stupid idiot

He stands front row at every single one of your shows with his hair done to perfection and his most expensive cologne sprayed onto his collarbones. Always in his best pair of jeans and his new brown leather jacket that he swears he didn’t buy with the intent to impress you, explaining to Robin, “I just liked the way it fit! You have any idea how hard it is, finding a good jacket with shoulders like these?”

Steve learns every word to all of your bands songs. He even has your setlist memorized and could recite the comedic bits your lead singer uses between one verse and the next.

He’s a total groupie for you.

And when you finally notice him? God. Steve has never felt a rush of adrenaline quite like the first time you saddle up to his side at the bar, order a vodka cranberry and tell the man behind the counter your name is Harrington with a knowing smirk on your face.

Because it means that you’ve been watching him, too.

It doesn’t take long after that, truth be told. A couple more shows where you spend time at the bar talking about music or life or the state of the world. You give him a handful of backstage tours and even eventually hand him one of those all access lanyards that say crew on the badge. 

Within a matter of weeks, Steve has you in a dirty bar bathroom with one hand on your throat and the other sneaking up the short hem of your skirt. 

He tilts your head up and swipes over your lips with a teasing tongue. He licks into your mouth and gently bites into the cherry flavored gloss on your bottom lip, thinking about how he’s officially, certifiably, addicted to the fruity flavor.

Your breath comes fast and labored. Your face is flushed and your pupils are dilated. He’s got you propped up on the porcelain sink, but your hips incessantly roll towards his hand that only skates over the seam of your thigh. 

Because one thing about Steve Harrington? He loves to make you beg. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers. The music outside of the women’s restroom bleeds through the locked door, muffling the little whimpers you make at the back of your throat. “An’ you smell—God. You smell so fucking good, baby.”

Like cherries and red wine and vanilla perfume. Like the rest of his goddamn life.

“Touch me,” is your only response, the words all breathy and sweet. “Steve, please just touch me.”

He clicks his tongue tauntingly. “Hm. I don't know if I should. You know? Actually—I was just thinkin’ that maybe I should keep my hands to myself. Take you out on a real date. Treat you real nice.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and the heel of your tall leather boot digs into the back of his thigh when you try to pull him closer. “I don't care about dates. I just want—” 

Steve finally moves his hand beneath your skirt and slides it under the lace band of your panties. A decadent, needy sound leaves your mouth when he slides his middle finger through your folds. Already wet and messy for him, just like he’d anticipated. “Just want me to make you feel good,” Steve finishes for you. “I know, I know. It's alright. You know I will. Always do, don't I?”

He finds your swollen clit with practiced ease. Circles it with a pointed finger and smiles against your lips when he feels it pulse beneath his touch. 

Steve strums his fingers between your thighs until your spine arches. Until arousal drips down your cunt and onto the porcelain below. His name sounds so pretty in your mouth, shrouded in desire. Even better than those heavy riffs you pull from that guitar of yours. 

He’s got you almost there—so close he can taste your release, and then he slides his hand just a little lower and presses two fingers inside of you. 

Your walls clamp down around them like a vise. “Oh, fuck. Jesus, Steve—”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, voice low. And good fucking God does he know. His cock aches painfully behind the tight denim of his jeans, wanting nothing more than to take you right here. Bend you over and press your cheek to the cool glass mirror with not a trace of respect to be found in the touch of his hands. 

But the problem is Steve wants more than that from you. And he thinks if he’s patient, that maybe…just maybe, you’ll start to want more, too.

So he perseveres. Stays strong despite the raging desire that buzzes beneath his skin. Gets you off with his fingers inside you and his thumb on your clit and swallows up your moans like a man starved for it. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Not here. Not like this.

Your bass player teaches Steve how to load your equipment into the trailer and he becomes a real part of the crew after that. Sort of adopts your band members, truthfully. 

Makes sure they have water close by during every set. brings them fast food when he knows they’ll drink too much and eat too little. He even tries to keep the lead singer in line when his ego gets hurt and he tries picking fights. 

Steve only does all of this to get closer to you, of course. But he likes your bandmates well enough. They're a little…eccentric, he thinks. But they have to be in order to be entertainers, right?

You invite him to an out of town show for the first time on a Wednesday. You're talking to him on the phone, and Steve is leaning against the drywall in his kitchen with a stupid grin on his face that he can’t seem to fight off whenever you speak to him.

“In Indianapolis," you explain. “A long drive, I know. But we’re getting a hotel room and we could use an extra hand. If…if you wanna come with.”

Steve sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, trying not to laugh like some prepubescent school girl with a crush and failing miserably. He's glad you can’t see him right now. It would blow his cool guy facade right out the window. “Well, I might have to move some stuff around. You know, my busy schedule and all.”

“Busy schedule, huh?” He can hear the amusement in your voice, even through the phone. 

“Oh—yeah. Jam packed, actually. Meetings and lunches and hangouts. Parties, too.”

“Dates?”

It catches him a little off guard, truthfully. Only because you’ve never questioned him about other women. Have never even hinted at the possibility of any exclusivity between the two of you. 

But Steve swears there’s something not-so-innocent in the one word question. Swears there’s almost a little jealousy there. 

He thinks about lying. Just for a moment. Thinks about telling you that he goes on dates all the time, actually. Considers telling you there’s more for him than his pretty little guitarist when really, it will only ever be you.

But Steve doesn’t lie. He doesn’t exactly tell the truth either. Just says, “Not with anyone who matters.”

He can hear your shallow breaths, but you don’t say anything for a few seconds. And then, “So, you’ll be there. right? I mean. I…I don’t know. This is a big one for us and I guess I sorta, like…want you there.”

Steve makes this surprised sound and says, “Is that a confession? You saying you want me, sweetheart?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Actually, you know what? I've gotta go. Never—”

“I’m kidding,” he says through his laughter.

“You are the actual worst, Steve Harrington.”

The sigh of relief you let out just makes him laugh harder. But once his amusement dies down and he’s left with nothing but you and your almost-confession, Steve says, “Yeah. Of course I'll be there for you.”

He hopes you know just how much he really means it. 

The show is a success. There are hundreds of people at the small venue, more than you’ve ever played for. The songs ebb and flow easily and the put up and tear down of the set goes without interruption.

Steve is in the front row, just like he always is.But this time he’s not the only one singing along. Those handmade tapes you’re always handing out at the grocery store and the park and outside of every concert you go to is paying off. Word is spreading fast, and all of a sudden Steve gets this weird feeling in his chest. 

It's something akin to pride, but there’s a weird sort of melancholy with it, too, because he has so much faith in you. Steve knows you were never meant for a town like Hawkins. Knows you’ll make it big and go off to California and New York and London, baring your soul through that ruby red guitar for everyone who will listen.

He can see your name in headlines and begins to wonder if there will be any room for him left in your heart when it’s all said and done. 

He tries not to think too hard about it. Tries to enjoy the night, to lose himself in the sound and in the way your fingers move and the way you look at him from up on that platform.

Steve always gives you space right after a show. Knows people will want to talk to you and shake your hand and ask about your inspirations. He waits by the bar, knowing you’ll come to find him when you’re ready. 

And you do, but this time you’re lingering a few feet away as some guy yaps your ear off.

You’re with your drummer, who can be a little promiscuous at times. She's twirling her hair around her finger and giving the man who’s speaking those heart eyes Steve has seen in action too many times.

Steve thinks the guy is flirting with your drummer when he gives a crooked smile and leans in close to speak. He doesn’t think anything of it. 

But then he reaches a hand close to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles against your cheek, not hers. 

And he tries not to react. Really, he does. Tries not to let that swell of emotion in his chest grow too bold when he sees you rear back so fast it’s almost comedic.

The guys laughs it off. And Steve thinks that’s the end of it. 

But then he tries again. This time running a possessive hand down your arm and curling his fingers around your palm. 

You pull away, but Steve is already out of his seat at the bar and closing the space between you.

He splays his hand wide on the small of your back and the corners of his mouth tilt up when you take a step closer to him, nestling right beneath his arm. “Everything alright over here?”

The man glares at Steve, eyes narrowing into slits. “Yeah, man. We're good. So why don’t you—”

“Why don’t I what?” It comes out angrier than intended. Steve’s palms start to itch.

