good.
At least one of them understood where this was going.Â
Morâs voice was low. âYou know nothing about the Hewn City.â
âNo,â you agreed. âI know what survived the retelling.â
You tilted your head slightly before continuingÂ
âInteresting that you speak so confidently for someone whose version of events requires several omissions to survive.âÂ
Mor stood slowly.
âYou have no right to speak to me about what I survived.â
There it was.
The part you had been waiting for.
Your smile faded.
Not because you were afraid.
Because some things deserved seriousness.
âNo,â you said. âI do not.â
The room stilled.
Even Eris glanced at you then.
You met Morâs gaze without flinching.
âWhat was done to you was monstrous. No one in this room should deny that. I certainly will not.â Your voice lowered. âBut your pain does not make every omission holy.â
Mor went utterly still.
âYou have allowed them to believe one version of the story because it is easier than dragging the whole thing into the light,â you said. âAnd perhaps you had reason. Perhaps silence was all you had. I will not fault a girl for surviving the only way she could.â
A breath.
Then another.
âBut I will fault a court for building policy around half a truth and calling it justice.â
Rhysandâs 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.
Morâs voice was colder now.
âAnd what truth do you think you know?â
You folded your hands again.
âThe kind men leave out when the facts are inconvenient.â
A sad smile played on your lips.Â
âThe kind women bury because being believed costs too much.â
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 elseâs certainty.
âYou may hate my mate,â you said, and only then did your tone sharpen. âThat is your right. Hate him forever, if it comforts you.â
Erisâs gaze moved to you.
You did not look at him.
âBut 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.â
Silence pressed against the walls.
Cassian looked between you and Mor, unusually quiet.
Azrielâs 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.
âMy mate raises a wonderful point.â
Rhysand looked at him.
Erisâs eyes did not leave Mor.
âDo you intend to discuss the border villages,â he said, âor continue mistaking personal history for governance?â
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.
âNow,â you said pleasantly, as though you hadnât just gutted the room and asked for the next topic. âShall we return to the villages, or would anyone else like to confuse emotion with policy first?â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Elle Elle Elle Elle Elle how fucking funny would it be for one of the bat boysâ mate to have never seen or interacted with Ilyrians before, havenât even heard real credible info about them, just exaggerated battle stories turned fairy tales. So when they meet their mate they are so spooked bc the whole bat wing thing has been turned into misinformation/tall tales that theyâre vampires. So theyâre freaking out bc how tf does this work how are they in the sun do they need anyoneâs blood or just mine, where tf am I gna keep all this blood in the house, do I even want to accept a bond with a vampire, how am I gna offer them food to accept the bond can I just give them my blood I guess technically I made it in my body, damnit I really love garlic this is gna be so hard to give it upÂ
pfffft I love it. also, I ended up straying away from the vampire part of it and I think it ended up less funny because of it so I'm sorry if I ruined it! thanks for the request though, I had a lot of fun with it. [also couldn't help but daydream about poor terrified reader finding out she's not only mated to one Illyrian, not only mated to two Illyrians, but mated to two of the most feared Illyrian's in all of Prythian hehehe]
Cassian x fem!reader who doesn't know a lot about Illyrians [2.9k words]
CW: rumours of cannibalism, describes child abuse [but it doesn't actually happen], reader is in the Dawn Court, meet ugly [do I ever write anything else?], fluff / hurt comfort
âYou might want to bring a blade with you,â Kallahan snickers, carrying on even when you shoot him a lethal glare. âIâve heard they travel in packs.âÂ
âFuck off, Kal,â Ellora sneers.Â
âIâm just trying to help,â he plays coy. âYou know they eat their young, right?â
âWhy are you even here right now?â You groan, brushing your dress down for the umpteenth time; youâre sure there are visible drag marks down your skirts by now.Â
âThe ones who they deem too weak are put into their stew,â Kallahan continues as though you said nothing at all.
âThey do not,â Ellora argues, though she shoots you a look saying sheâs not entirely convinced of the fact. âBesides, they probably wonât even be here.â
Itâs true; while youâre not one to frequent diplomatic meetings hosted in your court, youâve only ever seen the likes of Morrigan haunting the halls of Dawnâs central building on Night Court business.Â
You wonât mind talking to Morrigan you donât think; sheâs polite, finely dressed, and always wears a smile.Â
And youâre quite sure she doesnât hail from the race of fae who allegedly eat their young.Â
She doesnât have the wings for it.Â
Unless-
âAnd they rip the wings clean off of femalesâ backs to keep them subservient to them and their whims.âÂ
âKallahan!â Ellora finally shouts. âDonât listen to him. Seriously, you have nothing to worry about.â
âItâs your funeral,â Kallahan shrugs. âBut maybe Elloraâs right, maybe youâll be fineâŠso long as there are no Illyrians in there.âÂ
The door to the hallway youâre haunting finally opens, a sentinel nodding at you expectantly.Â
âTheyâre ready for you.âÂ
You suck in a breath and give Ellora a tightlipped smile, ignoring Kallahanâs sing-songy good luck before you follow the guard towards your impending doom.Â
You werenât 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.Â
Youâd been collecting ingredients in the boggy lands bordering your home court and The Middle for medicinal supplies when you realized you werenât alone.Â
A male with paleânearly greyâskin, 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.Â
He wasâŠhandsome, 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.Â
He asked what your opinion of the Night Court was.
He asked how you felt about Nightâs High Lord; about their new High Lady.
He asked how you felt about a regime change.Â
Youâre 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. Youâve never been to the Night Court, have never spoken to anyone from the Night Court, canât imagine a time youâd ever be invited to the Night Court.Â
Turns out that the bad feeling you had about the male was more than just a bad feeling; it was evidence. And now youâre being called upon to answer questions about what exactly you saw in the woods that day.Â
âOnly answer questions that you know the answer to,â the guard directs you severely. âDonât make anything up, donât try to fill in any gaps. Just tell them what you know. If you donât remember, just say that.â
You nod, clearing your throat when you realize he canât see your response from where he walks a few steps ahead of you. âRight, yes. Okay.âÂ
âThesan will be there as well, if you need anything.â
âOkay.â You feel a touch more relaxed knowing youâll have a familiar face there. âAnd is it, erm, Morrigan who will be questioning me?â
The guard pauses with his hand on the door to the conference room, brows furrowing at you.Â
âThe High Lord and High Lady have come to question you themselves.â
You hardly have a moment to swallow past your gag reflex before the doors are swinging open and exposing the grand room before you.Â
The captain of Dawnâs guards and your High Lordâs 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.Â
You donât manage to summon up a smile of your own in return, not when youâre so focused on keeping your knees from buckling.Â
âY/N,â Thesan greets kindly. âThank you for joining us today.â
âOf course, my Lord,â you all but whisper, swallowing thickly and dipping your head in deference.
âThese here are my friends, the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court.â
âOh, none of that,â the High Lady chuckles. âRhysand and Feyre are fine.â
Yeah right, you think to yourself. Theyâll be lucky to get a single word out of you today let alone the sound of their given names.Â
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 LadyâRhysand and Feyreâof the Night Court, though theyâre undoubtedly so. But because of the silhouette of the being behind them.Â
Illyrian.Â
The statuesque male seems to recognize your attention being focused on him, which sees his giant, bat-like wings twitch behind his shoulders.Â
Blue siphons pulse on his chest and shoulders and a few shadows stir at his side. The ShadowsingerâŠthe Night Courtâs Spymaster.Â
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 thoughtâhopedâyou 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.Â
âItâs okay,â Rhysand states suddenly, holding out a hand to Sylvan who now has his weapon drawn. âItâsâŠitâs a mating bond.âÂ
âY/N,â Thesan ventures calmly.Â
The Illyrianâyour mateâmakes a devastated sound as though the syllables of your name make the most beautiful sound heâs ever heard. Heâs larger, somehow, than the Shadowsinger, and his siphonsâpluralâglow an ominous red as he dares a step towards you.
You go scrambling backwards.
Thesan tries your name again.Â
âYou have nothing to worry about with Cassian,â Feyre supplies quickly.Â
You donât believe her, donât 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.Â
Itâs because the Illyrians eat their young, isnât it? Because they rip the wings of their females right off of their back.Â
The Lord of Bloodshed, your mind supplies. Thatâs what they call this Cassianâyour 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. Youâd 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, youâre going to throw up on Thesanâs marble floor.Â
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 donât let them take me; donât let them turn me into stew.Â
âYouâre safe here,â Sylvan tells you slowly. âThe Night Courtâs Spymaster and General are honourable fae.âÂ
âI promise they look scarier than they are,â Feyre offers gently, shooting you an understanding and sympathetic smile. âItâs by design.â
âWhile Iâm glad to hear their reputations precede them,â Rhysand adds with a feline smirk flashed at Morrigan. âI am sorry they scared you.âÂ
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.Â
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 Morriganâs hand like itâs the only thing stopping him from crawling to you.Â
âCan I help you into a seat?â Sylvan asks lowly.Â
You canât even nod your head yes before a lethal sound vibrates out of the Lord of Bloodshed.
âCassian, stand down,â Rhysand warns.Â
The Spymaster disappears from behind his High Lord and Lady and reappears in front of Cassian which is not appreciated by the war general.Â
âHeâs touching my mate,â Cassian growls in response to whatever soothing words the Shadowsinger tries offering him.Â
Thank the Mother for Sylvan, though, he doesnât loosen his grip; youâre quite sure heâs the only thing keeping you from sinking to the floor completely at this point.Â
âYou need to control yourself, brother,â the Shadowsinger says. âYouâre scaring her.â
âBreathe,â 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 donât move when he continues. âJust keep breathing.â
You didnât realize you arenât; donât 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.Â
The room sways.
Thesan calls your name firmly this time, standing from his chair which sees Rhysand and Feyre doing much the same.Â
âCassian,â Rhysand growls darkly.
And then the room goes black.Â
You wake to the sound of graphite against paper and the smell of lilac and pears.Â
Your lashes feel like theyâve 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 NightâFeyreâat your bedside.Â
âYouâre awake,â 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.Â
âSorry about him,â Feyre continues, looking actually contrite on her companionâs behalf. âHeâŠcares more than he knows what to do with.â
You swallow thickly and twist the fabric of your blanket between your fingers.
âIâm not sure what you might know about Illyrians,â she continues, worrying you that she might actually know just how much you knowâor have heardâabout the race. âBut Cassianâand Azrielâare two of the most wonderful males I have ever met.âÂ
You let out a sigh, suddenly feeling disturbingly close to tears. Feyreâs eyes dart towards the door.Â
âDo-â you pause to clear your throat. â-do you still want to question me?â
Her face falls soft and sympathetic. âNo, I think youâve been through enough for one day.âÂ
âIâŠI can. I can tell you what I saw.â
âCassian would like us to let you rest for today,â she admits then, choosing her words carefully. âHe doesnât want us to upset you⊠more.âÂ
A tear finally slips.Â
âMayâŠI tell you something?â she asks then, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, sketch forgotten in her lap.Â
With a nod of your head, you feel a gentle caress of your mental walls.Â
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.Â
âThere are someâŠterrible males in the Illyrian camps,â she ventures, watching your face carefully. âNone that turn their young into stew, as far as I know.â
You burn with shame, wishing you werenât too embarrassed to pull the blanket up over your head.Â
âBut Cassian is certainly not one of them.âÂ
âI did not mean to bring any disrespect to your court, my Lady.â
âOf course; we know that,â she tells you, eyes narrowing playfully. âAnd I thought I told you to call me Feyre.â
You manage a gentle laugh. âSorry.â
âEnough of that,â she laughs in turn. âNow, Iâm sorry; I have to ask but you donât have to oblige.âÂ
You return your gaze to her blue-grey eyes. âCan Cassian come to see you? Make sure youâre okay for himself?âÂ
You canât help the way your heart rate picks up and you wince when you find Feyre looking at you apologetically.
âYou donât have to say yes,â she reminds you.
âIâŠI- yeah, heâŠhe can come.âÂ
She searches your eyes for a few moments before nodding at you.
âWeâll check back in tomorrow, if youâre feeling up to it? For our rescheduled meeting.â
You nod at her and flash her a wan smile as she lets herself into the hallway.Â
You hardly blink before a towering Illyrianâyour mateâducks into the room.
