anastasia ⋆˚꩜｡

your bedroom is your sanctuary. it’s small and a little cluttered, but it’s yours. the curtains are drawn, the only light coming from the little fairy lights strung across your headboard, casting a warm, hazy glow. and steve is on top of you, kissing you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

it started out normal. well, your normal. a desperate, frantic makeout session that quickly escalated. clothes were shed, hands roamed, and now he’s settling between your thighs, his weight a perfect, grounding pressure on top of you.

he pushes into you, slow and steady, and you both let out a collective sigh. it’s perfect. he feels perfect. he starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has your toes curling. and then he lets out this sound.

it’s not a moan, not really. it’s a full-body, from-the-back-of-his-throat groan. it’s loud. it’s so loud it’s almost comical, and it’s followed by a string of breathy curses.

“oh, fuck, baby, you feel so—shit—so good.”

you can’t help but smile into his shoulder. you love it. you love how vocal he is, how he just can’t help himself. he’s an open book, and you’re currently reading your favorite chapter.

but then he stops.

he just freezes mid-thrust, his whole body going rigid above you.

you pull back, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “what’s wrong?”

he’s avoiding your eyes, his face buried in your neck. you can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks. “nothing,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by your skin. “keep going.”

“steve, you stopped,” you say, wiggling your hips impatiently. “what happened?”

“nothing happened,” he insists, but he still won’t move. then, in a much smaller voice, he adds, “did i… was i too loud?”

you have to physically bite your lip to keep from laughing. “too loud?”

he finally lifts his head, and his face is so red it’s almost purple. he looks completely mortified. “i just… i get carried away. and it’s… it’s embarrassing.”

you stare at him. truly and utterly stare at him. is he serious? “steve harrington. are you telling me you’re trying to be quiet right now?”

“well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “your parents are, like, two rooms down. and it’s just… undignified.”

“undignified?” you repeat, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. you prop yourself up on your elbows, ignoring the fact that he’s still inside you. “you do realize we’re literally having sex, right? the dignified ship has sailed.”

“that’s not the point,” he whines. “the point is i sound like a… a dying whale or something.”

that’s when you do it. you can’t help it. a giggle escapes your lips, and then another, until you’re full-on laughing, your head thrown back.

he looks utterly betrayed. “it’s not funny!”

“it’s a little funny,” you manage to gasp, wiping a tear from your eye. you cup his face, your thumbs stroking his burning cheeks. “steve. look at me.”

he does, his eyes all big and wounded like a puppy’s.

“i love it,” you say, your voice dropping to a serious, sincere whisper. “i love that you’re loud. i love knowing i’m making you feel so good you can’t help yourself. it’s the hottest thing i’ve ever heard.”

his blush deepens, but the wounded look in his eyes is slowly replaced by something else. something hopeful. “really?”

“really,” you confirm. you pull him down for a soft, reassuring kiss. “now, please. stop trying to have polite sex with me and fuck me like you mean it. i want to hear you.”

that’s all the encouragement he needs.

a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and all traces of his previous embarrassment vanish. he’s back. he starts to move again, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.

he’s not just loud now, he’s theatrical. with every thrust, there’s a corresponding grunt or groan or a string of filth whispered right against your ear.

“fuck, just like that. you’re so tight, baby. taking me so well.”

“god, you feel incredible. i could do this all night.”

“you like that, huh? you like hearing how good you make me feel?”

and you do. you really, really do. it’s like a feedback loop of pleasure. the louder he gets, the more turned on you get, the tighter you clench around him, which in turn makes him louder. it’s a beautiful, messy, perfect cycle.

the knot in your stomach tightens, faster than usual, spurred on by his constant stream of praise and profanity. you can feel yourself getting close, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“that’s it, baby, come for me,” he pants, his rhythm becoming erratic. “wanna hear you. wanna feel you. come on.”

and you do. you shatter, a loud cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. it’s intense, all-consuming, and it’s all because of him.

he follows you over the edge a second later with a guttural, positively pornographic groan that you’re sure would give your dad an aneurysm. he collapses on top of you, his whole body limp and sweaty.

for a moment, the only sound is your combined, heavy breathing. then, you feel his chest start to shake with silent laughter.