He comes to the stark realization that he wants this. The confrontation. He hates the idea of another man touching you, even just your cheek or your hand. It has a desire for violence singing beneath Steve's skin. 

The guy tries for your hand again, and it’s the boldest thing he could’ve done. You recoil away and turn into the arms of your drummer who’s long since lost those heart eyes, the emotion now replaced with concern. 

And Steve? Oh—Steve is thrilled. Because now he has a reason. An excuse. 

He shoves the man backwards so far he nearly stumbles to his feet. “Why don’t you take a fucking walk. Yeah? I think we’d all be better off.”

“What the fuck is your problem, dude?” 

“My problem is you,” Steve answers. “Think it’s funny, huh? Think it’s cool to grab at girls who have no interest in you? Think you can push ‘em around ‘til they do what you want?” 

Steve shoves him again, but this time the man shoves back. “Jesus Christ. Now that’s some depressing shit. You really think you’re the only guy in this bar that’s had her? You want pussy that’s been ran through so bad? Fine. All yours, loverboy.”

That does him in. Makes the situation less about protecting you and more about revenge. Because Steve would never let someone talk about you like that. 

But worse is the simple thought of it. The thought of you with another man, with someone who’s not him? It sends him into a frenzy.

Steve lunges forward.

The man swings, hand curled into a fist so tight his knuckles pale. 

Steve dodges it and takes a strike of his own. His lands true, cracking hard against the man’s jaw.

The second time he takes a swing at him, Steve moves just a little too slow and white-hot pain ricochets through his teeth.

Blood blooms across his tongue and the coppery taste of it sends him careening off whatever ledge of self restraint that remained. Steve doesn’t care much about anything now apart from hurting the man who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself. 

He doesn’t hear the crowd around him as they gasp and shout and make room for the brawl. He doesn’t hear your drummer beside you, urging you to stop him. 

Steve doesn’t register much besides swinging fists and thrown elbows until suddenly there’s more than one set of hands flying at him. There's two, and then three—and then he can hear your lead singer shouting and sees the familiar sight of his glinting rings flying in the mix of fists.

It's absolute chaos. His heartbeat thrums against the back of his sternum, blood flies from somewhere—his wound or someone else’s, he can’t be sure.

He doesn’t even recognize the severity of the situation when flashing blue and red lights cloud the corners of his vision. 

All Steve can think about is your name in another man’s mouth. And try as he might, he can’t seem to break free of the hold it has on him. 

Well, not until he feels the softness of your hand on his shoulder, recognizable even in all the clamor. You're saying his name but his ears are ringing. 

“Come on! It’s time to go,” you say, your voice reaching him through the haze, somehow both giggly and panicky. 

Steve lets you drag him backwards. Out of the bar and into the cool winter air that feels heavenly against his suddenly overheated skin. 

It all fades into focus then: the police outside the bar, the shouting that still rolls out like steam from the doorframe, the ache in his lungs and his jaw and his mouth. 

You’re running fast. Putting as much distance as possible between you and the flashing lights. You grab hold of Steve's hand and lace your fingers through his, weaving through the gathered crowd.

He can hear your bandmates following close behind, laughter filling up the space. But Steve watches as the passing city lights create little halos across your skin and something warm fills up his chest.

When you’re a block away, far enough that the fear of being caught subsides, your pace slows to a full stop. There's a wide grin on your face and unparalleled joy in your eyes as you turn to look at him.

Your drummer shakes Steve by the shoulders. “Good God, Harrington! That was insane! Since when did you go all rogue like that?!”

“Did you see that left hook?!”

“What even happened?”

“I have no idea! i just saw that other guy jump in and thought to myself, oh fuck no. Not our loverboy!”

Your bandmates erupt in rambunctious laughter, and Steve rolls his eyes at what he knows will likely be his alias for the rest of the foreseeable future.

But he can’t find it in him to care. Can’t find the strength to stop looking at you like you put the damn stars in the sky, either. And Steve knows this isn’t the right time, knows you’ll likely be a little embarrassed and reply with some snarky remark, but he says it anyway.

“You look so beautiful right now, baby. Do you know that?”

“Oh, get a room,” your lead singer teases, pushing past the both of you.

The rest of your bandmates follow suit, leaving the two of you with your hands still interlocked, standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

You don’t respond with a snide comment. You don’t even laugh.

Instead, you lean up and press your mouth to his in a searing kiss. Steve feels the heat of it all the way down to his toes.

He lets go of your hand only to cradle your face and deepen the kiss, delighting in the taste of your cherry lipgloss and the faintest trace of vodka on your tongue. Your lips move in tandem, fitting perfectly together, and when you pull away you leave him panting.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s catch up.”

Steve soon finds out that you’d meant it literally when you told him you were getting a hotel room. 

Singular.

Which meant that you were sharing two queen sized beds with the rest of your band. 

Not exactly the city getaway he’d imagined, but Steve's happy wherever you are. 

It feels like pure luck when he wins at rock-paper-scissors against everyone and claims the shower first. But Steve isn’t at all surprised when you follow him into the spacious bathroom, the fluorescent lights bright overhead. 

He turns the water on and pulls a plush white towel down from the rack on the wall. 

You don’t speak right away, though he can feel your heavy gaze and knows there’s something on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you fold your arms over your chest and lean back against the sink. 

Steve reaches behind his head and pulls at the collar of his shirt, wincing at the sudden sharp pain in the muscle just below his shoulder blade.

The sound of discomfort has your brows furrowing, and you’re moving before he can really process much else, gentle hands taking him by the waist and turning him so he’s facing away from you. “Let me see.”

Steve allows you to maneuver him any way you wish, tossing his shirt onto the floor. His eyelids flutter closed when you trail your fingers up his spine, pressing gently into the muscles on either side.

When you reach the spot just below his right shoulder, Steve winces. “Sorry,” you murmur. “You probably pulled something. Got a mean left hook, Harrington."

He chuckles softly, and melts beneath your touch as you begin to massage the tender muscle. Steve loves the feeling of you on his skin. Can never get enough of it and thinks he probably never will. 

It wasn’t like him, what he did back there. The cause for so much chaos. Violent. And though he’d certainly felt violent and volatile, Steve doesn’t want you to think of him that way. So he says, “I'm…I'm sorry. For what happened. I wish you didn’t have to see that. I shouldn't have—”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you interrupt. “You were protecting me. That's what I saw, Steve."

There’s no room for argument in your tone, the words somehow affectionate even with all their certainty. 

A few moments pass in silence, and Steve just soaks up all your attention. But then you say, “It’s not true, by the way. What he said.”

He clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about any of that,” he says honestly. “Not that I—you know. Believe it, or whatever.” He laughs. “I mean, seriously. You think I'm just going to trust some nobody in a bar when he says you’ve been with a bunch of people? Do you even like that many people?”

You giggle, massaging the tender muscle in his back.

“I mean, you barely like me. There's no way.” 

He means it as a joke, but your laughter dies in your mouth and your hands freeze on his skin the moment the words leave him.

When Steve turns to face you, mind racing, thinking maybe he did or said something to upset you—but when he finds your eyes, they’re not angry in the slightest. 

If anything, you look sort of…sad. Your brows are furrowed with a slight crease between them and your once smiling mouth is now downturned. “Is that really what you think? That I don't like you?”

He shrugs. “I know you…like me. I just think maybe…” He swallows, casting his eyes away. Finding sudden interest in the pattern on the white linoleum floor. “I just think, you know. That I like you…differently than you like me. More, maybe.”

“This is about the date.”

It's not a question. 

Steve doesn’t deny it because he can’t. 

If he wasn’t terrified of spilling his guts with your bandmates right on the other side of the door, likely eavesdropping, he would explain that yeah. It is about the date. 

Because Steve wants you and he knows you want him, too. Can feel it in the way you kiss him with hungry lips and a desperate tongue. Feels it in the way your hips always roll to press his long fingers further into you. In the way you cry out his name and beg for just a little bit more every single time. 

Steve knows you want to fuck him. 

And he wants to fuck you just as badly. 