It suddenly feels infinitely smaller now that heâs in here and you donât miss the way he subconsciously steps sideways through the door, clearly forgetting that your court has winged soldiers to accommodate as well.Â
âHi,â he begins awkwardly, clearly unsure of himself as his eyes flit over your form, the bed youâre laying on, and then the smallâtiny, compared to himâchair that Feyre just vacated.Â
âHi,â you return equally as awkwardly. He doesnât seem to mind though; his wings lift in time with his hopeful smile before he realizes what heâs doing.Â
Cassian shrinks back in on himself when your eyes dart to his wings, almost like heâs trying to make himself appear smaller. Itâs nearly comical.Â
âMay I?â he asks, gesturing to the chair you doubt heâll fit on.Â
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.
âHow are you feeling?â Cassian asks eventually, gesturing at the bed youâre currently laying on and reminding you that youâre just lying prone in front of-
You lurch upwards, the task more difficultâmore disorientingâthan you were prepared for.
Broad, warm hands land on your back and your bicep, finding your entire body seizing.Â
âI- Iâm sorry, justâŠare you okay?â
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.
Heâs painfully gentle.Â
âThank you,â you manage when Cassian reluctantly releases you and sinks back into his ill-fitted chair.Â
âIâm sorry. For earlier,â he manages then. âI didnât mean to scare you.â
You smile ruefully. âIn fairness to you, you didnât even really have to try.âÂ
He tries to chuckle, though it seems to take a great deal of effort. âI donât want to scare you.âÂ
âYou donât, you wonât- IâŠIâll be okay,â you stutter, fiddling with the bedspread again.Â
âMaybe you just need some exposure therapy,â he offers carefully then, smiling hopefully when you look up at him. âBaby steps but, perhaps I can comeâŠvisit you?â
You grin at him; the first real one all day. âWell, I do think your court has some business scheduled here tomorrow.â
Cassian nods quickly. âYes, yeah. We do- I- it does. UhmâŠwould it be alright if I came?â
You laugh. âItâs not my court, Iâm not in charge of who comes and goes.â
âBut itâs your bond,â he counters earnestly, not a lick of teasing detected in his voice. âYouâre in charge of the speed that progresses, if it progresses at all.â
âI-â youâre stunned, honestly. You werenât expecting him to be interested in pursuing anything with youânot after your cowardly display in the conference room earlier. You also didnât expect him to hand the reins over to you soâŠseamlessly. â-really?â
âYes,â Cassian agrees readily, leaning forward in his chair. âYes, absolutely. ThisâŠthis is up to you, I- Iâm okayâhappyâwith whatever youâre willing to give me.âÂ
You search his faceâvery handsome, now that youâre getting a good look at itâfor any signs of deception.
You donât find any.
âOkay,â you agree then, watching his wings twitch in anticipation. âTomorrow, then.â
His responding grin is nearly blinding, brightening his entire faceâand perhaps even the room at largeâas he beams at you.
summary: what was supposed to be a gentle evening exposes Clarkâs deepest fear: that someone else could give you the life he canât
warnings: 18+ smut, graphic depictions of sex, f oral receiving, p in v, porn with plot, needy! clark, clark is sad and just wants to make you feel good :(, insecurities, anxiety?
It wasnât often that Clark made it home before you.
Most nights, you beat him there by hours, the space already warm. Your shoes by the door, the soft light from the kitchen, the sound of you moving around in clothes far more comfortable than those youâd worn to work.
He knew the routine by heart. Youâd change the second you got in, slipping out of your work things and into something softâfluffy socks, an old robe if it was cold, or, his personal weakness, one of his shirts that you found in the back of your wardrobe.
If he was being honest with himself, heâd started leaving them behind on purpose, just for the chance of coming home and finding you wrapped up in something that still smelled faintly like him.
Worth it, he could always buy more shirts.
Worth it every single time.
It wasnât that he didnât want to get home sooner. God, he did. Most days he was already thinking about you before heâd even finished his first coffee at the Planet. Wondering if you were thinking the same thing. Wondering what you were doing, if youâd eaten, if youâd remembered to take your coat when it got cold.
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.
Heâd 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 wasnât sure heâd ever stop feeling that way.
He wasnât sure he wanted to.
Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.
Clark let himself in with the spare key youâd pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently.Â
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 waterâeven the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink.Â
All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.
And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete.Â
If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished heâd made it home sooner a lot more often.
He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. Youâd texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising youâd make it up to him when you got home.
Heâd smiled at the message when he read it. You really didnât 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 heâd seen you do a hundred times before.Â
He was careful about it; he didnât want to use the wrong thing, didnât want to mess up whatever plan you mightâve had for the week.
He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.
Absolutely not.
Youâd 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.Â
He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking forâa 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. Thereâd 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 didnât 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 sheâd smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasnât hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure sheâd tell him heâd done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.
He liked to think sheâd say he picked right.
That heâd found someone good.
Someone sheâd 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.
âClark?â You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. âYou in here?â
Right on time.
âIn the kitchen!â 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.Â
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 faceâapologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought youâd disappointed himâhis chest tightened.
âSorry Iâm late,â 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.
âHey, noâdonât do that,â he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough.Â
You donât have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control.Â
You gave him that look again, like you still werenât convinced.
âI said Iâd be back earlier,â 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.
âHey,â he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. âItâs okay. Really. Youâre here now. Thatâs all I wanted.â
You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.
ââŠDid you cook?â
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.
âWell⊠yeah,â he admitted. âYou said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.â
Itâs the least he could do.Â
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 youâd smelled all day.
âThat smells amazing,â you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.
He huffed out a quiet laugh.
âItâs pasta,â he shrugged humbly. âKinda hard to mess up.â
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.Â
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.Â
It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.
Gosh, he missed you today.Â
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 heâd done it a hundred times before.
âCareful,â 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 werenât. He just liked the excuse.
You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.
âYouâre in a good mood.â
How couldnât he be?
He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.
âGot home early,â he said with a shrug. âFelt like my turn to do something for you.â
You gazed at him, smiling at his words.
âSo you made dinner for me?â
He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.
Heâd 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.
âWell⊠yeah. Didnât seem fair you always do it.â
âYouâre trying to spoil me.âÂ
He snorted softly under his breath.
âPretty sure thatâs my job.â
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.
âSo,â he added, âWhat about you, huh? Whatâd you get up to today?â
You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.
Good.
âNothing exciting,â you said. âWork, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.â
Clarkâs hand paused for just a second.
âYeah?â he said, keeping his voice easy. âNew guy?â
You nodded.
âYeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.â
Daniel.
The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.
ââŠDaniel?â 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.
âI think I mentioned him before? Maybe?â
Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.
âWeâre the only ones around the same age in the department,â you said with a small chuckle. âKind of felt natural we got paired up. Weâve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.â
The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.
Last few days.
Did you mention that before?Â
âOh yeah?â he said, keeping his tone light.
âYeah,â you went on, still talking easily. âYouâd like him, actually. Heâs kind of similar to you.â
He glanced back at you.
ââŠSimilar how?â
You smiled, completely genuine.
âHeâs just⊠nice. You know? Always the one who remembers peopleâs birthdays, makes sure everyoneâs got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.â
Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didnât quite make it into a smile.
âSounds like a real hero,â he said quietly.
You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.
âNo, heâs just⊠thoughtful,â you said. âHe actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didnât even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.â
The other night.
The night heâd 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.
ââŠThat so,â he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.
You nodded, still oblivious.
âYeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just⊠talked for a bit. Heâs easy to talk to.â
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.
âSounds like you two are getting along.âÂ
âYeah,â you said, smiling. âHeâs been having a bit of a rough time, though.â
He glanced back at you again.
âWhat happened?â
You frowned slightly.
âHis girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.â
His expression softened automatically. He couldnât help it.Â
âPoor guy,â he murmured.
âI know,â you agreed. âI donât 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.â
Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing.Â
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.
âThatâs good, honey,â he smiles down at you. âIâm glad youâre not stuck over there on your own.â
Without him.Â
The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.
You didnât seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.
âYeah. Heâs easy to be around,â you said. âAnd heâs opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.â
He nodded slowly.
Same routine. Same life.
Didnât have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didnât have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didnât have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.
You kept talking.
âHe stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didnât want me walking back to the station on my own.â
It shouldnât have bothered him.Â
Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late.Â
He was grateful, but there was something else there too.Â
His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by sideâŠ
âClark?â you said, tilting your head a little.
Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused. He didnât answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldnât quite sit still.
He knew it was stupid.
You hadnât 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 couldnât always be.
He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.
He couldnât always be there when you stayed late. Couldnât always walk you home, couldnât always make dinner, couldnât 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, sureâbut 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.Â
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 whoâd had your attention before you walked through the door.
Itâs not much, but it would work for now.Â
âYou know,â he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,
âI figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.â
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.Â
âClark, we donât have toââ
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.Â
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 hadnât fully relaxed since you walked in.
That he could fix.Â
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.
âCâmon, sweetheartâŠâ he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. âDinnerâs done⊠missed you all dayâŠâ
His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.
âCanât I make you feel good for a while?â
Please.
He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting.Â
Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.
He didnât move. Didnât touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.
âYes,â you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. âPleaseâŠâ you murmured against his lips.
Finally.Â
His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.
âOkay,â 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.Â
The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didnât bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enoughâsoft gold and silver across your skin.
The way he liked you best.Â
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.Â
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?Â
He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.
âYou gonna let me take care of you?â 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.
âSo pretty,â 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.
âPlease.â You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more.Â
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.Â
Not that he thought he deserved it.Â
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.Â
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.
âBeautiful.â He breathed against your neck as your face heated.Â
It really was the only way to describe youâsoft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already.Â
He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him.Â
It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.
His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently.Â
âNeed to taste you first, honey,â though it sounds more like a plea. âJust lie back for me, can you do that?â
Let him make you feel good.Â
Let him make it up to you.Â
You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed.Â
He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.Â
âMissed taking care of you like this,â he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you.Â
He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild.Â
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 couldnât chase his mouth even if you tried.Â
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.Â
âEasy, sweetheart,â he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. âIâm not going anywhere.â
He truly wasnât.
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.Â
He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure youâd be seeing stars.Â
He owed you that.Â
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.Â
âAh, Clarkââ
He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful.Â
He swore his name had never sounded so sweet.Â
âThatâs it, angel, almost there.â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 couldnât help but smile too.Â
Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again.Â
âNot fair,â you pouted. âWanna see you too.âÂ
He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him.Â
Always so eager.Â
âYeah?â 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âYouâre so handsome, Clark.âÂ
The words stop him in his tracks.Â
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.Â
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.Â
Focus.Â
He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night.Â
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, heâd do it as many times as it took.
Gladly.
Every single night.
âBabyâŠâ he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. âYou keep talking like that, Iâm not gonna last five seconds.â
You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye.Â
âThen I guess Iâd better keep talking, huh?â
Youâll be the death of him.Â
âSweetheartâŠâ he groans softly. âIâm hanging on by a thread here.â
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.Â
He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw.Â
The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.
âPleaseââ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. âClarkâfuckâI need more.â
âLanguage, baby,â he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. âI got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.â
You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like itâs the first time.Â
He was already hardâaching, reallyâhis cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. Heâd barely been paying attention to himself tonight.
Noâtonight 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.Â
So wet, so ready for him.Â
He pauses there, eyes locked on yours.Â
âTell me if itâs too much,â he whispers against your lips. âIâll stop, alright? just say the word.â
Just say, and heâll stop.Â
âI need you, Clark,â you plead, âPlease, I need you so bad.â
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.Â
âGodââ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders.Â
âI know, babyââ he soothes, almost fully inside you. âI knowââ
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.Â
âSo good for me, angel, so goodââ
His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him.Â
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.Â
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 shouldnât.Â
Gosh, heâd almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this.Â
Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely.Â
How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two?Â
Far too long.Â
His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back.Â
âFeel good, honey?â he murmured against your temple, âTell me Iâm doing it right.â
He had to be.Â
He had to make this good for you.Â
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.Â
âSo goodââ you breathe out. âAlways feel so good.â
He really hopes so.Â
Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part.Â
But this? This was the part that really mattered.Â
It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good.Â
âDonât get enough of you,â he admits, voice cracking slightly. âNot nearly enoughâgoshââ
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.Â
Yes, just like that.Â
He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you.Â
âYouâre mine, arenât you?â he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. âSay itâplease angelâgotta hear you say it.â
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.Â
He couldnât be done with you yet.Â
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.Â
It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love.Â
âClark⊠I love you.â You say slowly as you cup his face. âYou donât even have to ask.â
He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat.Â
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.
âSay it again,â he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.