“okay,” he says, his voice muffled by your pillow. “maybe you’re right. that was… way better.”

you run your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, a lazy, satisfied smile on your face. “told you so.”

he lifts his head, his eyes sparkling. “just… maybe try to keep it down a little next time? pretty sure your dad owns a shotgun.”

you laugh, pulling him down for another kiss. “no promises.”

the movie is still just a blur of light and sound, a forgotten backdrop to the universe that exists right here on this couch, in the circle of his arms. the kiss slows, becoming a series of soft, lingering presses, and you’re the one to pull away this time, but not far.

your forehead rests against his, and you can feel the gentle puff of his breath against your lips. you’re still on his lap, one of his strong thighs nestled right between yours, and the pressure is a low, steady thrum that’s making your head feel fuzzy in the best way.

“steve?” you try again, your voice barely a whisper. it’s shaky, but determined this time.

“i’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. his hands are back on your hips, a warm, grounding weight. “tell me what you need.”

you take a shaky breath, the words feeling thick and clumsy in your mouth. “i… i want something. i just… i don’t know what.”

it’s the most honest you’ve ever been. a raw, vulnerable admission that you feel this ache, this want, but you’re lost on how to navigate it.

his eyes soften, and he looks at you with so much tenderness it almost hurts. “okay,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “we can figure it out. together. yeah?”

you just nod, trusting him completely.

“how about this?” he suggests, his voice dropping even lower, husky and gentle. “how about you stay right here, and you just… move however feels good. no thinking, okay? just feel.”

he gives your hips the slightest bit of guidance, a soft nudge forward, and that’s all it takes. your body takes over, rolling your hips down against the solid muscle of his thigh. a soft gasp escapes you at the spark of friction right through your thin sleep shorts. it’s good. it’s so good.

“that’s it,” he encourages, his hands stroking up and down your sides, a slow, reassuring rhythm. “just like that, honey. you’re doing so good.”

emboldened, you do it again. a slow, deliberate rock. the fabric of your shorts and his jeans creates a perfect, delicious pressure against your clit, and you can’t stop the quiet moan that bubbles up. your hands find purchase on his shoulders, gripping the soft material of his sweater as you find a rhythm. it’s shy at first, experimental, but the pleasure is a slow-building tide, and you can feel your insecurity starting to wash away, replaced by a desperate need for more.

“look at you,” he breathes, his eyes dark and fixed on where you’re moving against him. “so pretty like this. all flushed and wanting for me.”

his praise sends a fresh wave of heat through you. one of his hands leaves your hip, sliding up your back and then around to your front, tracing the curve of your waist. his thumb brushes against the underside of your breast, and you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.

“you feel so good,” he groans, his head tipping back against the couch cushions. his gaze is hungry, but it’s not scary. it’s worshipful. “you have no idea how good you feel.”

his hand moves higher, finally cupping your breast over your shirt. his thumb circles your nipple, and the sensation is sharp and immediate, pulling a whine from your throat. your movements become a little less coordinated, a little more frantic, chasing the building pressure.

“steve,” you whimper, his name a prayer on your lips.

“i know, sweet girl,” he coos, leaning in to press his lips to your temple. his other hand squeezes your hip, guiding you, helping you grind down with a little more force. “i know. let go for me. it’s okay. i’ve got you.”

and you do. the coil in your stomach snaps, and your orgasm washes over you in a slow, gentle wave. it’s not overwhelming, but it’s all-consuming. you bury your face in his neck as you tremble, your body twitching with the aftershocks. he holds you through it, his hands never stopping their soothing touch, murmuring soft praises into your hair.

“that’s my girl,” he whispers as you come back to yourself, your body limp and pliant against his. “so perfect. you did so good for me.”

you lift your head, and he’s looking at you with so much adoration it makes your chest feel tight. he gently pushes a stray piece of hair away from your sweaty forehead.

“see?” he says softly, a small, proud smile playing on his lips. “nothing to be scared of. we’ve got all the time in the world to figure everything else out. this was more than enough. it was perfect.”

and leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow, you believe him.

“god, you’re brooding.”

steve’s voice cuts through the quiet of his room. you’re sprawled out on his bed, staring at the water stain on his ceiling that looks a little like a distorted bunny. you’d come over to vent after another spectacularly bad date, and he’d listened, nodding along with all the appropriate sympathetic expressions.

“i’m not brooding,” you mumble, not taking your eyes off the ceiling. “i’m… processing.”