But he also wants to come home to you every night and make you dinner. He wants to find out what your favorite flower is and go to ten different stores trying to find it. 

He wants to act all silly when you try out a new hairstyle, dramatically falling to his knees. And he wants to learn to restring your guitar and wants you on his arm at the end of every one of your shows, your biggest and most loyal fan. 

He wants to take you out on dates. 

He wants to fall in love with you. 

And for whatever reason—you’re keeping him at arms length. Close enough to touch, far enough away that he can’t reach you. 

Your voice is gentle when you ask, “You understand why, don’t you?”

His brows shoot up, and he tries his damndest to keep the frustration from his voice. “Uh—to be honest? No. No, I don't.”

“We’re not compatible, Steve,” you say, the words sharp enough to make a blow right between his ribs. “I mean, seriously. What do you think will happen? If we do this, if we go all the way—there are only two roads here. The first is the one where you come on the road with me next year. You come to every show, you follow me around the world, always off to the side. Never the center of my life, because my life is the center of yours. And ten years from now, you’ll realize you have nothing but me. No friends but my friends, no home to your name, nothing that doesn’t exist without me. And one day you’ll wake up and resent me for it.”

His stomach turns. “And road two?”

You inhale a slow breath. “Road two is that I quit music to stay here with you in Hawkins. I leave behind everything I've ever loved. I leave the family I’ve created here in my band, they have to find a new guitarist—”

“—They could never replace you—”

“And we build a life together. A house with a white picket fence and six kids, Steve. Because that’s what you want. And ten years from now, when I remember the things I've lost, I'll grow to resent you.”

He sees a little clearer now. Recalls the late night conversation you’d had on the phone where he’d confessed that all he wanted from life was a family and a full house.

The picture you paint is bleak. A lose-lose situation. 

His eyes begin to burn. 

You take his hands in yours, holding tight. “I like you, Steve Harrington. More than you think. But I like you enough that I want you to be happy, and I'm sorry but I just…I don’t know how I could give that to you.”

He wants to make an argument. Wants to tell you that this is all hypothetical, that there’s still the option of long distance. Wants to tell you you’re wrong. This isn’t doomed. It's not.

It’s not. 

But he doesn’t get a chance to before your drummer is pounding on the bathroom door. “Alright, lovebirds! Can you fuck a little faster? I would like a shower too!”

You don’t talk about it again.

Not in Indianapolis, not on the drive home, not on the phone the following day.

Because when you call, Steve doesn’t pick up.

He lays in bed in his parent’s big empty house and listens to the phone ring and ring and ring.

You stop calling after the third day of radio silence.

Steve doesn’t know why it feels like a breakup. Worse, even, because you didn’t reject him. Didn’t dump him, didn’t say your feelings have changed or that you don’t want him.

If anything, you’d shown the opposite. Casting longing glances at him the whole way back to Hawkins from the passenger seat, like there was something on the tip of your tongue you wanted to say but you just didn’t have the courage. 

He thinks it would be easier if you had rejected him. If you’d just said, ‘yeah, actually, I’m not interested. Sorry!’

When he’s tired of moping in his own bed, Steve goes to Robin’s. 

Gives her a word for word recount of the entire weekend, laid back on her mattress instead of his own. Tells her about the bar fight and running from the cops and how you’d looked like a fucking angel sent to him from God himself with those streetlights reflecting in your eyes. Tells her about the conversation in the bathroom and how it all stemmed from a stupid thing he said over a month ago.

Steve wants Robin to say he’s being crazy. Wants her to encourage him to go to you, to smooth things over. Because that’s what he wants to do.

Instead, when he’s finished, she lets out a long breath and says, “Well, that really sucks. But you can’t exactly change her mind, you know?”

His brows furrow. Steve props himself up with his elbows and asks, “So, you think I should just…let it go? Cut my losses?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that to me, it kinda sounds like she’s made her mind up. She only sees those two options, and I swear I don’t mean this in a bad way or anything but…she’s never really struck me as someone who could be swayed, you know?”

Steve rolls her words over in his mind for a few seconds, seeing the truth in them. You’re headstrong. Determined. Sure about what you want in a way Steve has never been until that first time he’d seen you.

Robin’s eyes are filled with this look of pity that would make him uncomfortable, if she were anyone but his very best friend.

“Do you think she’s right? Those are the only two options for us?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all,” she says, certain. It provides him with a shred of relief. “I think you guys could work things out between traveling and distance and whatever else life throws at you. But I think it would only work if you both were trying to meet each other halfway. And…” her voice softens. “You deserve that, Steve. Someone who tries. I know you like her. I do, too. But don’t lose sight of that.”

He hates that she’s right.

Still, Steve gives her a sad smile and says, “Thanks, Rob.”

They spend the day watching shitty action movies and eating nothing but microwave popcorn and milk duds. Robin conveniently puts on all the movies Steve has mentioned are his favorites, but he’s not presumptuous enough to mention it. 

It works at getting his mind off you. For a little while, anyway.

He falls asleep at some point in the middle of Top Gun and wakes up to the title screen’s music replaying and Robin snoring beside him.

As quietly as he can, he cleans up the mess of snacks and turns the VHS player off before slipping soundlessly outside, making sure to lock the front door behind him.

The sun has set and the chill of the night seeps into his bones on the drive home, even through his black hoodie.

Steve realizes, in a moment of sudden, quiet clarity, that he’s already in love with you.

It didn’t take a date for his feelings for you to evolve into something more. It’s already happened, without his knowledge. Right under his goddamn nose.

But Robin’s right. He can’t force you to change your mind. Can’t talk his way into evolving your feelings, too.

Steve will cut his losses, but he won’t cut you from his life. He doesn’t have the strength to. Not anymore.

He’ll still go to every one of your shows and sing along and he’ll still help with setup and tear down. He’ll still take care of your bandmates and defend your name when it’s said beside an insult in another man’s mouth.

He decides, tomorrow, he’ll return your calls.

But when he pulls into the driveway to his parent’s still-empty house, Steve sees he won’t have to.

Because you’re sitting there on the steps of his front porch, elbows resting on your knees.

The anxiety-inducing thought strikes him that he looks a complete fucking mess.

Wearing sweatpants and a hoodie and a backwards trucker hat because he hasn’t done his hair in days. Unkempt and disheveled. And God, even knowing he shouldn’t, Steve wants to look his best for you.

He pushes the thought aside and puts his car in park, turning off the engine. He climbs out and rounds the front and is a little comforted by the fact that you’re not wearing fishnets or a tight skirt or a low cup top like usual. Just in a pair of jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a leather jacket.

Steve freezes when he’s close enough to see the mascara smudges down your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “Nothing’s wrong, I just came here to see if…I don’t know. To see if maybe we could talk?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. Of course we can.” He nods and moves closer, taking your hand in his, surprised by the frigidness in your fingers. “Christ,” he hisses, bringing them to his mouth to warm them with his breath. “How long have you been sitting out here?”

You laugh like it’s nothing, but he can see the slight shake in your shoulders. “Not long,” you say.

Steve tugs you to the front door and looks over his shoulder at you as he unlocks it. “How long is not long?”

“Uhm…I don’t know,” you shrug, interlocking your fingers between his. Holding tight. “Just a few hou一”

“Hours?” You don’t even get the word out before he’s clicking his tongue. “Jesus. I’m sorry. I was at Robin’s. C’mere.”

You let him pull you up the stairs and into his room. A bit messy, but lived in. Just about the only room in the house that is.

“Sit,” he instructs, nodding to his unmade bed.

You do, and Steve makes quick work of fluffing his comforter and wrapping it tight around your shoulders.

He sits beside you and takes your hands in his once more, rubbing them between his own, trying to generate heat through friction. His voice is soft but careful as he asks, “So, what was so important that you froze outside my house for several hours? Are you okay? Did something happen?”

His stomach turns with the possibilities, his mind automatically finding the worst of them. Another bar fight or a police encounter you couldn’t outrun or worse.

“No, I’m alright. Kind of. I, uhm…” You tear your eyes away from his, letting out a heavy, frustrated sigh. Your knee bounces anxiously, and Steve realizes he’s never once seen you so unsure of yourself.