There is no hesitation in your reply.Â
âI love you, Clark,â you say as you squeeze his hand gently. âIâm always yours.â
A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on.Â
He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none.Â
âI love you too,â he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. âJust⊠donât stop saying that, please?â
He doesnât 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.Â
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.Â
He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didnât 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.
âCome on, baby,â he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. âLet go for me, I got youâpleaseâ.â
âClarkââ 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.Â
âAgain,â he begs through gritted teeth.Â
Say his name again.Â
Tell him itâs only him.
âClark⊠oh god, Clarkââ
Your orgasm hit you like a waveâlong 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.Â
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 wouldnât crush you.Â
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.Â
Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your faceâyour forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.
âYou okay?â he murmured, voice still rough. âDid Iââ he hesitated. âDid I do alright?â
You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.
âClark, you know you did.â
His smile didnât quite settle.
âYeah?â he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. âYou sure?â
You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.
âI promise.â
He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didnât find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.
âIâm gonna grab a towel,â 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.
âHey,â you said softly.
He paused immediately, turning back to you.Â
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.
âYes?â 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.Â
âClarkâŠâ you say as you hold his gaze. âSomethingâs on your mind, isnât it?â
Darn it. He should have hidden it better.Â
âHuh?â he says quickly, like heâs been caught off guard. âNahâno, nothingâs wrong, baby. Honest.â
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.
âYou sure?â you press gently. âI mean⊠you seemed⊠I donât know. Different?â
Different.
He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. âWas it⊠was it not good for you?âÂ
He couldnât stop himself from asking.
He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted.Â
Do it better this time.
If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.
âIt was,â you say softly, before glancing down. âI just⊠I donât know.â
He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.
He didnât want this to turn into that kind of night.
Didnât 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.
âI just missed you,â 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.
âBesides, itâs getting late,â he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. âFigured I should probablyââ
âYouâre leaving?â
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.
âNoâIââ he blurts, eyes wide. âIâm not. Iâm not leaving.â
He wouldnât do that to you immediately after something like this. He didnât think he could bear it.Â
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.
âItâs okay if you are,â you say gently, like you donât want him to feel bad about it. âIf you heard something orâŠâ
The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment youâre trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.
âNo, heyâno,â he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. âThatâs not what I meant. I wasnât saying I had to go. I justââ
He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that donât come out right.Â
âI meant itâs late,â he says, softer now. âLike⊠I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we havenât eaten yet, soâŠâ
You blink at him.
âOh.â
He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.
âI mean, itâs the least I can do.â
As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything.Â
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 youâre waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when theyâre inconvenient.Â
You always make him talk more than he planned to.Â
He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.
âI justââ he starts, then stops, shaking his head.
âItâs alright, we canââ
âNo, itâs justâ,â he tries again, a little too quickly. âI just⊠I donât know.â
You donât say anything.
For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when youâre around.Â
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.
Thereâs no getting out of this.Â
ââŠFeels like I havenât been around much,â he admits finally.
Your face softens even more.
âClarkââ
âI know, I know,â he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. âI know you donât mind. You always say you donât mind. You always tell me itâs fine, and I believe you, I do, I justââ
He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.
âI just keep thinking one day youâre gonnaâŠâ he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. âMaybe youâre gonna get tired of that,â he mutters.
You blink.
âWhat?â
He stills, not meeting your eyes.
âWaiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.â He lets out a humourless laugh. âFeels like thatâs not exactly⊠boyfriend of the year material.â
You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that heâs started.
âI mean, you could have somebody whoâs actually around,â he continues. âAnybody, really. Somebody who doesnât disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.â
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.Â
He never should have started.Â
This is exactly what he didnât want.Â
âI just⊠I donât know. Feels like Iâm not doing enough for you lately,â he admits. âAnd I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.â
Deserve more than him.Â
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.Â
âClark,â you say softly, drawing him back.
He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.
âYou think I donât know who Iâm with?âÂ
He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head.Â
âYou think Iâd trade you for someone who just⊠makes it home on time?â
âYeah, but thatâs notââ
âYouâre the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man Iâve ever met,â you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. âYou take care of me better than anyone ever has.â
He still doesnât seem convinced. It makes sense on paperâyesâbut surely youâre 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.Â
He shakes his head faintly.Â
Surely thatâs not true.Â
âIâm not always here to do that.â
âYes, you are.â
He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.
âYeah, right.â
You tug his face again until he looks back at you.
âWhen youâre out there,â you say softly, âsaving the world every day⊠youâre taking care of me.â
He goes still, trying to understand what youâre getting at.Â
âYou make it safer for me to live here,â you continue, voice warm, smile returning. âFor me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.â
âYou think that doesnât count?â you whisper.
He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. Heâs waiting for a sign that youâre being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isnât any.
You just keep looking at him the same way you always doâlike none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.
ââŠYou really mean that?â though itâs more statement than question.
You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.
âI wouldnât say it if I didnât.â
He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.
âHoneyâŠâ he mutters, now embarrassed. âYou always know the right thing to say, donât you?â
Always know how to keep him steady.Â
You grin.
âWell, someoneâs gotta look after the cityâs Superman.âÂ
He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it isâthat stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.
âI justâŠ,â he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that heâs started. âFeels like I should be doing more.â
You shake your head immediately.
âI donât want somebody else,â you say simply. âYouâre the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.â
That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.
âHey, that only happened twice.âÂ
âThree,â you correct.
ââŠOkay, three.â
He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else whenâ
Your stomach growls.
He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder.Â
âOh my god.â
Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.
âWell we canât have that,â he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.
You laugh into his chest.
âIâm fine.â
âNope. Not happening.â He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. âAbsolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I canât let you starve five minutes later.â
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.
âHey!â
âWhat?â he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. âDoctorâs orders. You need food.â
âIâm not a patient!â
âYou are when you donât eat.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.
Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.
ââŠDo I have time for a shower before dinner?â
He stops instantly.
âOf course you do,â he says. âYou just say the word, I got all night.â
You raise an eyebrow.
âAll night, huh?â
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.
âYou alright?â 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.
âClark,â you laugh, pushing at his chest. âGo. I need to shower.â
âRight, right,â he says, but heâs still smiling.Â
He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.
You point at him.
âOut.â
âYes maâam.â
He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot.Â
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.Â
He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.
He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl.Â
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
there will most certainly be more where this came from if people want so lmk ! <3
The carriage ride back to Summerhall had been uncomfortably silent. The kind of âsilent' that sits heavy in the air, stifling, close, and suffocating. The sort that does not invite speech so much as forbid it.Â
The wheels turned, and the horses moved, and the road unspooled behind you, pale dust rising and settling in the afternoon heat. You watched it through the narrow window without really seeing any of it. The countryside moved past with complete indifference - trees, hills, the occasional sprawl of a village, smoke from cook fires, children stopping in the road to watch the carriage pass - all of it continuing, utterly unchanged, as though nothing of consequence had occurred.
Daeron sat across from you. You were aware of him the way you were aware of the close walls of the carriage, the warmth of the day, the dull and persistent ache behind your eyes that had settled in sometime before you had departed from Ashford and showed no inclination to leave. You did not look at him. You had not looked at him since it had happened.
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.Â
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.Â
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 -Â 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.Â
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.Â
He had not swung the flail.Â
He could not have governed his father's hand even if he'd wanted to.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 simplyâ" You shook your head. "Men should not die like that. One moment here, the next gone, without any time toâ"
"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.Â
"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.Â
It had gotten in now.Â
"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 fatherâs -"
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
"Do you remember when you fell out of the oak tree?" He asked, seemingly out of nowhere, without any particular preamble.Â
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 âtake me to herâ, 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.Â
"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.Â
"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 âunreasonableâ and what you mean by âreasonableâ 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.
--
a/n: i took more of a 'poetic' approach to this?? so fuck grammar, it went right out of the window. how many times was the word 'and' used here? who cares, it's poetry. i'm pumping out more daeron content. i have another oneshot in the works that should hopefully be out by the end of the weekend, and another request in progress ! requests for daeron are currently open (:
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Comfort In Her Arms // Valarr x betrothed!Reader // Drabble
Summary: After the death of his father, Valarr refuses to leave the pyre. His betrothed is by his side, giving him the comfort he needs.
Triggers: mention of death ; no use of y/n
"My love, it is time to go back."
"No, I want to stay."
The fire has been dying, the flame going out, yet Baelor's son still stood by. The rest of the family had gone but Valarr had stayed.
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.
"And we will wake in the morning and start anew, just like we always have and just like we always will."
summary ... steve just wants five minutes alone with you, but your friends have incredible timing. aka the four times you and steve are interrupted by your wonderful friends, and the one time you actually find yourselves alone
pairing ... steve harrington x fem!reader (7.1k)
warnings ... smut!, like this is porn with very little plot, mentions of reader using she/her pronouns(like twice), kissing, like heavy making out, groping, grinding, dry humping, slight fingering, dirty talk, steve and reader are horny for each other, eventual p in v, unprotected sex, reader and steve keep getting interrupted when they start to get hot and heavy
note ... i don't write a lot of smut, which is funny considering the first things i wrote when i came back to this blog was smut...i digress, it's not something i regularly write, but i got this idea, and i couldn't get it out of my head. so now you get to read my messy ideas!
masterlist !
ONE â ROBIN
When you and Steve had decided to get an apartment together, you figured youâd get a hell of a lot of alone time, considering the two of you would now be living together.
What you didnât realize, was now that you and Steve were living on your own, without eyes watching over you like little children, your small apartment, had become the new hot spot.
All your friends had designated it as HQ for hanging out, without having to worry about their parents looking over their shoulder.
That shows you, making friends with literal teenagers.
But tonight.
The apartment is empty.
You and Steve finally have the night to yourselves, and you were going to use it to the best of your abilities.
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 Steveâs 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.
âSounds prettyâ Steve mumbles.
The words are shared between your lips, breathy and low, his words meant for you and only you.
âStevieâ You sound just as breathy, more high pitched and whiny.
The arm around your waist loosens for a moment, Steveâs hand wandering up the sweater youâre wearing, palms scraping against your warm skin.
With the skills of a man who knows what heâs 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.
âI donât know whether to be turned on, or worried, that youâre so good at thatâ 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.
âTurned onâ Steve nodded, a smug smile on his lips. âDefinitely turned onâ
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 Steveâs 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.
âShitâ 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 Steveâs motions.
âThat feels good Stevieâ You whimper.
âYeahâ Steveâs grinning now, sliding his jean clad bulge up and down, over and over your center. âYou like that sweetheart?â
âSo muchâ 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.
âSo fucking prettyâ 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.
âPlease Stevieâ You say, your hand slipping beneath his shirt now, clutching at his muscled back.
âTell me what you want sweetheartâ Steve breathes the words against your skin, peering up at you with hooded eyes. âUse those pretty little wordsâ
Your lips part, ready to demand Steve to fuck the ever loving life out of you, but you donât get the chance.
Because, your front door swings open.
Hinges groaning with the force, door slamming against the wall.
And Robin comes storming in.
âI need your help, desperately, like you donât even know how much I need your help right nowâ She comes in like a whirl wind, talking a mile a minute.
Sheâs so busy trying to talk her way into the apartment that she doesnât even know what sheâs 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 Steveâs hair like your life depended on it.
Not to mention, you were spread out on the couch, with Steve grinding down on you like thereâs no tomorrow.
âI asked Vickie on a date, like a real life actual date and I have no idea what Iâm doing, and I'm so freaking nervousâŠand you know what I'm like when I'm nervous, I canât shut upâ 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 wasnât doing much better, he refused to look at Robin, refused to look at you, his face was beat red, ready to explode.
âI need you guys to talk me down, cause right now, Iâm 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 hurtâŠnot like kill myself worthy, you know?â 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.
âOh god!â Robin shouted, covering her eyes with her hands. âGross guys, you have a bedroom specifically made for stuff like thisâ
âYou kinda barged into our apartment, without warningâ 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 werenât 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.
âBut do you have to do it on the couch?â Robin whined, still covering her eyes. âWe hang out on that couchâ
âItâs our apartmentâ Steveâs voice is stilted, annoyed. âWe can do it wherever we wantâ
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.
âYou can uncover your eyesâ 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.
âI need help, you guys need to help me figure out what Iâm gonna sayâ 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.
âHow did you even get in?â Steve asks, ignoring Robin's pleas for help. âThe door was lockedâ
âI have a keyâ Robin waves his concerns away.