“processing what, exactly? the fact that the guy from the record store thought ‘the beatles’ was spelled with an ‘e’?”

“he also tried to hold my hand and got my thumb,” you say, the memory still making you cringe. “it was just… the whole thing. it’s always the whole thing. it’s either too much tongue or no tongue at all. it’s like they skipped kissing day in middle school or something.”

he chuckles, a low, warm sound from his desk chair where he’s tossing a tennis ball against the wall. “you’ve just had a bad run. doesn’t mean you’re gonna die alone, you know.”

“it feels like it,” you whine, finally turning to look at him. he’s got his legs kicked out, wearing a faded band t-shirt and basketball shorts, looking completely at ease. it’s annoying. “it’s like i forgot how to do it. or maybe i never knew. maybe i’m just… objectively bad at it.”

he stops throwing the ball, catching it with a soft thud. he looks at you, really looks at you, and his expression shifts from amused to something more thoughtful. “you’re not bad at it.”

“you don’t know that. you haven’t kissed me.”

the words hang in the air between you, heavier than you intended. his eyes widen, just a fraction, before a slow, calculating smile spreads across his face. it’s the king steve smile, the one that says he’s about to win a game you didn’t know you were playing.

“okay,” he says, standing up. the bed dips as he sits on the edge, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “let’s test that theory.”

your heart does a stupid little flip. “what?”

“let’s kiss,” he says, like he’s suggesting you order a pizza. “right now. you and me. we’ll be the judge. a scientific experiment.”

you stare at him. this is a terrible idea. this is the kind of idea that gets your feelings hurt and complicates the best friendship you’ve ever had. but the thought of another date like tonight, another clumsy, unsatisfying kiss, makes you feel exhausted. and steve is… steve. he’s safe. he’s your best friend.

“okay,” you whisper, the word barely leaving your lips.

he leans in, and you instinctively close your eyes. his first touch is impossibly gentle, just the soft press of his lips against yours. it’s nice. it’s… fine. it’s not earth-shattering. he pulls back, and you open your eyes to see him looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

“see?” he says, his voice a low murmur. “not bad. but that’s not what you’re looking for, is it?”

you shake your head, unable to speak.

“didn’t think so,” he says, and then he leans in again.

this time is different. his hand comes up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your ear. he angles his head, deepening the kiss, and his lips part against yours. it’s a question, an invitation. you respond, your own lips parting, and his tongue slides against yours. it’s not forceful, not sloppy. it’s slow and deliberate, a slow, sweet exploration that makes your toes curl.

you’ve been kissed before, but never like this. never with this kind of focused intent. he’s not trying to get to the next base; he’s just… kissing you. he’s paying attention. his other hand finds your waist, pulling you a little closer, and you gasp into his mouth as his thumb traces circles on your hip bone.

he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that makes your head spin. it’s a slow, dirty slide that sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in the warmth of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the low hum he makes in the back of his throat when you kiss him back with equal fervor.

your own hands, which have been limp at your sides, come up to rest on his chest. you can feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, the firm muscle of his chest. his t-shirt is soft, worn thin from a hundred washes. you fist the fabric, holding on.

he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. you’re both breathing a little harder now.

“still think you’re bad at it?” he asks, his voice husky.

you can only shake your head, your brain feeling like it’s been scrambled.

“good,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you again. this time, there’s no hesitation. it’s hungry, desperate. his hand slides from your waist to your back, pressing you against him. you can feel the hard line of his erection through his shorts, and the realization that you did this to him, that you’re the one making him hard, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.

his mouth leaves yours, trailing a hot, wet path down your jaw to your neck. he nips at the sensitive skin there, and you whimper, tilting your head to give him better access. he sucks a mark into your skin, a possessive bruise that you know you’ll have to hide tomorrow, but right now, you don’t care. all you care about is the feeling of his mouth on you, his hands on you.

“steve,” you breathe, your voice shaky.

“yeah, honey?” he murmurs against your skin, the nickname sending a shiver down your spine.

“more.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and blown wide with lust. he searches your face, like he’s looking for any sign of doubt, but he won’t find any. you’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.

“okay,” he says, his voice rough. “okay.”

his hands find the hem of your shirt, and he looks at you one last time, a silent question. you nod, lifting your arms so he can pull it over your head. he tosses it aside, his eyes raking over your exposed skin. it’s not a leering look; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation.