He places his big hand on your thigh. “Hey,” he says, concern etched in his brow. “It’s just me. You can tell me anything.”

You take your hands from his hold and press the heel of your palms against your eyes, smearing your makeup further. Fighting whatever it is on your mind.

Steve wraps his fingers gently around your wrists and pulls your hands away. “Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Don’t hide from me. Just…just talk, okay? And I promise I’ll listen.”

You search his face for a few moments, assessing, likely trying to find an ounce of disquiet.

But you come up empty.

And then, finally, the words come pouring out of you all at once.

“Steve…God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Last week in Indianapolis I was being selfish. I didn’t give you a chance to even speak. I just had it all made up in my mind that this could never work out and all I could focus on was the bad things that could happen. I didn’t even think about all the ways it could work or—or even try to find a way. And I wanted to apologize as soon as I said it but thought maybe I’d just wait, you know? Until we could talk, just the two of us. But then you wouldn’t answer my calls and I started to think that you’d changed your mind and now you don’t want anything to do with me and—!”

“Okay. Breathe, baby.”

You do, taking in a shaky breath and exhaling slowly. Once, and then twice. 

“First of all, I would never not want you in my life. Do you understand? I mean you…I—I love being around you. I mean it.”

A soft smile graces your pretty face, and it grants Steve more ease than he cares to admit.

“And secondly…you were right. Both of those roads you talked about, yeah. It sucks, and I mean, like—so fucking bad. But the truth is, those are both possibilities that could happen. But they’re not the only ones.”

You nod, eyes going all watery the longer he speaks. Your voice cracks on the word as you say, “Yeah, I know. I was just scared, Steve. What I feel for you…I don’t know. It terrifies me. I don’t know how to do any of this.”

“So we figure it out,” he suggests. “We take it one day at a time. Make decisions as they come and not because of things that may or may not happen ten years from now.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want? You do know that, like, every statistic is stacked against us?”

“Fuck statistics,” Steve says, an edge in his voice. “God, I failed that class anyway. Who cares?”

You laugh, your smile reaching your eyes now. You look so beautiful that Steve’s heart pinches tight in his chest. He silently wonders if that feeling will ever go away, and secretly hopes it doesn’t.

But as your laughter fades, that sad seriousness returns. 

“What if this is all just a waste of time?”

Steve shakes his head. Reaches up to cradle your cheek in his palm and feels himself relax the moment you melt into his touch. “No second I spend with you is a waste,” he says, and means it.

You shift closer, your mouth a breath away from his as you admit, “I don’t know how it’ll work. But I’d like to一to try. With you.”

You deserve that, Steve. Someone who tries.

God.

It feels like his world tilts on its axis, the same way it had that first time he saw you up on that stage. His needs, his wants. They all become perfectly, crystal fucking clear.

Steve’s hand on your cheek moves to the back of your neck. He pulls you in and kisses you hard, kisses you like he’s starved for your affection because he is. His tongue finds yours, eager and hungry, drinking in the taste of you.

You moan softly against his lips when he bands an arm around your middle and pulls you onto his lap. Your hands find the nape of his neck, scratching lightly, fingertips pushing into the curling tendrils of his thick hair. His name leaves your lips in a breathy exhale, perfect and sultry and all his.

He pulls you closer, closing every last inch of space, your breasts pressed up against his chest.

And then you speak again, firmer this time. “Steve,” you murmur. “Steve, wait. Hang on.”

Reluctantly, he pulls his head back, admiring the misty look in your eye. The way your pupils dilate and your breath comes fast and uneven. But he can tell, even before you speak, that there’s one last thing standing in the way of you and peace. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

Your voice is timid in a way he’s never heard before when you ask, “Do you…do you love me?”

Steve doesn’t lie. Doesn’t see the point in it. Not anymore. “Yes. I do.”

“Okay.” A shaky, long-held breath leaves your lungs, and he feels the tension bleed from your muscles. “Okay, good. Because I think I might love you, too.”

“Holy shit.” 

He doesn’t mean for it to slip out. Truly. But it does anyway, and you immediately chastise, “Steve.”

“Sorry,” he says. But the wide grin that stretches across his face sort of ruins the sincerity of his apology. “Sorry, but…holy shit. You love me?”

You scoff and say, “Actually, I changed my mind. I take it back.” But he knows you don’t mean it, because you’re wearing a mirrored smile and giggling all the while.

“You love me,” he says. Not a question. “Oh my God. This is一I mean this is just. This is fucking great.” He takes his hands off your hips and falls back into the sheets, elation making his head feel all fuzzy.

With your hands pressed to his chest, you lean forward and say, “Don’t let it inflate that ego of yours, Harrington.”

He laughs. “Oh, it is far too late for that. Everyone’s been calling me loverboy but the whole time一the whole time it was you, too! I mean, how often does a groupie get a love confession?”

“Jesus Christ,” you grumble, rolling your eyes dramatically. 

Steve is so baffled, and maybe a little starstruck, that he doesn’t even notice when you slide off his bed, and kneel on the floor between his legs. His mind is running a hundred miles an hour, trying to process, trying to regulate his excitement.

But it’s no use, because you love him.

“My girlfriend’s a fucking rockstar,” he muses, a little bit disbeliving. “And after those shows she’s gonna come find me at the bar. Me. And I’ll already have a vodka cranberry waiting for her, of course. ‘Cause, you know, I’m just chivalrous like that. And it’ll be icy cold. Just how she likes it.” Steve leans forwards suddenly, taking your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “And you know what else?”

He watches your eyes darken and tries, very hard, not to pay attention to the way your greedy hands tug at the waistband of his sweatpants. “What else, loverboy?”

Steve smiles a wolfish sort of grin. Confidence both restored and revitalized with your confession. “When I fuck her on the sink in a bar bathroom, I’m gonna make her tell me she loves me with my dick so deep inside her she’s choking on it.”

Your lips part in surprise, and Steve takes the opportunity to slide his thumb into your mouth.

He chuckles low at the way you immediately take him, lips wrapping tight around the digit. He presses down against your tongue and you moan like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Steve thinks you look so pretty like this, giving up all that control you like to keep an iron grip on. His headstrong, rebel girl out there. But here, with only him?

Oh, you’re just a pretty thing. A dirty little girl who needs to be taken care of. Sweet as sweet can be.

All it takes to flip the switch in you is a couple of nasty words and the touch of his magic hands.

Steve would be happy staying just like this. And he thinks you would be, too, considering the way you moan around his thumb, sucking hard, drool beginning to collect at the corner of your mouth. 

But the throbbing ache of his cock won’t allow it.

With his free hand, he pushes his sweatpants and boxers down in one fluid movement, kicking them away. His cock bobs back against his abdomen, hard as stone, a bead of precum leaking from the tip. Your eyes snag on the movement as he takes his cock in his hand and begins to stroke it slowly.

You press your thighs together and whimper as you watch him touch himself. 

Steve laughs. “Oh, baby. It’s okay. I know. Here.” He keeps his thumb in your mouth, hooking it around the bottom of your jaw, gently leading you closer, guiding your mouth to him. “Stick out your tongue.”

You do as instructed, your breath warm as it hits his hand.

Steve taps the head of his cock on the tip of your tongue, transfixed at both the seductive sight and the wet sounds that reverberate through his room.

When you try to suck him into your mouth, Steve pulls back with a click of his tongue.

“Can’t get right to it, greedy girl. Where are your manners? You gotta kiss it first.”

You don’t hesitate. Pressing your lips to the underside of his cock, lips wet with drool, leaving spit behind as you work your way down his length with purpose. His blood sings in his veins, the feel of your mouth electrifying.

When you press one final kiss to the base of him, you flatten your tongue and drag it all the way back up to the tip, sending shivers down his spine.

“Christ,” he hisses. “Good job, baby. Now you can have what you want.” 

You anchor yourself with your hands on the middle of his thighs and take him into your mouth, slow at first.

Steve sighs at the sensation. Your tongue is warm and wet, swirling around the tip. He lets you lead, stroking your hair back away from your face. You swallow him down, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking hard. 

The inside of your mouth is velvety smooth, surrounding his cock, granting him reprieve, ratcheting his pleasure higher and higher with each slow bob of your head. When you sigh contentedly around his length, Steve feels the subtle sound at the base of his spine. 