âHow do you have a key?â Steve asks, still confused.
âDustin gave it to meâ
âHow does Dustin have a key?â
âHe made one, dingus, can we get back to my problem now?â
Steve groans, throwing his head back against the couch, slouching down.
You sigh, butting yourself into their argument, knowing that if you donât, they would be talking in circles for hours.
âYou wanted help with your date with Vickieâ You nodded at Robin.
âYes,â Robin nods. âI need you guys to run fake date scenarios with me, so I know what to do, and what to say, so I donât sound like a total dingusâŠlike Steveâ
âHey!â Steveâs eyes snap open, glaring directly at Robin.
This was going to be a long afternoon.
TWO â DUSTIN
Steveâs 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.
âTonight was niceâ You murmured, not wanting to break the soft atmosphere in the car.
âReally niceâ 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 wasnât 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 Steveâs, slowly trailing your fingers over each of his knuckles.
âI canât wait to get you homeâ Steve hums, looking at you for a moment, before turning his attention back to the road.
You feel a burning in your stomach.
âYeah?â You question. âWhat are you gonna do to me?â
Steve squeezes your thigh again.
âIâm gonna kiss the freaking crap out of youâ Steve starts tame, but you know him too well, and by the smirk spreading across his lips, you know whatâs coming.
âIâm gonna strip you down, and bury my head between your thighs until youâre shakingâ That warm feeling in your stomach is tenfold now. âThen Iâm gonna fuck you, slow and deep, because thatâs what you need, isnât it sweetheart?â
âYeah, Stevieâ You nod. âI want it, I want youâ
Steveâs responding chuckle is deep, throaty. It sends a shiver down your spine, like a forewarning about whatâs going to happen.
âI know you do,â Steve glances at you again. âI want you so much, you have no ideaâ
You slide Steveâs hand further up your thigh, pushing his fingers past the hem of your dress.
Steveâs 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.
âOh, sweetheartâ Steve groans, head tilting back slightly, eyes still trained on the road before him.
âStevieâ 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.
âYouâre wet alreadyâ Steve murmured, as if he couldnât quite believe it. âThatâs all it take huh, dinner and a little dirty talkâ
You whimpered as his fingers started drawing slow circles around your clit.
âOnly for youâ Your voice is airy.
Steve groans.
You guys are close to your apartment now, but you didnât 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.
âFuck, sweetheartâ 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 itâs doing, wrapping your legs around Steveâs waist, gripping his shoulders with a rough grip, pressing your chest against his as you kiss him.
Steveâs hand rests on your waist, pulling your body down on his lap, thereâs very little space for you to work with, but that just means you guys are pressed together, neither of you are complaining.
Steveâs 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 Steveâs slacks.
âCanât even make it into the apartmentâ 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 Steveâs 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.
âShitâ Steveâs 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.
âTouch me Stevieâ 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 Steveâs lap, her head banging against the roof of Steveâs car. While Steve is trapped under your body, not that heâs 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.
âCome on Hendersonâ Steve groans, head leaning against the head rest, eyes squeezed shut, as if it would make the boy disappear. âWhat the hell are you doing here?â
âMovie nightâ Dustin said sternly, holding a VHS in his hand, giving you both a pointed look. âBut you guys were too busy feeling each other up, to notice meâ
You felt heat licking up your spine.
If Steve felt embarrassed, he didnât let it show, he looked more annoyed if anything.
âDude, seriously!â Steve cried out, throwing his hands up in the air, exasperated.
âYou promised!â Dustin accused, pointing a finger at Steve.
âWeâre busyâ Steve motions between the two of you. âClearlyâ
âYeahâ Dustin spat, looking more disgusted than youâve ever seen him. âIâve seen more of you than I have ever wanted toâ
âThen go home!â Steve shouts.
âItâs dark, you expect me to bike home in this shit!â Dustin shouts back.
You worry about the neighbours hearing you.
âOkayâ You settle, sitting up in your seat, smoothing down the skirt of your dress. âLetâs take a beat guysâ
âYou biked here, you can sure as hell bike back!â Steve continues to shout around you, looking Dustin square in the eyes.
âYou suck Harrington!â 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 heâs left his bike.
You sigh loudly.
Looking at Steve.
Who looks like heâs 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.
âNoâ Steve says firmly. âNot happening, heâs going home, and weâre gonna get back to where we wereâ
âWe canât let him do thatâ You deny. âItâs dark and itâs lateâ
You know your guilt tripping him.
But the moods been ruined, once again.
Steve sighs heavily.
He looks at Dustin through the windshield, whoâs hovering around his bike, looking like heâs waiting for something.
âStupid little shitâ Steve mutters, admitting defeat.
âYou love him, I know you doâ You smile, leaning over to kiss him, once, twice, before pulling away.
Steve huffs.
âI love youâ He corrects, slapping his palms against his thighs. âHeâs lucky you careâ
âSureâ You nod to appease him, but you both know that Steve really does care about Dustin, even when heâs driving him up the wall.
You and Steve hop out of the car.
âDonât make me regret thisâ Steve mutters, you both walk up together, Steveâs arm is around your shoulders, yours is around his waist.
âCome onâ 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 â NANCY + JONATHAN + ROBIN
Steveâs 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 wasnât 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 Robinâs 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 wasnât 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 wasnât supposed to start for another thirty minutes.
And just having you on the couch, was doing things to Steve, things he really shouldnât be thinking about in the confines of the booth, his place of work.
âThis one?â You asked, holding up a Cyndi Lauper record, to which Robin shook her head, nose scrunching.
âWe played her songs way too much last weekâ Robin explained, flipping through another stack. âWe need more varietyâ
You huffed.
Steve felt his heart clench.
âThere, uh, there are some more records in the basementâ Steve stumbled over his words, drawing your and Robinâs attention to him. âWe could grab a couple of those, see if theyâre any goodâ
âYeah, I think I saw a Prince album down there last week, could be worth a lookâ You agreed, placing the record in your hand back on the stack.
âSureâ Robin shrugged.
âIâll go down and have a lookâ Steve nodded, looking at you, giving you a slight quirk of his eyebrow. âWanna help?â
âOkayâ You nodded.
Robin shuffles her chair closer to the desk, sparing you both a strange look.
âKeep your hands to yourself down there dingusâ She warns, pointing a finger in Steveâs direction. âThis is a place of business, not your love nestâ
âWhy are you telling me!â Steve exclaimed. âWhy don't you tell her that?â Steve pointed an accusatory finger at you.
âShe has more self control than youâ Robin replies, shrugging her shoulders.
âNo she doesnâtâ Steve denied.
Robin looks at Steve, deadpan and unbelieving.
Steve scoffs loudly.
You are so glad that Robin canât 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.
âWhateverâ 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, heâs 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.
âSorryâ Steve breathed out.
ââs fineâ 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.
âSteveâ You whisper, back arching, pressing your chest against Steve's.
âI knowâ 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.
âHiâ You smile, itâs 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.
âHey sweetheartâ Steve smiles back.
That smile has your heart fluttering, a tingle of warm zinging right through your body. Steveâs 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 youâd love to swim in.
Steve kisses you again.
Itâs 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 Steveâs lips, he groans loudly, lips parting, tongues brushing.
âGuys, Nancy and Jonathan are here, thereâs gonna be a--Seriously!â
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.
âAgain!â Robin exclaims, standing on the stairs, hands on her hips.
Nancy and Jonathan are struggling to muffle their laughter, taking in Steveâs flushed cheeks, and your down cast eyes, not feeling brave enough to lock eyes with Robin.
âI told you to keep your hands to yourself Steve!â Robin exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at him.
Steve scoffed.
âYeah, well, I wasnât the one who started thisâ Steve muttered, motioning between the two of you with a waggaling finger.
âSteve!â You cried, slapping his arm.
âOw! Sorry!â He said, clutching his arm, looking at you with wide eyes.
âOkay, keep it in your pants you guysâ Nancy joked goodnaturedly.
âThe radio station, thatâs what gets you going huh?â Jonathan snicked behind his hand.
âShut upâ You mutter.
âI canât believe thisâ Robin is running her fingers through her hair. âI thought Steve was the menace in your relationship, turns out I was wrongâ
You rolled your eyes.
âCan you blame me?â You say, but itâs quiet, and lacks the confidence your candance normally carries.
âNot in our place of work!â Robin chastised, like you and Steve were a pair of dogs she was training.
âAll right,â Steve waved her off. âWe get it, we canât do it at the station, or in my car or in our own freaking apartment, just let us know where and when thenâ
Steve puts his hands on his hips, looking expectantly at Robin, whose cheeks are a soft shade of pink.
âNot the time or the place lover boyâ Nancy cuts in.
âItâs crawl timeâ Jonathan finishes the statement. âSo both of you, behaveâ
Maybe next time, youâd finally get it right.
FOUR â 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.
âTwo tickets for the lovely ladyâ 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.
âWhatâre we watching?â You asked.
âNo ideaâ Steve shrugs, though you canât see it, you feel the motion against your back. âItâs a dark theater, away from everyone we know, I couldnât care less what the movie actually isâ
You laugh, turning your head, looking at Steve over your shoulder.
âLetâs go inside, before you jinx itâ
âWhy would I be the jinx here?â Steve asked, bewildered. âThey come looking for you, not meâ
You take Steveâs 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.
âCanât help it if Iâm your better halfâ 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.
âDonât I know itâ
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, Steveâs arm still around your shoulders, as he sits in the seat beside you.
âItâs a rerun of some movieâ Steve whispers in your ear. âTheyâve been showing it for two weeks now, thereâs no chance theyâre gonna be hereâ
âWhat movie is it?â You ask, tilting your head.
âWho cares, are you actually gonna watch it?â Steve asks, tilting his head, mirroring your actions, making you smile. âWhile all this is sitting beside youâ
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 withoutâŠwell doing anything really, you didnât have room to breathe around each other, before someone was knocking on your door, or walking into something they really shouldnât 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.
âWhat movie?â 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 heâs wanted.
You arenât much better.
You meet his lips with just as much enthusiasm, pressing one hand against Steveâs 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.
âGodâ He mumbled against your lips, kissing between his slightly slurred words. âI feel like a horny teenager againâ
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 youâll have.
You feel Steveâs teeth bite down on your lip, itâs harsh, and you wince a little, but the shiver that runs down your spine is a good distraction.
âSteveâ You whimper softly.
Steveâs 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, youâd done it before, recreationally. It was always a little bit of daunting fun, doing something crass in public.
But nowâŠ
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 Steveâs bones.
Steveâs 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 Steveâs 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 hadnât heard a crowd of familiar voices.
âWhat the hell Harrington!â
Steveâs 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 Steveâs 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.
âFucking Hendersonâ 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.
âI tried calling you like a million timesâ Dustin continues on, not missing a beat. âYou could have at least told us you were gonna be here tonight, we needed a rideâ
âI didnât tell you idiots on purposeâ Steve muttered against your neck, his breath fanning across your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake.
âMikeâs mom had to take usâ Dustin grumbled, making his way down the row, intent on berating Steve up close and personal. âCould have saved us the troubleâ
You run your fingers through Steveâs hair, tugging softly at the strands of brown hair, making Steveâs breath hitch, the hand he had resting on your waist, tightens its grip.
âDudeâ Max scoffs, she lingers somewhere behind Dustin, further down the row. âI donât think they wanted your companyâ
âShut upâ Dustin mutters, throwing himself down in the seat beside Steve, spilling popcorn in his lap in the process.
âWhat are you guys even doing here?â Dustin asks. âYou guys know this is a Star Wars rerun rightâ
âOh my godâ You whisper, feeling Steve tense, you stopped tugging at Steveâs hair.
âYeahâ Lucas's smug voice joins the ranks, leaning over in his seat. âWhat are you guys doing here?â
âShut it, Sinclairâ You mutter, tossing a mean look over at the boy, who sat back in his seat, snickering with Max beside him.
âI didnât know you were a Star Wars fan Harringtonâ Mike chimes in, and youâve 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.
âIâm gonna kick your ass Wheelerâ Steve points a finger at Mike, who grins even wider, nudging El with his elbow, and she smiles at the way the vein on Steveâs 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.
âI canât believe this is the movie you pickedâ You hissed the words between you and Steve, not willing to speak any louder, less one of the little gremlins heard you.
âI wasnât paying attentionâ Steve whined, looking back at you with those soft brown eyes, the very ones you had trouble saying no to.
âThe name Star Wars didnât tip you off?â 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.