“god, you’re beautiful,” he says, and it sounds so genuine, so sincere, that it makes your chest ache.

he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your breast. his hands are on your hips, his thumbs stroking the skin just above your jeans. his mouth is a brand, a trail of fire that’s burning away every bad date, every clumsy kiss, every insecurity you’ve ever had.

he reaches back and unclasps your bra with an ease that should be illegal. he slides the straps down your arms, his eyes never leaving yours. he tosses it with your shirt, and then he’s just looking at you, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.

“you’re so perfect,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before he takes it into his mouth and sucks.

a sharp cry escapes your lips, your back arching off the bed. it’s a direct line of pleasure, white-hot and electric. he lavishes attention on you, switching to the other side, giving it the same treatment. his hands are roaming your body, exploring every curve and dip like he’s trying to memorize you.

you’re a mess of writhing limbs and desperate gasps. you can feel the slick heat pooling between your thighs, your panties already soaked. you need more. you need him.

“steve, please,” you beg, your hands tangling in his hair.

he pulls back, his lips swollen and red. “what do you need, honey? tell me.”

“you,” you gasp. “i need you.”

he doesn’t need to be told twice. he stands up, pulling his own shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his chest and stomach. you’ve seen him shirtless before, at the pool, at the lake, but this is different. this is for you.

he kneels on the bed, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your jeans. he unbuttons them slowly, his eyes locked on yours. he pulls them down, along with your panties, in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare to his gaze.

he spreads your legs with his hands, settling between them. he looks at you, at the most intimate part of you, with a hunger that makes your entire body flush. he leans down, and you think he’s going to kiss you again, but he doesn’t.

he presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, higher up. he’s teasing you, torturing you. you’re squirming, desperate for his touch where you need it most.

“steve,” you whimper. “please don’t tease.”

he looks up at you from between your legs, a wicked glint in his eyes. “who’s teasing?”

he grins against your skin, and the vibration of it makes you shudder. “patience, honey. s’not a race.”

but then he finally, finally gives you what you want. he flattens his tongue and licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and your entire body jolts. it’s not a tentative flick; it’s a confident, knowing swipe that has you seeing stars behind your closed eyes.

“oh, god,” you choke out, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands.

he hums in response, the sound a low, pleased rumble against your most sensitive flesh. he does it again, slower this time, savoring you. his hands grip your thighs, holding you open for him, and you’re completely at his mercy. he explores you with his mouth, his tongue tracing every inch of you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you whine, what makes your hips buck up off the bed.

he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, light, teasing touches that have you squirming, desperate for more pressure. “steve, please,” you beg, your voice barely a whisper. “please, i need—”

he cuts you off by sucking your clit into his mouth, a hard, perfect pressure that sends a bolt of pleasure so intense through you that you cry out. he doesn’t let up, alternating between sucking and flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves. one of his hands lets go of your thigh, and you feel his fingers teasing your entrance, gathering your slickness.

“so fuckin’ wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by your flesh. “all this for me, honey?”

you can only whimper in response, your mind too foggy with pleasure to form words. he slowly pushes one finger inside you, and it’s a welcome, delicious stretch. he curls it just so, finding that spongy spot inside you that makes your toes curl. he adds a second finger, scissoring them inside you, stretching you, preparing you.

the dual stimulation of his mouth on your clit and his fingers inside you is overwhelming. it’s a slow, steady build, a coil of heat tightening in your stomach, getting tighter and tighter with every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. you can feel the pressure mounting, the pleasure cresting, and you know you’re close.

“steve, ‘m gonna—” you gasp, your hips grinding against his face.

he doesn’t stop. if anything, he goes faster, his tongue working your clit in frantic circles as his fingers pump into you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. the coil snaps, and your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. you cry out his name, your body shaking, your thighs clamping around his head as the pleasure washes over you in intense, pulsing waves.

he works you through it, his movements slowing as you come down from your high, his tongue lapping gently at your over-sensitive clit. you’re a boneless, panting mess by the time he’s done, your limbs feeling like jelly.

he presses a soft, final kiss to your clit before pulling away. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a smug, proud look on his face. his lips are swollen, his chin glistening with your arousal.

“so,” he says, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. “still think you’re bad at it?”