“Look so fuckin’ cute right now,” he tells you between gasping breaths. “If I knew you wanted my dick in your mouth this bad I would’ve fed it to you weeks ago, baby.”

His tone is sweet, but there’s an underlying condescension there, too. A perfect balance of caring and cruel, a concoction made all for you. 

You’re sucking him in earnest now, trying hard to fit just one more inch behind your kiss-swollen lips. But Steve’s big—cock thick and heavy, and your eyes begin to water as you look up at him.

“You want some help, pretty girl?”

You nod in response, humming in approval. 

Steve threads his fingers through your hair, big hand splayed wide on the back of your head. He takes hold of the strands and carefully pushes your head down and rolls his hips up simultaneously, thrusting deeper into your mouth. 

It’s blinding. You feel so fucking good that darkness begins to cloud his vision. Steve does it again, groaning low, fucking into your mouth without shame. 

Drool coats his cock and leaks down your chin, allowing him to press deeper until your breath gets caught and you’re all teary eyed and gasping. But you don’t complain for even a second. You only look up at him with so much reverence and allow him to use you as he pleases. 

His perfect, filthy girl.

Steve knows he won’t last long. Not like this. You feel too good—mouth too warm, tongue too wet, lips too soft. But he can’t bring himself to stop, not until he feels release pressing at the edges of his psyche, creeping closer and closer with each thrust.

He’s one flick of your tongue away from shooting his load down your throat when he pulls your mouth away, spit stringing and making a mess in the space between you. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Look at you.” Steve pulls you forward and presses his lips hungrily to yours, tasting himself on the tip of your tongue.

You moan into his mouth and he can’t hold back his smile.

“Stand up,” he orders. And you obey, wordlessly, awaiting further direction. Steve thinks there’s no one in the world who could turn him on like you do. You’re so obedient. Hanging on to his every breath, seeing and feeling nothing but what he allows. 

It makes him feel like the most important thing in your life. And good fucking God, he thinks he’d be a fool if he didn’t take advantage of it—of you—while you freely hand every ounce of control over to him.

“Take off your clothes,” he says, leaning back with his elbows pressed into the mattress. 

Steve watches you with rapt attention as you follow his instruction, starting with your jacket first. You peel it from your shoulders and lay it on top of the dresser pressed up against the wall, kicking off your leather boots next.

You cross your hands over your torso, grabbing hold of the hem of your t-shirt, and pull it over your head. Beneath, you’re wearing a leopard print bra that rests perfectly against the swell of your chest, making you look every bit the seductress you are.

His cock throbs, desperate for attention, and Steve doesn’t deny himself of it. His eyes stay glued to you as he takes it in his hand, his length still slippery and slick with your spit, and strokes slowly, careful not to squeeze too hard, keeping a tight leash on his pleasure.

You push your leggings down your thighs, revealing pretty red lace, and Steve groans at the sight of you. “You’re so pretty,” he says, delighting in the easy flush that crawls up your cheeks. “Keep going.”

When you reach behind your back to unclasp your bra, your breasts fall free from their confines and Steve swallows hard. Your nipples are peaked, goosebumps rising over the soft skin, the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. 

Or at least it was. Until you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, slowly tug them down, and Steve watches as the wetness of your arousal clings to the lace, spiderwebbing until the stickiness snaps.

He feels it low in his gut. A visceral reaction to the fact that you want him, and just as badly as he wants you.

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay, I’m gonna take good care of you. I promise. C’mere.” Steve extends his arms out and you walk right into them like it’s second nature. He presses a tender kiss to your belly, just above your navel, and tilts his head back to look up at you through his lashes. “My perfect girl,” he whispers, hands wandering over the soft expanse of your hips, pawing at your skin. 

You push his hat off and smooth your fingers through his messy curls. “Please touch me,” you plead, voice all breathy and desperate. “I want—God, Steve. I want you so fucking bad.”

“Yeah?”

You nod in response, and whine when he sticks out his tongue and licks a line between your breasts, spine arching into him, thighs squeezed tight. “Yes.”

He wishes he could draw it out longer. Wishes he had the strength to. 

Instead, Steve gropes at the pillowy flesh of your ass and slides off the edge of the mattress, elbowing your thighs apart to make room for the broadness of his shoulders. 

Without warning, he presses a wet, open mouthed kiss right to the center of your cunt, trying to practice what he’s only just finished preaching, despite the overwhelming urge to jump right to fucking you with his tongue. Steve kisses you again, right over your clit, and this time you spread your legs of your own volition.

“God, Steve.”

He kisses you there once more, adding the smallest amount of pressure. He pulls away only long enough to lick your arousal off his lips, groaning low at the sweet and sultry taste. “You’re so wet,” he says, breath fanning across your warmed skin. “Say please, sweetheart.”

“Please.” The word is so quick and desperate in your mouth that it makes his cock twitch.

Without a moment more of restraint, Steve surges forward with his tongue out and slides it between your syrupy folds. He finds your clit with ease and stays put, rolling his tongue over it. Back and forth, back and forth, a steady rhythm that has your hands in his hair pulling tight.

“Oh, God. That’s so good, fuck.” You lean forward, using one hand on the mattress to balance yourself as you set your knee on his shoulder.

A groan rumbles in Steve’s chest as he watches you squirm, hips rolling, trying to chase the friction. He sinks his fingers into the softness of your hips and sucks your clit into his mouth, feeling it pulse beneath the tip of his tongue. 

He curls his bicep around your thigh, reaching between your legs from behind with his middle and ring finger. He flattens them and slides them through your cunt, teasing at your entrance but not pushing in.

Steve pulls away, your clit slipping from between his lips with a lewd, wet sound. He does so only to suck in a few greedy breaths and say, “Want you to come for me, baby. Just like this, okay? Want you to use me. Can you do that?”

You whine, squeezing your eyes shut. “But what if I hurt you? I don’t want—”

“Hey.” His hand on your hip softens, thumb stroking gentle circles instead. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you know—?”

“I trust you,” he says with no room for discussion left in his tone. He means it. He does trust you. With this, and with his heart. Is fully aware that you might break it one day, but Steve will only feel privileged because either way it’ll be touched by you. He says again, a little softer. “I trust you.”

You look down at him, still poised between your legs, head back against the edge of the bed, eyes searching. And then you sigh and say, “Jesus Christ, Harrington. You’re going to fucking kill me one day, you know that? And I think I’d let you.”

Steve knows it's a submission of a whole new kind. More than obeying his filthy orders, more than confessing your feelings. 

It's an acceptance that yeah—he might break your heart, too.

But you would let him. 

Steve feels high on the realization that in all his obsession, in all his yearning, you’ve been secretly right beside him all along.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, hoping you can feel the love in his mouth. 

And then he pushes those two fingers inside of you and licks a long, deep stroke through your cunt. You curse lowly and he takes it as direction, sucking your clit back into his mouth, tongue laving over it. 

His fingers press against the softest spot inside of you with the kind of precision only someone finely tuned to your pleasure could.

Your hips roll, finding a shaky rhythm, pretty sounding moans cutting through the air. 

Steve flattens his tongue, giving you as much surface area to work with as he physically can, and fucks you with his fingers while you chase release. 

He knows you’re close when the soft walls of your pussy squeeze tighter with each perfectly timed thrust of his hand. You curse and whimper his name and it’s so fucking beautiful that Steve hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating through your core. 

Your pace picks up, growing sloppy as you grind your clit against his soft, wet tongue. “Steve,” you choke out. “Steve, I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t give you the chance to finish your warning before he’s pressing his face harder against you and sucking your clit into his mouth once more, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. 

It hits you hard—vision blurring, skin tingling, ears ringing. Your brain doesn’t process much else between euphoria and him. 

He doesn’t stop. Keeps the steady rhythm of his fingers as he pumps them in and out of you, tongue wetly circling your swollen, needy bud. Steve takes your pleasure more seriously than even his own, heightening the sensation with lasered focus until your thighs begin to tremble around his head. 

You fall forward, bracing yourself against the mattress, shoulders shaking with each shallow breath.