âIâm sorryâ
He looked kind of pitiful, and you really couldnât 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 Steveâs 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.
âDonât worry about itâ You shook it off, settling back in your seat, Steve followed you down, resting his head against your shoulder. âWeâll get it right eventuallyâ
Steve sighed.
FIVE â 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 Steveâs 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.
âCome here sweetheartâ 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.
âYou gonna kiss me or what Harringtonâ 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 heâs your lifeline on a sinking ship.
The kiss isnât inherently desperate, but thereâs 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 doesnât 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 Steveâs fingers, buried deep inside your pussy.
âYesâ You whisper, nodding your head, biting your lip.
Steve slips a single finger inside your pussy, feeling your wall clenching around the appendage.
âLike this?â 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.
âJust like thatâ Itâs a breath sigh, words barely finding their way out of your lips.
Steveâs fingers work wondering, and to make a pleasurable situation better, his thumb reaches up to rub circles on your clit.
âWant to fuck you sweetheartâ Steveâs voice reaches your ears, itâs low and grumbled, his hips rutting against your thigh, you can feel his hardened cock beneath his jeans. âYou gonna let me fuck you?â
âYes, yesâ You nod so quickly, Steve wonders how you havenât 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.
âSo prettyâ 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.
âTake your jeans off Stevieâ 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.
âThose tooâ You pointed to his boxers.
Steve smirks, pulling his underwear down his legs, slowly, watching you watch him, enjoying your eyes on him.
Steveâs 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.
âPleaseâ 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.
âYou want my cock, donât you sweetheartâ Steve pressed his lips to your neck, lathering you in slow, open mouthed kisses.
âSo muchâ 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 Steveâs 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.
âFucking finallyâ He breathed out, feeling like he was finally where he should be.
âOhâ You gasp, as Steve pushes his cock further into your pussy, the stretch mouthwatering.
Youâre warm and wet, practically gushing around Steveâs throbbing cock, clenching around him.
âSo wet sweetheart. So tightâ Steve groans, head bent, watching every inch of his cock slip inside your weeping pussy.
You know Steveâs cock is big, youâve 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 Steveâs cock buried inside you, and you already feel full to the brim.
âShit, Steveâ
Your nails grind down into Steveâs 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.
âSo fucking deepâ You breath, biting your lip, head thrown back, eyes fluttering closed.
âPretty pussy sucking me in so good sweetheartâ Steve hums, lips pushing hot air against your skin, his sweaty forehead sticking to your chest. âWanna be buried in you, fucking foreverâ
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.
âYes, Steve!â Your back arches further, barely touching the bed at this point, head burning into the soft cushions.
âThatâs it sweetheartâ Steve mumbles, words low and raspy. âTake it, take all of itâ
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.
âWant you to comeâ Steve huffs, sweat pearly on his skin, slipping down his focused face. âWant you to come on my cock sweetheart, you gonna give it to me?â
âUh-huhâ You agreed, nodded your head quickly, words seemed foreign on your lolling tongue.
Steveâs 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 Steveâs 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 couldnât quite think past the feeling of Steveâs cock throbbing inside your pussy.
âStevieâ
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.
âIâm--I, shit, Steve--â
You clench around Steve, together than before, wall fluttering, juices squelching.
âThatâs it sweetheartâ 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 youâve had.
Your voice is loud, moaning out Steveâs name as you come. You can feel your pussy gushing around Steveâs cock, slick, wet, sloppy.
Steve groans.
Itâs the first thing you hear, as your mind tries its best to ground you.
âSo fucking prettyâ 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.
âGonna come inside youâ Steve mumbles, you can barely hear him over the ringing in your ears, but you nod your head, lips pouted, whimpering softly. âRight inside this pretty pussy, my pretty pussy huh sweetheartâ
Steveâs hips are losing momentum, his sharp thrusts have lost their stamina, his rhythm is off, titering on the edge.
Your hands press into Steveâs hair, holding him to your body.
Steveâs 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.
âFuckâ Steve whispered, the word hot on your skin.
Steveâs body is heavy against yours, his skin pressing against yours, there isnât a part of you that isnât touching him, you can feel his heart beat against your chest.
âWe finally did itâ You murmur softly, still trying to catch your breath.
Steve chuckles, sounding just as breathless.
âTook us a minuteâ Steve mused softly, voice shaky. âBut we got there, and it was fucking worth itâ
You sigh happily.
âBut letâs not wait so long next timeâ
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.
Knock on wood, you wonât have to wait this long ever again.
Steve Harrington x drunk!reader who asks her boyfriend to be her boyfriend [1.1k words]
CW: fem!reader, drinking and slight drunkeness, mentions underaged drinking [the teens] but with adult supervision, fluff
Itâs that point of the night where the drunken shenanigans have tapered off into something more dulcet, almost intimate.Â
Most of the kidsâ Hellfire buddies have left, leaving only The Party in their wake.Â
Steve doesnât drink anymore, at least not enough to get drunk. Heâll have a beer when the moment calls for it, but too many blows to the head and his proclivity for migraines leaves him avoiding losing control of his faculties. Plus, he likes being able to look after the bunch of you when you all take a well deserved moment to let loose.
Maybe heâs a bad babysitter for letting the teenagers drink, but what Steve Harrington is not is a hypocrite, and God only knows that heâs not innocent of underage drinking. Besides, he prefers they drink here, in front of him, in a controlled environment where he can watch after them and make sure they donât overindulge.Â
As it is, theyâre good kids. None of them are drunk enough to act a fool or embarrass themselves. Protecting their frontal lobes, as Dustin so eloquently put it (Steve wishes heâd been smart enough to do the same at their age), merely tipsy and effervescent in their own ways.
El has passed out with her head in Robinâs lap, the older girl gently stroking Elâs hair not unlike one might pet a cat while sheâs engaged in some lively debate with Dustin aboutâŠwell, Steveâs not entirely sure; he hasnât 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 didnât keep everything above board, leaving Will and Mike to sit together with their heads bowed as they discuss their current campaign.
And then thereâs 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 thereâs alcohol involved.Â
But as the night drags on, youâve gone soft and pliant in your seat beside him, leaning heavily into his side as you play with his hand that youâve trapped within your grip. Youâre so still, so calm, that the only reason he knows youâre 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.Â
Heâs about to ask you how youâre feeling, if you need anything, if youâre almost ready to leave, when you â his sweet, lovely girlfriend â ask him a question.Â
âSteve?â
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.Â
âYeah?â
âI was wondering if youâd please be my boyfriend,â you continue, very polite in your request.Â
A funny smile takes over Steveâs face as he tries not to laugh at you lest the night devolve into wounded tears. Heâs been your boyfriend for almost two years now.
âYouâd like me to be your boyfriend?â He clarifies, earning him a hum of agreement from you.Â
He squints and purses his lips, pretending to consider it. âWell, I donât knowâŠwhat would I get out of it?â
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 girlâs boyfriend?Â
Beats me, he thinks sarcastically, happier than heâs ever been with you hanging off his arm.
Youâve 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, youâre 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.
âHm? Whatâs that?â 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.
âI dâknow what youâd get,â you admit with a sigh, blinks heavy as though your lashes hold a new weight. âJust thought itâd be nice to do this more.â
âDo what?â Steve asks, thoroughly delighted. âDo this?â
You hum in agreement when he squeezes your hand. âItâs nice to cuddle, isnât it?â
âThe nicest,â he agrees. âDo I not cuddle you enough, sweetheart? Is that what all this is about?âÂ
Your answering hum is noncommittal at best, wary at worst. Steve hates the thought that heâs somehow left you wanting, though he already fields insults from Robin who calls him a velcro-boyfriend. Heâs not sure how much cuddlier he can get, but he can try.Â
âSâjust that I think youâd be a very good boyfriend.â
Well, isnât that just the best compliment a boyfriend could get. âYeah? Thank you, baby. Iâd love to be your boyfriend.â
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 isnât 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.Â
âJesus, easy, easy; watch the goods,â he hisses as you settle heavily on top of him, eliciting a breathless oof from the both of you. âBetter?â
âThâbest,â you hum in appreciation, nuzzling your cheek into his shoulder and reclaiming the same hand of his youâd 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.Â
He shrugs his shoulders and gestures towards you, making a face as though saying can you believe this girl?Â
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 isnât Steveâs love line.Â
GASPPP what abouttt just some comfort with steve? with everything going on in hawkins rn im sure both of them would be really stressed and maybe we get steve comforting reader when she breaks down or something?? IDK but tyyy
wait for me â steve harrington
steve said heâd be back from the upside down in thirty minutes. there and back. to wait for him. he wonât be long. heâs a lot longer than you thought. panic overtakes you.
steve harrington x reader, angst, 1.2k words
thank u anon!!! this kinda got away from me, I kinda used it to work on my writing and filler paragraphs. itâs not so much comfort, just reader being overwhelmed and in love with steve and super panicky but thereâs a lil bit of comfort in the end promise.
What if this is how it happens? Not with claws or teeth, just with waiting.
You look up the long, winding service road and remind yourself that the trees are just trees. Despite how high they tower over you, how much they resemble a reaching hand, the shadows canât hurt you. Not here.
Minutes stretch thin, snap, coil back in on themselves. The air tastes like metal and something burnt. Every sound echoes too loudly â your own breathing, the distant groan of the place shifting, the wet drag of something moving far away.
Steve told you where to stand like it mattered. The thing is, he doesnât bark orders, doesnât rush it. He looked at you like he was committing the shape of your face to memory in case the worst happened. Then he pointed down the ruined road, past the empty mailboxes and the spreading black growth clawing up the hill. Right where he was supposed to return, through the gate and back to the real world. Back home.
Youâre not sure how long itâs been. The crack through your wristwatch mocks you, a useless shard of time. Logically, you know it canât even have been an hour longer than heâd said. Though the heavy, weighing feeling in your stomach is sure itâs been hours. You can feel a panic settling in. You donât know whether to stand where heâs told you to, or to go off and look for him, risking whatever waits for you in the other side of the gate.
What if heâs hurt? The thought claws at your mind, relentless, painting him broken and bleeding, waiting for you in some corner of this nightmare while you stand, waiting for him like heâd told you to
The image presses against your chest, heavy and accusing, like some high school bully taunting you. Itâs unfair, cruel how powerless you feel, how small, as if the world has condensed into the space between fear and regret, and thereâs 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 donât want to happen.
You donât want Steve to return to a you who is a lot more upset than you were before he left. Youâve been faking a version of you that is stronger for a lot longer than youâd like to admit. But itâs 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 shouldnât 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 wasnât just Steve being gone that hurts you, itâs everything finally arriving at the same moment, uninvited and unavoidable. All the fear youâd swallowed and promises made in chaos have come crashing down at once. Youâve 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 doesnât 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 donât 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 heâll be back, that he wonât leave you, he means it. You have no reason to not trust him. Worry like this is making your head spin.
You donât 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. Youâre on your feet before you realise youâre moving. The forest blurs as you run, fear and longing tangling so tightly you canât tell them apart.
Steve stumbles out of the gate like heâs been kicked from a nightmare, coughing, bat slipping from his grip, hair worse than usual and face smeared with dirt and red ash. Heâs 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 â pulls a sharp breath between his teeth, followed by a baby.
âWhere were you!â You punctuate every word with a slap to his chest. Youâre not as hard as youâd like to be. You canât bring yourself to hurt him as much as you want to. You were scared.
âHey!â he huffs. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry.â
He hugs you tight. You cry like youâve 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.
âIâm so sorry,â he says, into your hair, over and over. âI didnât mean to scare you. It took longer than I thought. I shouldâveâ I know. I know.â
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 youâre not used to. He squeezes your arms and your leather jacket squeaks under his hold. Itâs grounding. His hands on your arms, the smell of his cologne, clouded with his sweat. The feeling of his waist under your hands.
âI thought youâdâŠâ You canât say it. Speaking it into the universe feels too much. The thoughts youâd had between and now were enough. Saying it out loud is too much for you.
âIâm sorry, baby.â He canât stop hugging you. You donât want him to. âIâm not going anywhere.â
And this time, with his arms around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, the universe seemed to listen.
IN A LONELY ROOM | STEVE HARRINGTON X FEM!READER 3.4K | ANGST, FLUFF
âAnd that was another song for all of you lovers out there,â Steve intoned, his voice flat, almost wistful. He was tipped back in the radio station chair, eyes staring blankly at the wooden panelled ceiling as he brought the microphone to his lips. âAnd even if your special someone is mad at you, hereâs hoping itâs nothinâ a little smooth jazz canât fix.â
Steve sighed as he pressed the tape deck and Solomon Burke started to croon through his headphones. He muted the mic and let it drop onto the table top, the sound a heavy thud in the quiet room. Night shifts at the station were lonely when you werenât here to keep him company.