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. “shut up.”

he grins, crawling up your body to hover over you. he’s still wearing his shorts, and you can feel his hard, clothed erection pressing against your thigh. you want more. you need all of him.

he kisses you again, his hand tangling in your hair. you can feel his need, his desperation, in the way he kisses you. he breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours.

“i don’t have a—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“i’m on the pill,” you say. “s’fine. just… please, steve.”

he nods, his jaw tight with restraint. he stands up, his movements a little clumsy as he shoves his shorts and boxers down. his cock springs free, hard and thick and leaking at the tip. your mouth goes dry. he’s bigger than you expected, and a fresh wave of arousal, sharp and potent, floods through you.

he settles back between your legs, his body covering yours. he’s warm and solid and real, his weight a comforting pressure. he lines himself up at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours.

“ready?” he asks, his voice rough.

you nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

he pushes into you slowly, inch by inch. it’s a slow, delicious burn, a stretch that’s almost too much but not quite. he fills you completely, and for a moment, you just lie there, adjusting to the feeling of him inside you. it’s overwhelming, the way he’s stretching you, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.

“fuck,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “you feel so good. so fuckin’ tight.”

“move,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders. “please, steve, move.”

he starts to move, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again. it’s slow at first, a deep, steady rhythm that has you gasping. he’s hitting deep inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with every thrust. it’s not like the frantic, messy fumbling you’re used to. it’s deliberate, purposeful. he’s making love to you, and the thought is both terrifying and exhilarating.

the pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your breathless moans and his low groans. his mouth finds yours again, a desperate, messy kiss that’s all teeth and tongue.

“you feel so good,” he pants against your mouth. “so perfect, takin’ me so well.”

his words send a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. you can feel another orgasm building, this one deeper, more intense than the last. the coil in your stomach is tightening again, and you’re right on the edge.

“i’m close,” you gasp. “steve, ‘m so close.”

“come for me, honey,” he growls, his hand snaking down between your bodies to rub circles on your clit. “wanna feel you come on my cock.”

that’s all it takes. his thumb on your clit, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you, his voice in your ear—it’s too much. the coil snaps, and you’re coming again, your body convulsing around him, a silent scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

he follows you over the edge a moment later, his thrusts becoming erratic as he buries himself deep inside you with a final, guttural groan. you can feel him pulse inside you, the warmth of his release filling you.

he collapses on top of you, his body a dead weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you’re both panting, slick with sweat, the room quiet except for the sound of your heartbeats gradually slowing down.

after a long moment, he rolls off of you, pulling you into his side. he tucks you against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. you’re sticky and sweaty and thoroughly fucked, and you’ve never felt more content in your life.

you trace patterns on his chest, your mind racing. what happens now? do you go back to being just friends? is that even possible?

“so,” he says, his voice a sleepy murmur. “how was that for a trial run?”

you laugh, a real, genuine laugh this time. you tilt your head back to look at him, a small smile playing on your lips.

“i think,” you say, your voice soft. “i might need some more practice. lots more.”

the video store was your church. the smell of plastic tape and stale popcorn, the hum of the fluorescent lights, the endless aisles of stories waiting to be discovered—it was heaven. and robin buckley was your high priestess.

“okay, so, hear me out,” robin said, pacing the aisle in a way that was definitely going to get them both yelled at by keith. “we cannot, under any circumstances, get another horror movie. dustin still has nightmares from the last one, and i, for one, cannot handle another midnight call from his mom asking if i can ‘talk him down’.”

you leaned against the shelf of new releases, grinning. “so what’s the alternative, buckley? another night of steve forcing us to watch footloose?”

“god, no,” she shuddered dramatically. “we need something with substance. something with… layers. like, a foreign film? maybe some black-and-white french new wave?”

“robin, the last time you tried to show them a french film, dustin thought the subtitles were broken and lucas tried to ‘fix’ the tv.”

she stopped pacing and pointed a finger at you. “fine. you’re right. but we’re not getting another action movie. my brain cells are committing seppuku just thinking about it.”

you were so deep in your debate that you didn’t hear the bell on the door chime. you didn’t hear the familiar footsteps until a voice cut through your bubble.

“are you two gonna stand here and argue all night, or are you actually gonna pick something?”

you turned, and your heart did that stupid little lurch it always did when you saw him. mike was leaning against the end of the aisle, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. he was in his element here, surrounded by pop culture, looking at you like you were the only movie in the store.