It makes Steve laugh. He slides out from beneath you and turns, laying his cheek on the small of your back and inhaling deeply, taking in the sweet scent of your skin deep into his lungs. “I know, baby,” he soothes, hands running up your sides. “It’s okay. M’right here. Just breathe with me for a second.”

He leans back, delighting in the sight of you; hair splayed around your head, eyes closed and a sleepy, fucked-out look on your face. His perfect, angel girl.

Steve commits the shape of you to memory, knowing he’ll never see something even half as breathtaking. It would be so easy to get lost in the moment, lost in you, but Steve makes sure to keep himself grounded because he never wants to forget this moment. Wants to savor it. 

He strokes the back of your thighs and grabs at your ass with both hands, spreading you open for one last taste, sliding his tongue through your slick and chuckling low when your muscles tense up at the sensitivity. 

“Shh, m’sorry. You just taste so fucking good.” He crawls up on the bed and over top of you, hovering just long enough so you can turn over to face him fully. 

The moment your eyes meet his, a bashful smile creeps up your face and your cheeks twinge a darker shade. “Hi,” you whisper.

Steve laughs, your joy mirrored on his own face. “Hi, pretty girl.” He cradles your face between his big hands, thumbs ghosting across your cheekbones. He kisses the tip of your nose once, just basking in you for a moment. Letting himself have you the way he’s always wanted. 

You’re the one who moves first, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. 

He leans back and tugs it over his head, discarding the fabric at the end of his bed. When he comes back to you, arms braced on either side of your head, Steve positions himself so his cock slips between your legs, sliding over your clit. 

As if on instinct, you wiggle your hips to find an angle where he could just slip in. But Steve holds firm in his restraint, though the feeling of your softness against where he aches the most makes him shudder. 

He kisses your forehead sweetly. “That what you want? Hm?”

“Yes,” you answer, certainty laced between each letter. You still move your hips, eyes focused on the place you’re so nearly connected, trying so hard to take him inside. “I want—you. I want you.”

The words are like music to his ears. He drops his head against your shoulder, perseverance withering. But he wants more—wants all of you. “Say it again,” Steve urges, voice softer and more desperate sounding than he’d intended. And when he speaks again, it comes out like a plea. “Tell me you love me.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling lightly, forcing him to look into your eyes. And then you say with more conviction that he’s ever heard, “I love you, Steve Harrington.”

With one careful roll of his hips, Steve presses his cock inside of you. Fills you up until you’re gasping, memorizing the look in your eye as your body adjusts to make room for him in it. 

You’re so tight around him. Hot and soft and perfect. Steve lost his virginity long ago, but you make him feel as if it’s his first time. He groans lowly, giving you time to settle, for the crease between your brows to smooth out. Gives you time to feel every thick, pulsing ridge of his cock. 

Steve nudges your jaw with his nose, kissing the hollow of your smooth throat. “I know it hurts, baby. M’sorry. Are you okay?”

You answer with a timid nod. “Yeah, I just…I feel so full, Steve. Fuck. I didn’t know if it was gonna fit.”

“Of course it fits, sweetheart. This pussy was made for me.” He grabs the back of your thighs and hikes them up over his waist before reaching a hand between you. Steve is extra careful this time when his fingers find your swollen and sensitive clit, rubbing in smooth, gentle circles, encouraging you to open up a little more. “My perfect girl. Mine. Say it.”

Steve pulls out almost all the way, and slowly pushes back inside. Deep. Touching parts of you only he ever has. “Yours,” you cry out. “God, I’m—I’m yours.”

“Yeah you are,” he taunts, voice a stark contrast to the way he touches you. Soft and sweet, laying kisses against your jaw, your mouth, your collar bones. He circles your clit and rocks his hips against yours, leaning down only long enough to swirl his tongue around one of those pretty, peaked nipples. 

You’re a moaning mess of a girl beneath the heavy weight of him. Soaking up all that pleasure, all those greedy, possessive strokes. Your DNA feels like it’s changing, unspooling at his touch. Your mind goes blank and there’s nothing before or after Steve fucking Harrington. 

He picks up his pace when he feels the muscles of your thighs relax at his sides. Fucks his cock into you a little faster, groaning all the while, trying to control his breathing and failing miserably. 

“I’m your girl,” you say, tone all shrouded in bliss. 

It’s going to be his undoing, those three words.

“Come for me, baby,” Steve urges. “Wanna feel it. Give it to me.” 

Your clit throbs beneath his fingers, and he feels the walls of your cunt pulse around him. Steve knows you're right there. Knows, too, that the moment you fall off the edge he’ll follow you. He can feel it now—sparks of electricity skittering down his spine, bliss replacing all rational thought in his brain.

You scratch lightly at the back of his neck, spine arching off the mattress.

Steve presses his mouth to yours, kissing you all slow and sloppy, murmuring between each breath. “My girl,” he says. “So pretty. So fucking sweet. I love you so much, baby.”

He thrusts into you once more, and then he feels it—the shuddering of your thighs, the shake in your shoulders, the tightness as you squeeze around his cock. 

“There you go,” he praises. “That’s it. Yeah, just like that.”

Steve fucks you through it. Holds you close and swallows up your moans like oxygen. The wetness of your arousal creates pornographic sounds with each heavy trust. His rhythm quickly grows sloppy, uncontrolled.

He pulls out of you with just enough time so slide his cock through your slick heat and spill his release onto your belly. The pressure of his body laid against yours is enough to make him ache. Sticky, white ropes of come splatter across your skin as he grinds against you. 

Once he’s finished, Steve lets out a long breath and collapses over you, his energy spent. 

Soft giggles fall from your lips, fingers moving to trail lazily up and down his spine. Neither of you speak for several moments, basking in the afterglow, simply feeling the intimacy of bared skin and bared souls. 

Steve thinks he’d fall asleep squishing you if he’s not careful, leaving you uncomfortable beneath him. That thought is the only thing that moves him. He pecks your lips and says, “Don’t move a muscle.”

No sooner than he can stand, you’re propping yourself up on an elbow and asking, “Where are you going?”

He disappears out of the room and into the hallway, finding a cloth from the linen closet and wetting it a little under the bathroom faucet. 

“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to ignore someone, Harrington?” Your voice carries down the hall, and Steve can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. 

“I’m coming,” he calls back, hoping this is as far from you as he’ll ever have to be again. No longer at arms length, but instead nestled right between your ribs, only a room away. 

Your voice is full of playful mirth as you ask, “Again? Jesus. Who knew you had stamina like that?”

Steve laughs and shakes his head. When he returns to his room, he sits besides you and begins to clean the mess from your skin. 

“Here I am, doing exactly as you ask just so you can go jerk one out in the bathroom,” you tease, clicking your tongue. “I mean, seriously. Who the hell even am I anymore?”

“You’re my girl,” he says. “And—you know, the tongue is a muscle too. So you’re definitely not doing what I ask. You’re moving it an awful lot, actually.”

“Didn’t hear any complaints earlier.”

Steve rolls his eyes and tosses the towel into the hamper in the corner of the room. He extends a hand to you, pulling you forward just enough to tug the comforter back. 

He climbs into the bed and you nestle up to his side like it’s right where you belong. Your fingers are cold as you wrap them around his bicep, and when you speak your voice is a lot different. Less playful and more apprehensive. “So, what now?”

“Now, we just…we figure it out together. Day by day if we have to. If that’s what it takes,” he says. And then more lightheartedly, “And I’m definitely taking you out on that date.”

You laugh, but this time there’s no argument to be had.

Several moments pass in comfortable silence. It stretches for so long that Steve thinks you might’ve fallen asleep. 

But then you say, “We go on tour in March and we won’t be back until summer. Do you think you would want to…I don’t know. Maybe…come with us?”

It’s a long time. A lot to consider.

Steve’s mind is clear enough that he knows he should take some time to mull it over. To really weigh out the pros and cons. 

But he knew what his answer would be the moment the words left your mouth.

He presses a kiss into your hair and promises, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Truth be told, you know of Bella’s… “condition.” 

Why she entrusts you with her secret—you don’t know. You’ve only known Bella briefly, having moved to Forks just a year before her return. When word spread that she’d be coming home, Charlie asked you personally to become her friend—a mentor of sorts, even. With long hours at the station, Charlie didn’t have the time to hover, even when he really wanted to. 