He hadnât heard from you since last night, not since he rushed home and dialled your number with the phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, one shoe off in the hallway and his arms struggling to free themselves from his jacket. Youâd answered on the fourth ring and Steve had greeted you with a rushed apology, sincere and desperate and god - Steve knew you were mad.
Heâd seen the hurt flash in your eyes as heâd 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. Heâd slammed on the brakes, heart in his mouth and Jonathan had almost ended up through the windscreen.
He hadnât 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 wellâ he drove off with Jonathan yelling about decibels and interference.
But youâd 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 heâd driven straight to yours instead.
And then youâd told him, âthatâs the third time this month, Steve. What am I supposed to think?â
He wasnât sure what he was supposed to say to that. Nancyâs crawl plans didnât 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.
âKeep her out of this.â Hopper had once growled at him. âFor our sake and hers. And especially yours. We donât have time for another dead body, we donât have time to fix the people that are grieving. Not anymore.â
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 Maxâs 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.
âBabe, Iâm so sorry. I- I forgot I picked up an extra shift. I didnât mean to-â
âTo what?â Youâd 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. âTo let me see you driving around town with Jonathan Byers? For what? A burger run? For the hell of it? Whatever, Steve.â
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 Enzoâs 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 didnât bother with any conversation before he loaded up another song, one just as heartfelt and soppy as the last. Heâd 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. Youâd 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 didnât 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. Heâd really fucked up. And smooth jazz couldnât fix it.
Just as he wondered what the longest song was in the stationâs 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. âHey, hey baby.â Steveâs 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. âYou still brought me dinner?â
You sniffed, side stepping him and moving into the booth. âMaybe,â was all you said. âBut if youâre only interested in food, Iâll leave this here and goââ
âNo! Nonono, baby, câmon.â 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. âCan we talk? Can I, can I talk? Please?â
You didnât reply. But you didnât 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.
âBaby,â he started, his eyes wide and his brow creased. Fuck, he hated this. He hated the way you didnât 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. âBaby, please, you gotta believe me, Iââ
Shit.
You scoffed, coming to life in a flurry of anger and fury. Eyes narrowed, you finally set your gaze on him. âBelieve you? Believe you?â You laughed, humourless and still edging on tears. âDonât make me laugh, Steve Harrington, I know you better than I know anyone. Or at least I thought I did. Youâve been lying to me for months. Extra shifts? Family dinners? Robin in the hospital?â
Steve swallowed the brick that was stuck in his throat, wincing as it scratched and scraped on the way down. He felt sick.
âCome off it, Steve. Vickie works in the wards. Robin was never sick in the hospital, you werenât working late last night. Why was Jonathan in the van with you? Was Nancy there too? Huh? Whatâs even going on? Would you just rather hang out with your ex and her boyfriend than have dinner with me? Is that it?â
âNo! No, god,â 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? âBabe, baby, please, please you gotta believe me, okay? I swear, Iâ I wasââ
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 didnât know how to treat another person properly yet.
âYou were what, Steve?â 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 heâd 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.
âBaby,â Steve tried, his mouth grazing over the back of your hand, your skin warm and smelling like cinnamon. Probably from the dessert youâd baked him. âHoney, please, look at me?â
Eventually you did, with a sniff and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You didnât 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 heâd worn all evening. He looked stressed, his brow creased and his brown eyes too wide, worry flooding from him.
Youâd never heard him so serious when he spoke next, his lips at your hands, mouthing over your skin as he said, âdo you trust me?â
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.
Youâd 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.
Youâd turned on the radio as you made dinner, the default setting immediately allowing Steveâs 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 youâd even had the plate youâd dished up for yourself.
Because despite everything, despite your heartache and disappointment and just sheer confusion at Steveâs actions of late, you didnât 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.
Steveâs 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 werenât 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. âYeah?â 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. âIâm sorry, baby. I really am. But please, please believe me when I say I canât tell you what Iâve been doing.â
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?
âSteve, what do you expect me to even say to that?â
âI know, I know,â Steve urged, his voice quiet and still soft and fuck, he hoped Robin had made that tape extra long. âBut listen, yeah? If you trust me, then please, baby. Please understand that Iâm trying my best. Iâmâ Iâm trying to help a friend, okay?â
Steve swallowed, the sensation of it feeling like glass in his throat because he wasnât lying, not really. Not like the other times he had to abandon you for crawls and meetings at Hopâs cabin. Not like his shitty excuses of hospital trips and late shifts at work.
No, this time heâd lay it out as best as he could. Within reason. In whatever way kept you safe.
But shit, it still sucked.
âIâm helping a friend do something pretty important. And itâs⊠itâs not really safe.â 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.
âItâs okay though, I promise. Itâs not illegal or anything like that.â He wasnât even sure if that was a lie. Steve didnât 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.
âAre you in trouble? Steve, do you need money? âCause I can work extra shifts, I can try and helpââ
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 thatâs what Dustin liked to remind him. He didnât often disagree.
He leant forward, kissing at the apple of your cheek and when you didnât pull away, he snuck another one to your lips, quick and fleeting and soft. âNo, baby, no, nothing like that, I swear. Itâs just, itâs just a little complicated.â Steve was almost certain The Beatles were running out of songs by now. âI know itâs 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.â
Steve needed you to believe him more than anything. He wasnât quite sure heâd do very well if you walked out on him. In fact, he was pretty sure he was bound to die off if he didnât get to kiss you properly soon. Despite your tears and smudge mascara, Steve was positive you were the prettiest girl heâd 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. âOkay,â you whispered. âI trust you.â
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.
âThank you,â he murmured into you, his nose brushing your hairline as he pressed his affection and his words to your forehead. âShit, thank you, baby. And Iâm sorry, okay? Iâm so fucking sorry, I swear Iâll make it up to you ten times over, Iâll- Iâll take you Enzoâs, to the city, whatever you want.â
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 didnât happen quickly. Sore chests and hurt feelings still lingered, as did the hidden truth of Steveâs new hobby.
You smiled at him, tight lipped and with a crinkled brow. âYouâre safe, arenât you? Youâre okay?â
Steve didnât know how to answer that without lying to your face. Because no, what he did wasnât 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 wasnât 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. âYeah, baby.â 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. âIâm okay as long as you are.â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Hey! Iâm the age of some of your moms and aunts and the OG version of this post helped me catch my cancer in 2023. I had a hysterectomy at the beginning of 2024 and Iâve been cancer-free since then. If I hadnât read this information, I wouldnât have reported bleeding to the next doctor I saw. I might have died, and I probably would have had to undergo chemo and/or radiation, both of which I avoided.
Hey! If you are a transmasculine person on long term HRT (especially if you are without ovaries) and you experience this kind of bleeding after a long period of no menstruation, treat it seriously! My partner, who had his ovaries removed, began to bleed vaginally and it was stage one cancer that required his uterus be fully removed.
"The problem is people don't read classics anymore"
No I think the problem is people don't read WIDELY. The ONLY ya and/or fantasy romance crowd is just as insufferable as the ONLY classics crowd or the ONLY litfic crowd or the ONLY nonfiction crowd and vice versa.
Upon this post I have seen people assert that nobody needs to read 'books by dead white guys' to be widely read with the context that they believe only dead white guys wrote classics,
People saying that because classics are in fact written not only by dead white guys you can get by on only reading classics,
And the classic (hah), people are just always going to be insufferable.
All of these have missed the point and are examples of why people should in fact read widely.
Read widely. Read beyond what you've been told are 'the classics'. Read works by authors from other times and places. Read works by authors who are different from yourself.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
pairing: finnick odair x reader (female pronouns, y/n not used)
word count: 10.6k
summary: not quite friends, but not quite lovers; you and finnick odair have been living in a careful balance that always leaves the both of you wanting more. when the third quarter quell arrives, you realize itâs better to be late than never.
warnings: typical hunger games stuff like child murder, forced prostitution, etc... slight mention of like suicidal thoughts but it's brief. smut (fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, i can't remember anything else, pretty vanilla stuff).
notes: there's kind of a lot of plot which i was nawwwt expecting. my bad if you're not into that i guess i know a lot of people look forward to the freaky stuff and it's def not my strong suit so i apologize đ.
It was a little fucked up, the way you actually looked forward to being summoned to the Capitol.
Yes, theyâd tortured your district for generations by killing children for decades upon decades.Â
During your games, they starved you, maimed you, and forced you to kill other innocent children when you were just sixteenâa child by any means.
The torture hadn't stopped after the games, either. Even the nightmares were a walk in the park compared to the prostitution that awaited you in the Capitol. The looming threat of your familyâs safety being compromised should you dare get any ideas of disobeying.Â
So yes, it was a bit crazy to have a smile tug at the corner of your lips when a peacekeeper knocked on your door and told you President Snow had summoned you to the Capitol for the End of Victory Tour celebration.Â
The smile, like always, was followed by quiet humming and a little skip in your step as youâd 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, theyâd 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 whoâd shown you the ropes after youâd been crowned the year after him.
Being from different districts, the only time you were able to see him was when youâd both been called to the Capitol.
Gazing out the window as the station came into view, you sighed and imagined what youâd 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.Â
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 youâd 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 â once for the Games, once for the tour, and however many times you were summoned by Capitol citizens.Â
The Games were obviously hardâand so was the business you did in the Capitolâbut 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 â there'd been two Victors this time, and their win sparked something in the districts that youâd never seen in your life. You didnât hold any hope there would be long lasting change, but you were glad to see this yearâs Victors werenât alone. You wished you couldâve 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.
Heâs 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 itâs only noticeable to you because youâve spent hours running your fingers through it; spent days admiring the way water sluiced off his skin and glistened while he swam.Â
You notice him immediatelyânot just because youâve been subconsciously searching, but because heâs never greeted you at the station before. Itâs then you notice dark circles under his eyes, the way theyâre 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. Itâs then you know somethingâs really, really wrong.
Because as much as you care for Finnick, and as much as you know he cares for you, heâs never been so openly affectionate with so many people watching.
Itâs part of the agreement you have; around others youâre 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, youâre hoping it's brief, because you donât want to get used to being so close to him in public. And when you begin to pull away, youâre 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.
âI need you to meet me in my room in half an hour. Itâs important. Donât be late,â he says quietly, urgently, before suddenly releasing you. It doesnât sound like one of your late night rendezvous, unless heâs wound really tight and that desperate for release â 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.Â
Forcing a small smile, all you can say is, âItâs good to see you too, Finnick.â
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 â but you know theyâre guards in disguise, making sure you have nowhere to go.
Itâs exactly twenty eight minutes later when you appear in front of Finnickâs door, a hand raised to knock when it flies open.Â
Heâs 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. âI was worried youâd be late. Yâknow, youâve never been a very punctual person.â
âIâve never seen you so high strung before.â You shrug, âThought I might hurry my ass up for once, in case you had a heart attack.â
He laughs, a lovely melody that makes your insides melt a little whenever you hear it, but you can tell his mind is occupied. âWe should get going.â
âYeah, about that⊠where exactly are we going?â You ask, though you know deep down youâd follow him anywhere.Â
âYouâre asking so many questions. You donât trust me?â He asks teasingly, flashing you a smile, and youâre overwhelmed for a moment because Finnick was like the sun â golden and glowing, blindingly radiant from the smile on his lips down to the tips of his toes.
You do trust him â and as he leads you to an awaiting black car, you reassure yourself that heâs not leading you to your imminent death.
Well, maybe you were wrong. Because the words coming out of Finnickâs mouthâbacked by Plutarch Heavensbee of all peopleâare nothing short of treasonous. And in Panem, treason is inevitably followed by death, or a fate so much worse death seems merciful.
âYouâre sure sheâs not going to say something?â Plutarch asks, and you think itâs 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 â Katniss and Peeta â being the face of said rebellion.
âNo, we can trust her. I promise,â Finnick nudges you with his shoulder, as if urging you to confirm what heâs 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 donât look nearly as surprised as you do, so you suspect youâre one of the last people to be told this news.Â
âYeahâ I just⊠you really think itâll work?â You cringe as your voice comes out in a dry croak.