“we’re having a very important cinematic discussion, wheeler,” robin said, not missing a beat. “go bother the horror section.”

“can’t. dustin and max are already in there, arguing about whether nightmare on elm street or friday the 13th has a better final girl.”

“see? it’s a whole ecosystem of nerds,” robin sighed, turning back to you. “this is why we need a smart movie. to elevate them.”

mike pushed off the shelf and walked over, draping an arm over your shoulders. you instinctively leaned into him, his familiar weight a comfort you’d never get tired of. “or,” he said, his voice low in your ear, “we could just pick something we actually want to watch and let them deal with it.”

“and what do you want to watch, mikey?” robin asked, using the nickname she knew he hated just to get a rise out of him.

he rolled his eyes, but his focus was on you. “i don’t care. as long as i’m with you.”

it was cheesy. it was so, so cheesy. and robin made a gagging sound that was loud enough to make a customer in the next aisle look over.

“oh, gag me,” she said. “you two are disgusting. it’s like watching two puppies try to eat the same piece of spaghetti. it’s cute for five seconds and then it’s just a mess.”

you laughed, swatting her arm. “shut up, you love it.”

“i do,” she admitted, her expression softening. “but that doesn’t mean i can’t make fun of you for it. it’s my job as your best friend slash relationship supervisor.”

“relationship supervisor?” mike repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“yep. i’m here to ensure you don’t mess this up,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “she’s a national treasure, wheeler. don’t make me come for you.”

“wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and there was a sincerity in his voice that made robin’s teasing facade falter for a second. she just nodded, a small smile on her lips.

the three of you ended up in a compromise: a copy of ferris bueller’s day off that you’d all seen a million times but could quote from memory. on the way to the counter, robin nudged you.

“he’s good for you, you know,” she said, her voice quiet.

“i know,” you said, watching mike argue with keith about the late fee on some tape.

“no, like, really good,” she insisted. “he looks at you like you hung the moon. it’s annoyingly romantic.”

“and how does she look at me?” mike asked, appearing at your other side.

“like you’re a dork,” robin said instantly, her professional tone back in place. “a lovesick, hopeless dork.”

he just grinned, unfazed. he took the movie from your hand and your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “guilty.”

that night, crammed on steve’s living room floor, the three of you were a unit. you were in the middle, of course. robin’s head was in your lap, and mike’s arm was around your shoulders, his hand playing with your hair. every time ferris did something particularly clever, robin would squeeze your knee. every time cameron looked particularly sad, mike would press a kiss to your temple.

it was a perfect, tangled mess of friendship and love. it was robin making a joke and mike laughing before anyone else. it was you holding both of their hands during a scary part (even though it wasn’t a scary movie). it was the unspoken understanding that you were all in this together.

later, when the movie was over and everyone was half-asleep, mike whispered in your ear, “come with me.”

he led you out to the back porch, the cool night air a welcome change from the stuffy living room. he sat on the steps and pulled you down next to him.

“you and robin are… a lot,” he said, a small smile on his face.

“is that a bad thing?”

“no,” he said quickly. “never. it’s just… she really loves you.”

“yeah, well, she’s got good taste,” you said, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“she does,” he agreed. he was quiet for a moment, just looking out at the dark street. “i’m glad you have her. someone to look out for you when i’m being an idiot.”

“you’re never an idiot,” you lied.

he laughed. “right. but still. it’s nice. knowing you have your own little gang. your robin.”

“and you have yours,” you said, thinking of dustin and lucas and will.

“yeah,” he said, turning to look at you. his eyes were soft in the dim light. “but you’re my favorite.”

when you went back inside, robin was pretending to be asleep, but you could see the smile on her face. you settled back into your spot, her head in your lap, his arm around you, and you felt overwhelmingly, completely lucky. you had your boyfriend, and you had your best friend, and somehow, impossibly, they fit together perfectly. it was your own weird, wonderful movie. and you wouldn’t change a single scene.

steve.

the thought of him makes your stomach do a little flip. his stupid hair, his easy smile, the way he smells like cheap cologne and something that’s just… steve. you miss his hands on you, the weight of him in your bed. you miss him so much it aches.

on a whim, you roll over and grab the heavy rotary phone from your nightstand. your fingers tremble just a little as you dial his number, the clicks and whirs of the phone filling the silent room. it rings three times before he picks up.