Bella liked to think Charlie didn’t hover, but he did. Even now. 

“Good morning, Chief Swan!” You yelled from your porch, greeting the Chief like you did every chance you got. The two of you had been neighbors for quite some time now since you moved in right across the street into the smallest house in the neighborhood with your mom.

“Mornin’.” Charlie’s gruff voice carried across the street. Usually, he’d disappear into his lonesome house, and only leave when he was called to the station. This time, however, he paused at his door in thought. You watched curiously as he turned around, immediately locking eyes with you, and cautiously approaching your quaint porch. 

“I hear your daughter is coming to town, Chief. That’s big news.” You offered conversation, still curious as to why he was purposely approaching you. Charlie was a kind man, and sometimes even friendly to outsiders, but he was still closed off. Perhaps it was your age that prompted him to maintain his distance—two decades is a large difference. Younger people probably freaked him out, you figured. 

“Yeah, I’m real excited.” Though, his unenthusiastic tone said otherwise. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh, okay.” You remained an open mind, waiting for an elaboration of sorts. “What about?”

“In all honesty, I need you to do me a favor.” His tone was serious, not asking, but rather telling. You would’ve agreed either way. 

“Of course, what’s up?” It seemed as though he struggled to find the words to ask, his brows furrowed as he thought intently. 

“Bella hasn’t lived here since, well, a long time. She visits, sure, but other than that, she doesn’t know anyone here.” That didn’t surprise you, especially since you hadn’t seen her once since living there. What he said next, however, did surprise you. “I need you to keep an eye on her for me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’re close in age, right? Maybe you can provide some… input in her life that I can’t.” Well, not quite close in age. She was 17. You were 21. 

“Oh, Chief Swan, I—”

“Charlie.” He corrected you.

“Charlie.” You repeated. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Bella doesn’t know me, and quite frankly, I don’t know her. You do, though.” 

“Please?” He looked defeated—embarrassed that he had to enlist the help of his neighbor to welcome his teenage daughter. After seeing the silently begging look on his face, you couldn’t say no.

So, when she called you once the plane landed, returning from her short-lived honeymoon with Edward, your vision blurred and hearing rang as she whimpered the words “vampire” and “pregnant.” She informed you that tensions were high between the Cullens; debating whether she should keep it or… “get rid of it.” Alice, Edward, and Jacob strongly advocated for the latter. You, however, only knew that Bella needed a friend.

It kills you to keep a secret of this magnitude from Charlie—who’s been pacing back and forth since you arrived. Bella asked you to keep an eye on him—a trend in the Swan family, it seems—and to keep him distracted so he wouldn’t drive to the Cullen house himself and demand answers. 

“Charlie, please—”

“What do you mean I can’t see her? Is she okay?” His tone is frantic; worried. 

“She’s fine. She just contracted a virus and didn’t want to worry you. Clearly, it’s not working.”

“So why can’t she call me? Why are you the one telling me?” Because he’ll know something is wrong by the sound of her voice. 

“Because she wanted the information given in person. She thought you deserved more than a phone call.” You deserve the truth, you think to yourself, but you’ve made a promise to Bella.

“Where’s this medical facility? I’ll go there myself–” There is no medical facility. She’s shacked up at the Cullen house just miles away. 

“No, Charlie, you can’t. She didn’t even tell me, so there’s no way of you knowing.” You hate how the lies roll off your tongue with ease. He huffs in frustration at your answer, finally taking a seat on the couch while you stand just feet away in front of the television. Sorrow settles like a brick in your gut, so you sit in the empty spot just beside him, your hand landing on his shoulder to offer support. “I’m really sorry, Charlie, but you know she’s in the best hands. Edward–or Carlisle–won’t let anything bad happen to her.” 

“I know…” His voice trails off, uncertainty clear in his tone. He knows you’re right, but you also know that the protective dad in him can’t sit idly by. Your heart aches to see the way his eyes glaze over, his brows in a perpetual frown since Bella left for her honeymoon. The poor man hasn’t been the same since the wedding. 

His house is empty again and his routine has fallen back into what it was before she came home; working every chance he gets and ordering takeout every night. His incessant sullen gaze has returned; his eyes are no longer softer like they were when Bella was here. You feel her absence as well. The house is eerily quiet–colder than usual–and the smaller things that accumulated in their shared spaces have been packed away and moved. Alice took the liberty of packing Bella’s things. 

Your relationship–or rather acquaintance–with Charlie has nearly withered since her departure. There’s no need to speak to him unless it’s to relay a message, like the unfortunate one you’re delivering now. Still, you greet him with a good morning, afternoon, and evening when you see him; which is rare. You quite enjoyed being a part of Charlie’s life, even if it was through Bella, and you felt as though you had finally cracked the man who would hardly speak to you since you moved in. 

“She’ll be okay. I promise.” It’s a stupid promise to make when you’re unsure of the outcome yourself. 

“I guess you’re right.” He lets out a heavy sigh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his face falling into his hands. 

You gently nod to yourself, taking that as your sign to leave. You’ve done all that you can at the moment; told him of Bella’s “sickness,” given him peace of mind, and ensured that he wouldn’t attempt to see her in person. All things Bella instructed you to do. You feel terrible knowing Charlie’s original plan was for you to watch over Bella, and now it’s been completely flipped in the opposite direction. 

“I should get going.” You announce, patting his shoulder and grabbing his attention once more. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else from her.”

Charlie nods, his warm eyes finding yours. He lifts himself from the couch with a gentle huff and stands to walk you to the door, as he always does. As you mirror his movements, the two of you face each other, subtle awkwardness creeping into the space between you. He’s decently taller than you, forcing your head to tilt back as you match his gaze. His eyes are masking a million different emotions, just screaming to be let out, so you provide the only form of comfort you can think of. Lifting your arms from your sides to reach toward him, his watchful eyes observe your actions as you lazily wrap them around his waist. 

His body freezes, stunned by your affection, as you rest your head against his broad chest. Your cheek lays against his cotton T-shirt, saturated in his warm scent—woodsy, cinnamon, and smoky–as if he had just built a fire to combat the slowly approaching frost. A beat passes before you feel his arms wrap around your shoulders, his head craning down to rest his scruffed cheek on the top of your head. His heart is pounding in his chest, the muffled sound knocking against your ear. As if to absorb his hurt, you hug him more firmly, your hands interlocking behind him as you adjust your grip. 

“Thank you for coming over.” His defeated voice finally speaks above you, and a hand soothingly rubs your shoulder. “It was nice seeing you again.” 

The feeling's mutual. The last real conversation you had with him was the wedding night. It hurt your feelings a bit; further confirming that Charlie was only interested in talking to you about Bella, nothing more. Sure, that was the deal, but you had hoped for more. Whatever “more” was, you still aren’t sure.

“Of course.” You breathe out, leaning back to look up at him, your arms still wrapped around him. “I hope to see you again soon. Under better circumstances.” 

“Me too.” He lets out a defeated chuckle, the humor absent. “Let me walk you out.”

Although, neither of you moves. His hands stay spread on the expanse of your back as his conflicted gaze bores into yours. An unspoken magnetic pull lures you to him, his eyes locking yours in a curious trance. Your stomach flips when he swiftly leans in, capturing your lips in a chaste kiss. Mere milliseconds pass before his lips are ripped away; just as quickly as they had come. 

Your eyes widen and the grip you have on him releases as you take a precautionary step back. Jaw falling slack, your lips part in utter shock, and your eyes blink rapidly as if you’re in a haze. Your face has surely turned crimson, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in the peaks of your cheeks. The look on his face, however, is just as shocked as you are–like he couldn’t believe he did that. He looks… ashamed. It’s almost visible on his face–the way his thoughts race–his voice catching in his throat as if to offer an explanation. 

“Charlie…” 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–” 

“Kiss me again.” You rush out, “Please.”