âWe wonât know unless we try,â Plutarch says, and you wonder why heâs in on whatever this is. Heâs 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 thereâs nothing wrong with his life that would make him want to rebel. âYou and Six are the only ones we havenât talked to⊠and we need as much unity between the Districts as we can get.â
âOkay,â 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.Â
You can hear Finnickâs 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 wouldnât do that. Not because youâre embarrassed that anyone would see it, but because it just serves as a reminder that heâs 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.
âIâve kept you all long enough,â Plutarch says in dismissal, checking his watch. âThe victory party is tonight, and I would hate for any of you to miss seeing the little lovebirds.â
âCâmon.â Finnick grabs your hand and tugs you to your feet. âWeâve got to get all prettied up.â
âExcuse me,â you scoff. âIâm perfect just the way I am. You on the other handâŠâ you look him up and down. âWell, weâd better hurry up.â
He gasps and clutches his chest like heâs 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 theyâre 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.Â
And, sometimes, being constantly reminded of the horrors you endured made you wish you died in that arena. Not all the time, but sometimes.
âArms up!â Shrills Iris, who resembles a lemon the way sheâs 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.
âAll done!â 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 Presidentâs mansion.
Youâre sure making victors attend every celebration in the Capitol brings Snow a special kind of pleasure. Itâs 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 â 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.
âYou were right,â a voice behind you says. You turn to see Finnick.Â
âWhat?â
âEarlier,â he continues, his eyes briefly flitting to your dress before returning to your eyes. âYou are perfect just the way you are.â
âIââ Stupidly, you can feel a hotness in your cheeks, and know heâs managed to make you blush. He always does that, finds a way to make you stumble over your own words. âThanks. I think I was right, too.â
âOh?â He raises an eyebrow.
âYou do look so much better all dolled up,â you tease, using this as an excuse to take him all in. He, of course, looks breathtaking, which is a bit annoying because youâve never seen him be anything less. Heâs wearing a seafoam colored shirt that brings out the green in his eyes. Itâs 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 heâs being objectified. His trousers are a light linen, and you frown again at how⊠Well, conservatively heâs dressed, despite the sheerness of the shirt.
âI havenât seen you this covered up in years, shouldnât you be practically naked?â You blurt out, and youâre rewarded with another laugh that makes your heart sing.
âIf you want to see me naked, sweetheart, all you have to do is ask,â he grins, the tips of his teeth peeking through his lips.
âI meant,â you clear your throat and will the blush in your cheeks to subside, âNormally youâre a lot more⊠distracting.â Well that doesnât sound any better now that youâve said it out loud.
âDistracting, hmm? Iâm free inâŠâ He pretends to check the imaginary watch on his wrist. âJust a couple hours, if you are. Your place or mine?â
âFinnick,â you grit your teeth. You know he knows what you mean, and yet he still teases.
âYe-es,â he replies in an almost sing-song voice before his expression becomes a little more serious. âIâm not supposed to take away from the lovely couple tonight. Apparently I can be a little distracting. Did you know that?â His eyes twinkle with more laughter youâre dying to hear.
âYou? Distracting? Never,â you reassure him, patting his chest as you move past, trying not to notice how his eyes linger on you.
Youâre not sure how much time has passed, all you know is that youâve just finished your third glass and are reaching for a fourth when your stomach starts rumbling. You realize then you haven't eaten since youâd been on the train. Itâs not that there wasnât 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.Â
âThank you!â You canât contain yourself as you throw your arms around his neck, nearly brought to tears as you think of how delicious the shrimp would be. âI am sooo hungry.â
Finnick doesnât 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 hadnât eaten. He knew you eerily well, Observing you must take up a lot of his time. âI figured you could use a break between all that wine.â
You smell the alcohol on his breath and know he's been doing his fair share of drinking, but thatâs not the only indicator â the touching becomes almost second nature when heâs got enough alcohol in him.Â
Although youâve 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. Heâs a sturdy and comforting presence behind you. You tell yourself as you lean back that itâs to steady your feet, but you know deep down you long to feel his skin against yours, and youâre too drunk to think about the consequences of people seeing you.
âHow much longer do we have to stay here?â 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.
âWe haven't even seen Katniss or Peeta yet.â You hate how breathless your voice has become as his hand trails down to rest on your hip.
âI was being serious earlier, you know,â 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.
âReally?â You pretend not to notice the pounding of his heart or the sharp intake of his breath. âMine or yours?â It's funny to pretend either of you really have a place here â the training centerâs living quarters hardly count as home.
âMmm, we can decide later,â he says, suddenly pulling away. Cold air nips where his body once stood, and youâre thinking heâs finally come to his senses about being so handsy in public, but then heâs dragging you to the tile platform where people are dancing, and heâs sweeping you into his arms.Â
The shrimp is long forgotten, as is the grumbling of your stomach. Itâs too busy forming knots as you sway.
âYou didn't even ask if I wanted to dance,â you smile, one hand instinctively going to Finnickâs shoulder while the other grasps one of his. His free hand rests on your lower back.
âDo you want to dance?â He drinks in the sight of you, savoring how close youâve become.
âYes,â your voice is barely above a whisper. The music is slow and soulful, and all you can do is stare at one another.
âGood,â he says, but youâre not sure how good this really is.
There was a reason youâd 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 hadnât believed him. And then, two days later, your boyfriend wound up dead. A freak accident at the power plant, theyâd said, but you knew. Deep down you knew the timing was too close to be a coincidence, that Snow really did mean what heâd 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.
Heâd 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 shouldâve 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.Â
âWhen should we leave?â 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 youâre chest to chest, so close your breaths become one.
âNot yet.â His voice is soft, even pleading. âOne more song.â
Upon closer inspection you find heâs tipsy, but not drunk. Heâs a little looser but still of a sound mind, which is why itâs 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.
âIâm so sorry â so so sorry! Things got so out of control last night, it was a mistake,â youâd said hastily before he could say the same. Youâd rather not be rejected when your head was pounding and youâd felt so sick. Youâd clutched the sheets tight to your chest, suddenly self conscious by how bare you were.
âIt doesnât have to be,â 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, â It doesnât have to be a mistake. I like you, I like⊠this,â he gestured to the two of you, and when you said nothing, he added hurriedly, âIt doesnât have to be anything. Actually, forget I even saidââ
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 couldnât remember the previous night and cursed yourself for it.
âHello-ooo,â Finnickâs voice tore you back to reality. âDid you even hear what I said? The songâs over, we can leave now.â
You donât really want to leave, but you suppose itâs for the best, so you nod and let him lead you to one of the many black cars that sit outside the Presidentâs mansion. One designated for the tributes and victors that only drove to and from the training center.Â
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, heâd wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked.Â
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⊠heâd do just about anything to make sure youâd smile at him like that again.
When heâd led you to the dance floor in the gardens, itâd been for his own selfish reasons. Not just that he wanted an excuse to hold you close to him, but because he knew youâd 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.
Heâd 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 youâd decided was the truth.
He feels like heâs 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.Â
Itâs rough and fast and everything heâs not feeling as your lips attach to different spots on his neck and suck hard enough to leave marks. When heâs sure thereâs not a spot left untouched by you, he begins to return every bruising kiss youâve 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 heâs biting at your breasts, sucking your nipple into his mouth with a hunger he hasnât felt in so long.
He wants to feel you, taste you, hear you â 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 heâs never going to get this opportunity again. He kisses between your breasts, down your stomach, and purposely skips past where heâs 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 thatâs just not how the two of you do thingsÂ
Itâs not a show, or even a display of real passion â no, itâs 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.
Itâs not that he doesnât want this. Oh no, heâs 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, heâd been thinking about this the moment he saw you step off the train platform.
Itâs that he wants all of this and more, but heâs not sure how to go about it. Itâs not like theyâre being totally subtle, but if Snow found out⊠heâd likely use it against both of you. Youâd 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.Â
âFinnick,â youâre breathless beneath him. âWhatâs wrong? You sort of spaced out for a sec⊠we can stop if you want.â
No, he doesnât want to stop, but itâs probably the first time heâs ever been asked that.Â
He shakes his head, both to answer you and to clear his head, and leans over to kiss you again.Â
Heâs glad you donât 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 itâs 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 heâs grown so familiar with. They only make him harder to the point where itâs 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 heâs 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 itâs 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.
Youâre so beautiful he cursed himself for stopping, even for a moment. At that moment, he doesnât care about his own pleasure, all he can think about when he closes his eyes and returns his mouth is the image of you.
Youâre 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 youâd 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. Itâs so hot that Finnick begins to complain that heâs starting to feel â and look â like a lobster being boiled alive.
âBut now Iâm cold,â you whine with your back to him, clattering your teeth together for dramatic effect.
âReally?â Heâs inched closer, and suddenly youâre 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 â 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.Â
Heâs 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.
âOh! Wait, stop here, I forgot they were announcing it today,â you say.
âI donât think it matters that much,â Finnickâs expression is sour, but he doesnât turn the television off. âItâll be just as difficult to mentor as any of the other Games.â
âI donât know⊠I mean, I couldnât even imagine trying to train two extra tributes,â 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.
â...shall be reaped from the existing pool of victors.â
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.Â
In an instant heâs next to you, wrapping both his arms around you and tugging you close to his chest. âItâll be okay,â 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.
Iâve 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. Thereâs no fight left in you, and thatâs why itâs worse than the short cries, or even hot, angry tears. Realizing the past nine years of torture hadnât been worth it, and you really should have died in that arena. It wouldâve been so much more merciful than whatever this was.
Youâre the only living female victor from your district, thereâs no hope for you. Finnick, at least, has a chance at not being reaped at all.
âWeâll figure something out,â Finnick continues. âYou know⊠with everything thatâs been going on.â
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 â their beloved Mockingjay â perform for them if she died in another arena? But saving her didnât leave much room for the rest of you.
âYouâre right,â you force out even if you donât believe him, because you donât want his calm demeanor to disappear. If he starts to panic youâre sure youâll lose it completely.
âWe should get to bed,â he says abruptly. âI think weâll have somewhere to be tomorrow.â
There are three of you victors gathered around the dining table in Plutarchâs 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, theyâll be informed.
âWe 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?â Plutarch laments. âThirteen has hovercrafts, so weâll have a way to get you all out if we can figure out how to work around the forcefield.â
âWhich is easier said than done,â Beetee adds. Youâre not sure how to feel about him â heâs incredibly intelligent, thatâs for sure. Heâs 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?Â
He carries himself with such palpable sadness, though. His shoulders are always hunched like theyâre physically weighed down with emotion, and youâve never seen him without deep circles under his eyes.
âCanât you just turn them off?â Finnick asks, turning to Plutarch, âYouâre the head gamemaker.â
âI wish it was that easy, but it wonât work,â Plutarch shakes his head. âItâll give Snow too much of a warning, we need it to be so sudden heâs left scrambling.â
âWe have to blow it up,â Beetee squints his eyes, deep in thought.Â
âTell me what supplies you need and Iâll make sure theyâre in the Cornucopia,â Plutarch promises. âBut do you know how to do that? Can you figure it out?â
âItâs Beetee,â Finnick insists, âOf course he can.â
Beetee brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head. âIt will require a lotâŠâ he pauses at an odd place in the conversation, a habit of his youâve picked up on, â... of calculations.â
âI could probably help with that,â you interject yourself into the conversation for the first time. âWith the calculations, I mean. We do a lot of stuff like that at the power plants in Five.â
Plutarch breaks into a smile while Beetee nods his head slowly. âExcellent. Tell me what numbers you need, and Iâll get them for you.â
You nod earnestly, your chest swelling with a mix of emotions you havenât felt in forever: confidence, pride, and hope. Like it isnât 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, youâre both just tributes changing out of the ridiculous costumes youâd donned during the opening ceremony.
Youâre 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 youâre being a little ridiculous. The net isnât his choice, itâs his stylistâs angle to get him sponsors. And heâs talking to Katniss in that awful persona he takes on when heâs 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 Fiveâs industry of power. Itâs still a poor imitation of Twelveâs fire costumes though, because they blow everyone elseâs 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 â he hadnât changed out of the net.
âAlmost thought you were trying to avoid the pleasure of my company, honey.â His voice is annoyed and the nickname is not endearing but patronizing.
âWhy donât you go ask Katniss to keep you company?â You didnât want to say anything, because really itâs 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.
âSweetheartâŠâ he begins, and you can tell heâs trying not to sound too amused, âThe whole reason sheâs in this mess is because sheâs with Peeta. And⊠sheâs seventeen. Sheâs a kid.â
Both good points, which only annoys you even further because it just proves you have no reason to feel the way you do. âWhatever,â you scoff, turning away from him and wondering how much longer this elevator is going to take. Please, let it be done.