“hello?”

his voice is a low rumble, and you can practically hear him slouching against his kitchen counter, probably still in his work polo from family video.

“steve,” you breathe, a smile already spreading across your face.

“well, hey there, sweetheart,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “what’s up? bored without me?”

“you have no idea,” you sigh, sinking back into your pillows. “my house is a ghost town. i think i saw a tumbleweed roll through the living room earlier.”

he chuckles, a warm, familiar sound that settles deep in your bones. “a tragedy, truly. we should declare a state of emergency.”

“we should,” you agree, your voice dropping a little. “or you could come over and… help me pass the time.”

there’s a pause, and you hear the faint sound of him shifting. “i wish i could, honey. really. my parents are home and they’re in one of their ‘let’s be a family’ moods. it’s a whole thing. i’m basically on house arrest until my dad passes out.”

your heart sinks a little. “oh. okay.”

“hey, no, don’t sound like that,” he says softly. “doesn’t mean we can’t… still have some fun. i’m a resourceful guy, you know.”

your breath catches. “what do you mean?”

another pause, longer this time. when he speaks again, his voice is lower, huskier. it sends a jolt straight between your legs.

“i mean… what are you wearing?”

heat floods your cheeks. you bite your lip, a thrill running through you. “just an old nightgown. the pink one.”

“hmm,” he hums, and you can hear the creak of what must be his leather jacket as he moves. “the thin one? the one that’s a little see-through in the right light?”

“maybe,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.

“i like that one,” he says. “i’m thinking about it right now. thinking about how it looks on you. how it barely covers your ass. drives me crazy.”

your hand instinctively goes to the hem of the nightgown, your fingers brushing against your thigh. “steve…”

“yeah?” his voice is like gravel. “are you in bed?”

“mhm.”

“good. i want you to close your eyes. can you do that for me?”

you nod, even though he can’t see you. “yeah.”

“okay. just listen to my voice. i’m there with you, okay? i’m climbing through your window, just like always. i’d probably trip over your dumb collection of stuffed animals, but i’d make it look cool.”

you let out a small laugh, the tension breaking just enough to make this feel real. “you would.”

“damn right i would,” he continues, his voice a hypnotic caress. “and i’m leaning over you, and i’m pushing your hair out of your face. you look so pretty like this, all sleepy. makes me wanna mess you up.”

a soft whimper escapes your lips. your hand is still on your thigh, but now it’s moving higher, tracing the edge of your panties.

“are you touching yourself, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice knowing.

“yeah,” you admit, your voice shaky.

“good. that’s my girl. tell me what you’re doing.”

“i’m… i’m touching myself over my panties,” you breathe. “they’re lacy. the white ones you like.”

“fuck,” he groans, and the sound is so raw, so real, it makes you clench. “i wish i could see. i wish i could rip them off you with my teeth.”

“god, steve,” you gasp, slipping your fingers under the lace to find the slick heat of your folds. you’re already so wet.

“i’m thinking about how you taste,” he says, his voice strained. “so sweet. i could spend hours between your legs, just making you fall apart on my tongue. remember that time in my car? after the movies? i swear i was tasting you on my tongue for days after.”

you remember. you remember it so vividly. the fogged-up windows, the cramped space of the front seat, his head buried between your thighs as you tugged on his hair.

“i remember,” you whine, your circling your clit with a shaky finger.

“i’m thinking about that right now. thinking about you grinding against my face. thinking about how you sound when you’re about to come for me. that little gasp you do right before you scream my name.”

it’s too much. his words, the memory, the friction of your own fingers. you’re already so close.

“steve, i—”

“no, not yet,” he cuts you off, his voice firm but gentle. “not until i say so. you’re being such a good girl for me, aren’t you? you can wait a little longer. make it last.”

you let out a frustrated groan, but you slow your hand, your whole body trembling with the effort.

“that’s it,” he praises. “good girl. now… i’m thinking about being inside you. i’m thinking about how tight you are, how you grip me when i first push in. it’s the best feeling in the world, you know that? better than winning a basketball game, and that’s saying something.”

you can hear the sound of his own breathing getting heavier, faster. you picture him leaning against the wall in his kitchen, his eyes squeezed shut, his hand palming himself through his jeans.

“i’m thinking about fucking you slow,” he says, his voice a low growl. “really deep. so you can feel every inch. i wanna watch your face while i do it. watch you lose your mind because of me.”