“Are you sure–”

“Just kiss me.” You nearly groan. Unable to wait a moment longer, you step forward to close the short distance between you two, your arms finding their way around his neck and feet standing on their tippy-toes. Your lips crash onto his, your eyes fluttering close as his hands snake around your waist, desperately gripping at your clothed skin. A low hum purrs from his throat while he deepens the kiss, dipping his head lower to accommodate you and satisfy his fast-growing hunger. His mustache and the stubble on his chin rub against you, adding to the pleasurable sensation pooling in your gut. 

This was not what you intended when you were tasked with keeping him distracted, but you can’t find a part of you willing to stop. Not when he pulls you in closer by the waist, his fingers digging deeper into your heated flesh, grasping at you so you can’t pull away–like you ever would.

Taking the initiative, your tongue darts from your parted lips, swiping along his bottom lip and eliciting a groan from Charlie. The sound is like music to your ears, only fueling you further when your hands find his loose waves, gripping gently and tugging at the roots. Following your lead, his tongue combats yours, invading your senses with his taste, his smell, him. 

Without breaking the persisting kiss, Charlie moves you both and pulls you with him as he lands on the couch in a seated position. Instinctually, your legs straddle him–your skirt lifting and bunching at your hips–and you finally lean away from him to catch your breath, your chest heaving in response. Through parted lips, Charlie lets out quick huffs, his back slowly leaning against the couch to allow his eyes to rake over your appearance; flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, and hooded eyes that silently beg for more. 

The sight of him is ungodly; sitting man-spread, hands now lazily resting against your hips, and eyes that flood with lust–the chocolatey irises being swallowed by dilated pupils. You need more of him.

Slouching slightly, you lean into him as your lips connect with his neck, leaving sloppy open-mouth kisses along the sensitive skin. His head tilts to the side to grant better access as a strained noise collects on the tip of his tongue. Your hips absently move against him and a surprised sound comes from you when the bulge of his jeans lines up with your aching core. The dull sensation urges you to seek more friction, making Charlie’s hands grip your hips to assist in your efforts. 

Soft, satisfied sighs brush past your lips as you continue your work on his exposed neck, pulling small grunts from him and subtle jerks of his hips. 

“Are you sure you want this?” His drawn voice calls to you, letting you know you can stop while you’re ahead. The thing is, you don’t want to. 

“So sure.” You mumble against his skin. “Are you?” Asking sincerely, you stop what you’re doing to catch his gaze.

He only nods, his eyes darting to your lips and hands absently squeezing, encouraging you to continue. Slowly, you roll your hips against him, building the previous friction back up. The feeling is deliciously teasing, only reaching a certain level of fulfillment before it becomes unbearable. You hold his line of sight, watching as his face gently contorts into a frustrated frown, needing more as much as you do. His brows furrow, creasing the skin between them, and a low grumble gathers in his chest as his legs shift restlessly beneath you.

Releasing your grip from his hair, your hands lay flat as they palm at his shoulders, spread across his chest, and travel down his abdomen, pausing just above the waistband of his jeans. You halt your hip movements, letting your fingers tease at the zipper before asking, “Can I?”

“Please.” 

It’s the only word he can muster before you undo the zipper at a tantalizing pace, the soft noise only adding to the fluttering feeling gathering in your lower belly. You quickly unfasten the jeans button, folding the rough denim fabric over to expose his boxers beneath. His jaw clenches when you tug the waistband of his jeans down just enough to reach into the stretchy material and firmly grip him. His stomach visibly tightens through his shirt, a low grunt exiting with a shaky breath as you free his hardened cock. Impressive.

Your closed fist works up and down his length a few times, admiring the way precum leaks from the reddened tip, pouring over onto your hand. Charlie struggles to show restraint as his hips shift upward to match your rhythm. You’re eager as well, feeling wetness gather and soak into the cotton fabric of your underwear. 

Impatience gets the better of you when you release him, smirking at the sound of protest from him as your hands find the bottom hem of your skirt and tug the clothing item upward to gather around your waist. His mouth clamps shut when your soaked underwear comes into view, exposing the absolute arousal he elicits from you. Usually, you’d opt for more foreplay, but you need him–you need him now. 

Unwilling to waste time, you pull your underwear to the side, using your other hand to grasp Charlie once more. With a little maneuvering, you scoot closer to him, lifting yourself slightly to align him with your cunt. He sucks in a sharp breath when you run the tip through your velvety folds, gathering every ounce of arousal before stopping at your dripping entrance. 

Slowly, you lower yourself, allowing your hips to sink onto him and inch his way into you. Neither of you dares to breathe as your walls stretch around him, welcoming him and swallowing every inch until you’ve sunken completely. Both of you gasp–for air, and because of the way his cock twitches and your walls squeeze around him. He’s filled you entirely and you bite back the moan that begs to release. Without even moving, the feeling itself is euphoric. 

“I need a minute.” He admits, his voice gravelly and forcing self-control.

“Me too.” You breathe out, your hands resting against his waist for support. 

Staying put, you lean forward, capturing his lips in a leisurely kiss. The moments leading up to this one have gone by in a blur, having happened so fast. You savor him, enjoying the way he can’t control the soft groans you swallow as your lips work against his, your walls pulsing in response. 

Your hands travel from below you, your fingertips ghosting over his lower stomach, his ribs, and his chest before settling on the sides of his face. His stubble scratches the surface of your palms as you deepen the kiss, humming in satisfaction when he invades your mouth with his tongue. Growing impatient, you feel Charlie’s hands grip tighter, urging you to lift your hips. 

The kiss is unbreaking as you follow his lead, letting him raise your hips and pull you back down onto his length. You moan into his mouth as he repeats this action a few more times before you decide to take over. Heavy breaths blow through his nose as you speed up, creating a steady rhythm that satisfies the both of you. You’re unsure how long you’ll last given the coil that’s been wound up tight since grinding against him fully clothed, which technically, you still are.

With your breath picking up, you break the kiss to focus solely on lifting and lowering your hips. The pace is growing quicker, and you notice Charlie’s hips moving to match your efforts. Resting your forehead against his, you lock eyes as you allow an uncontrollable string of moans to push past your plump lips, your eyebrows scrunching in pure pleasure. 

“I’m so close.” You confess, feeling your walls flutter around him in that familiar rhythmic pattern. 

“Keep going, baby.” His encouragement and use of the pet name through clenched teeth signals that his climax is nearing as well. 

Preserving energy and seeking release, you grind your hips instead, and you nearly cry out when your swollen clit rubs against him. It’s enough to bring you to the edge, your climax teetering and waiting to be pushed over. With a few more passes of your grinding hips, it doesn’t take long, and your head flies back to let out a drawn-out moan. 

“Oh god, Charlie.” Your voice points to the ceiling as your eyes squeeze shut, your hips sputtering against him. Your cunt pulses frantically around him as you continue your movements, riding out your crashing orgasm and urging Charlie to do the same. 

From the force of your climax, Charlie isn’t far behind. His name leaves your lips in an exasperated whimper, being repeated like a mantra. When your head falls forward, and your spent stare captures his, it’s enough to send him over the edge. With a choked groan, you feel his cock twitch inside you, coating your walls with hot cum as he stares deeply into you. Determined to wring out his orgasm, your hips move languidly despite the overwhelming sensation it creates for you, watching as his stomach flexes sporadically. 

He lets out a choked noise when he’s finished, the grip on your hips loosening and prompting you to slow to a stop. The mixture of your releases drips out of you, pooling at the base of his cock. Both of you breathe heavily, your chests heaving in harmony as your eyes bore into each other. 

You expect a feeling of regret to wash over you, but it never comes. 

Instead, Charlie’s hands slide to your waist and pull you closer, his lips peppering gentle kisses along your jaw, hairline, and lips. He reaches over beside him, grabbing a flannel he left draped over the back of the couch. Carefully, he drapes the patterned material over your shoulders, and your hands drop from his face, letting you lean forward and rest your head against his chest. You aren’t necessarily cold, but having shared an intimate moment with him, Charlie feels the need to cover you–to make you feel less exposed and to provide care.

“We should get cleaned up.” You mumble against him, feeling him soften inside of you.

“Okay…” His voice trails off, as if deep in thought. A beat passes before he speaks again, his gruff voice rumbling against your cheek from deep within his chest. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

You smile, genuinely in what feels like forever, “I’d love to.”