Itâs like someoneâs answered your pleas because the door rings at the level four and itâs Finnickâs cue to steps off. âBy the way,â he says over his shoulder. âI didn't know you were the jealous type. Itâs cute.â
The door shuts before you have the chance to retort.
In training, itâs 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.Â
Youâd gotten so close last year. Finch â a clever, redheaded girl â had made it to the final four before sheâd died. It was the closest any of your tributes had gotten to victory since youâd 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 theyâd overlooked your tribute, no matter how hard youâd advocated for her and practically begged for sponsors.
âYou alright?â Finnick sidles up beside you, holding a thick rope in his hand thatâs tied suspiciously like a noose.
âYep!â You force out a more cheery tone than youâd wished, and cringed at how sharp and on the verge of a breakdown you sounded. âIâm going to help Johanna out.â
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. âYou see a girl with an axe in her hand and decide to jump her?â She seethes, âDo not do that! Or itâll drop on your toes next time!â
Her words are furious, but you know sheâs 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.Â
Until the tribute from Seven split your tributeâs head open with an axe.
âSorry,â you huff, picking up an axe and marveling at the weight of it. âI had to get away from Finnick. Heâs been freaking me out lately.â
âFreaking you out⊠how?â Johanna narrows her eyes, and it's then you remember sheâs 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 sheâs thinking. âOhâ not about that, heâs just⊠hovering. I donât think Iâve spent this much time with him during the daytime since we first met.â
Johanna visibly relaxes and then rolls her eyes. âPlease tell me you guys arenât still doing that stupid friends with benefits thing. Please.â
âItâs not stupid!â You object, a little offended by the way sheâs framing it. âI told you, itâs for the best⊠right now, at least.â
âYou guys are such idiots,â she sighs, eyeing the axe in your hand. âAre you actually going to use that?â
With a shake of your head you hand it off to her carefully. âItâs just that⊠you know, with⊠SnowâŠâ your voice drops to a whisper.
She cuts you off. âYeah. I know.â
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.
âI donât need you to pity me. Wellââ She thinks about this for a moment and changes her mind. âActually, if it makes you listen to what Iâm gonna tell you, then yeah, poor me, all alone. Whatever. Iâm telling you, youâre being a fucking idiot.â
âI am notââ
âYou are!â Johanna hurls an axe at the board with so much force it breaks completely. âHe likes you. Itâs kind of sickening, actually, and so obvious. I mean, heâs literally staring at you right nowâ no, donât look, brainless!â
âJohanna,â You begin, watching her pick up another axe. âI appreciate this tough love⊠aspect⊠whatever you have going on, butââ
âIf you want to waste your last week alive pining for a guy you already have⊠be my guest. But donât talk to me about it, itâs annoying.â
Sheâs crude, and mean, but sheâs right. All the worries you have will be gone in a week. Either one of you will be dead, or youâll be freed from the Capitolâs chains and in the safe hands of Thirteen.
âI donât want to talk about him anymore,â you say abruptly. âHow are you doing with this whole Quell thing?â
She snorts and throws another axe, her jaw tight with anger. âI donât really want to talk about that.â
Youâre starting to feel that maybe she hates you when she asks, âHave you ever thrown one of these before? I mean, probably not, judging by the way you were holding that one, butâŠâ
âYes, Iâd love to learn!â You know thatâs what sheâs trying to ask. Itâs her version of trying to be kind, even if itâs 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.Â
Not that Johanna hasnât paid the price for itâ 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 anyoneâs listening, because you still have your family at home, but deep down you agree.Â
Itâs refreshing though, to talk with a real friend whoâs unafraid to speak her mind and actually understands what youâre going through. Your friends back home, however sweet, couldnât even begin to know the half of it.
âI wish I could teach you something,â you say ruefully, wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead. âWorking in power plants doesn't really prepare us for the Games.â
Johanna shrugs. âIt wasnât a trade, I was just helping you out. And⊠youâre the least insufferable person here, so I'd rather talk with you than anyone else.â
Youâre sure itâs the kindest thing sheâll 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 sheâs going to hug you, but instead just leans in and whispers in your ear, âDonât back out. Or Iâll actually have to kill you.â
You know what sheâs talking about, and you know sheâs not kidding this time.
Now itâs time to find another victim â err, friend â 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 heâs saying. You squash the flame of jealousy beginning to burn in your stomach, because youâve been over this with him already. That, and the fact that you donât really have the right to be jealous in the first place.
Finnick looks up from the rope heâs 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.
âHi,â you force out. Cashmere fixes you with an icy stare but says nothing for a long moment, she just observes. Sheâs 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.
âYou shoot?â She says after a minute, her voice almost making you jump.
âNot⊠reallyâŠâ And just like that, youâve 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.Â
You wish youâd been born into a district that gave you a natural advantage in the Games; youâd won yours by nothing more than sheer luck. Everyone who hadnât 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. âYou should take lessons from Katniss,â Finnick says lightly, but it only makes you frown.
âIâd like to see you try,â you grumble, but you donât actually want him to try because youâre sure heâs legally required to be perfect at everything he does.
âWhy donât I show you how to throw a trident instead?â 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 youâd be dead in a week. Time to think about what you actually want.Â
Time, unfortunately, is a luxury a victor would never be able to afford, often wasting it locked in a prison of their own minds.
âOkay,â you concede finally. âI guess youâd be an okay teacher⊠Iâve heard youâre not half bad.â
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.Â
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 didnât 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 youâd spent several nights in his bed, but tonight youâd both agreed you needed your rest to prepare for the day tomorrow.Â
Still, you canât worry about him any more knowing heâs 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.Â
You donât even have to raise your hand to knock, the door flies open and youâre met with sea green eyes that pierce right into yours. Theyâre clear of sleepiness and brighten as they land on you, so you know heâs been awake like you.
You walk past him and know heâs trailing behind you, closing the door to his bedroom once youâre both inside. âI want it to be like the first time.â
âWhat?âÂ
âYou know, the first time weâŠâ you trail off, suddenly shy, and hope heâll fill in the blanks on his own.Â
âYeah⊠what about it?â Finnickâs eyebrows furrow into a slight frown, like heâs trying to remember that night, the one thatâs hazy with emotions and drenched with alcohol.
âI just⊠I meanâŠâ You struggle to find the words, because what about it is right. âI guess what Iâm saying is I donât want to think about the consequences.â
Not a whole truth, but enough of one. You want to be able to be with him one last time, and donât care about the consequences because you're sure to be dead soon.Â
Thereâs a long, drawn out pause as he looks at you. Really looks at you, like heâs staring straight into your soul. Itâs so silent youâre sure he can hear the pounding of your heart as blood roars in your ears, sure he can feel the air thatâs become suffocatingly thick with tension.
âOkay,â he says simply, and thatâs all you need before you close the distance and kiss him.
Youâve kissed him many times before, but this one is different. Youâre expecting it to be like the others, desperate and rough like youâd lose each other in a second.Â
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 couldnât 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.
Youâre so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips against yours that you donât even notice youâre 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.
âSomeoneâs eager to get me in bed,â he mumbles against your lips with a smile.
âAm I that obvious?â You ask with a giggle, a little embarrassed at how breathless you sound.
âNothing to be embarrassed about,â he pulls you closer until your body is flush against his and you can feel everything. âI think Iâm a little more desperate.â
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 thatâs so sweet and gentle youâre getting dangerously close to blurting out something you shouldnât.
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 inâŠ
âAre you nervous?â You blurt out, eyes widening at the realization.
âNo,â he mumbles, leaning forward to kiss you again, but you press a hand to his chest that forces him to keep your gaze.
âWhyâre you nervous? Weâve done this like, a million times,â you laugh, but heâs not smiling.
Finnickâs answer surprises you so much that your own smile is instantly wiped from your face. âI just want to make sure itâs good for you. I want you to be happy⊠even if itâs only for a little bit.â
His tone is so earnest and anxious youâre sure youâre about to cry, because no oneâs ever been this sweet to you. Except him. âOkay,â 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 youâre straddling him, his back propped against the headboard. You never want to stop kissing him; when his lips are on yours itâs like youâre in a whole different world. One without all the worries that weigh you down and pry you apart from him. Itâs the most relief youâve 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 youâre both naked.
Youâre glad he flips you over because you're a little embarrassed how wet youâve become â not that itâd be a secret for long.
His hands slide down and gently pull your legs apart so he can settle comfortably between them.
Now itâs your turn to feel nervous, unfamiliar with the position youâre in â at eye level with one another. Itâs so different from the impersonal ones youâre used to.Â
When heâs behind you, you can almost be satisfied with it being just sex. Youâre free to pretend itâs anyone, it doesnât 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, youâre 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 itâs 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.
Heâs just about to slide a second finger in when you know he senses the change in how youâre kissing him. Itâs more like the desperate, hungry ones you're both used to.Â
In a moment heâs withdrawn completely and you cry out at the loss. âWhyâd you do that?â You groan.
âWhatâs wrong with you?â Finnick demands, holding your chin with one of his hands and forcing you to hold eye contact with him.
âNothing, can you just get back toââ
âBullshit.â 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. âYou don't want to not worry about the consequences,â he realizes. âYouâre just here to say goodbye.â
You want to protest and sit up, but heâs reading you to filth. âFinnick, Iââ
âNo,â he says with so much force it surprises you, squeezing his eyes shut like heâs in pain. âNo, I told you weâre going to be fine, why are you acting like this is the end?â
You can recognize the edge of terror in his voice and know heâs not really mad at you. Heâs panicked, because if you donât believe his words, why should he?
âFinnick,â 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. âI want to believe you. About everything. Really, I do, I just⊠I just want to do it right this one time.â
And itâs true. Youâve been intimate with him countless times, but they all feel so wrong compared to the rawness of tonight.
âWeâre gonna be fine,â he whispers, grasping onto the hand thatâs 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 donât have the strength to argue. You want tonight to be perfect, just in case itâs the last time, and youâre already missing the feeling of his lips.
Finnick seems to have lost the internal battle heâs 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, itâs the last time heâll ever feel them.
You return to the position of before and try to fall back into the rhythm thatâd been temporarily disrupted.
His fingers find their way back inside you just as his lips reconnect to yours, but this time youâre impatient. You want to be ready and able to enjoy it, but you canât 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. Youâre rewarded with his hips jumping towards your touch and groan thatâs 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.
âWait!â You cry out, so suddenly it startles him into jumping back.
âWhatâs wrong?â He looks panicked, then grief stricken, like heâs done something wrong.
âNothing, I just needed to sayââ Please, just let me say it, you beg your brain. âI love you.â
Finnickâs features instantly relax and heâs back against you in an instant. The smile thatâs overtaken his entire face is the brightest youâve ever seen.
âI love you too,â he says in between kisses, âI thought I was being pretty obvious about it though.â
He doesnât even wait for a reply before thrusting into you. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he pauses, letting you adjust for a moment.
âI think you were made for me,â He breathes, forehead dipping down to connect with yours.
âOh come on, donât be cheesyâ ah!â Heâs setting a pace thatâs been like the rest of the night, slow and sweet, but you know itâs only a matter of time before you both grow impatient with it.
For a while thereâs 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 youâre 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.
âPleaseââ You donât even know what youâre begging for, because you know heâll give you the release you so desperately crave. Still, with the coil wound tight at the base of your spine itâs all you can do in your sex-drunken mind.
You both come right after the other, completely in sync, thereâs no hesitation when Finnick wraps his arms around you and pulls you onto his chest.
âI meant it, yâknow,â you say quietly after a minute.
âMe too. All of it.â
The giddiness you feel at his words disappears at the reality of the situation. âI wish you wouldâve told me sooner. Weâve wasted so much time.â
âI know,â 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.Â
A sigh escapes your lips, and Finnick looks down at you resting your cheek against his chest.
He hopes you canât feel his heart accelerating when you begin to draw little patterns in his skin.
âWhatâs wrong?â
The look in your eyes makes him wish he hadnât asked.
âIâm just going to miss you.â
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 wonât 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. Heâs agreed to sacrifice himself and everyone around him to ensure Katniss and Peeta make it out. He could do it without hesitation if he didnât have to think about you.
Instead, he just presses a long kiss to your temple and pulls you impossibly closer. You think heâd burrow himself in your skin if he could.
âMe too,â is the last thing you hear before the lull of sleep, aided by the warmth and safety you feel in his arms.