“please, steve,” you beg, your fingers resuming their frantic pace. “please let me come. i need to.”

“me too, honey,” he groans. “fuck, me too. okay. okay. come for me. right now. let me hear you.”

that’s all it takes. your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, overwhelming wave of pleasure. you cry out his name, your back arching off the bed as you pulse around your own fingers. it’s intense, almost painful in its intensity, and it leaves you breathless and boneless.

through the haze, you can hear him on the other end of the line, his own release coming in a series of ragged groans and choked-out curses. the sound of him falling apart is almost as good as your own orgasm.

for a long moment, the only sound is your combined breathing, ragged and uneven, crackling through the phone line.

“holy shit,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.

“yeah,” you agree, a lazy, satisfied smile on your face. “holy shit.”

you both lie there for another minute, just listening to each other breathe. then, the reality of the situation starts to sink in. your nightgown is pushed up to your stomach, your panties are soaked, and there’s a definite sticky mess on your hand and the inside of your thighs.

“ugh,” you groan, sitting up slightly. “i gotta… you know. clean up.”

he laughs, a real, genuine steve harrington laugh that makes your chest feel warm. “yeah, i feel that. i think i need a new pair of jeans.”

“ew, steve,” you say, but you’re smiling.

“what? i’m being honest!” he says, defending himself. “you’re the one who made me do it.”

“oh, it’s my fault?” you tease, swinging your legs off the bed and padding towards the adjoining bathroom. you grab a washcloth from the cabinet.

“absolutely,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice again. “so, tomorrow. you free? i was thinking we could actually, you know, be in the same room for this.”

“i’d like that,” you say, running the warm washcloth between your legs. “a lot.”

“good. it’s a date. i’ll even bring the pizza. my treat.”

“you’re a gentleman.”

“damn right i am,” he says. “now go get some sleep. you sound wrecked.”

“i miss you,” you say, your voice soft again.

“i miss you too, sweetheart. more than you know. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

you hang up the phone, the click echoing in the quiet.

"and that’s game," you say, tossing your controller onto the cushion beside you.

mike groans, letting his head fall back against the couch. "you’re cheating. you have to be."

"i’m just better than you," you tease, shifting so you’re straddling his legs. he goes still instantly, his hands freezing where they’re resting on his knees. he looks up at you, eyes wide and wary, like a startled animal.

"what are you doing?" he asks, voice tight.

"winning my prize," you murmur, leaning in close. his breath hitches, and he presses himself back against the couch, trying to create distance, but there’s nowhere to go.

"i... i didn't agree to a prize," he stammers, his hands coming up to hover awkwardly near your waist, like he wants to touch but doesn't dare.

"it's implied, mike. loser’s fee." you brace your hands on his shoulders, pushing him back harder against the upholstery. he’s solid under the thick wool of his sweater, all sharp angles and tension. "relax. i'm not going to bite."

"could've fooled me," he mutters, but he doesn't push you away. he just watches you with those intense, dark eyes, his pupils blowing wide.

you lean forward, brushing your lips against the side of his neck, right over the frantic pulse point. he shudders, a full-body tremor that you feel through the denim of your jeans. his hands twitch against your waist, his fingers digging in slightly.

"you're so jumpy," you whisper, placing an open-mouthed kiss just below his ear. "touchy."

"it's weird," he breathes, his head tipping to the side to give you better access despite his protest. "we're just... friends."

"are we?" you nip at the skin there, hard enough to make him gasp. "friends don't look at each other the way you look at me."

mike lets out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut. "how do i look at you?"

"like you're starving," you say simply. you grind your hips down against his, just a little, just enough to make him aware of the friction.

he gasps, his hips bucking up involuntarily. "fuck," he hisses, his hands flying to your hips to stop you, but instead of pushing you off, he just holds on. "don't. i can't... if you keep doing that..."

"if i keep doing what?" you tease, rolling your hips again, slower this time. you can feel him getting hard through the layers of clothing, the thick fabric of his jeans doing nothing to hide his reaction. "this?"

"you're killing me," he groans, his head falling back against the couch. he looks completely wrecked already, his face flushed, his lips parted. "please."

"please what?" you grab the collar of his sweater, tugging him up so he’s sitting straighter. "use your words, mike."

"please stop... or don't stop," he babbles, his eyes squeezing shut. "i don't know. i'm so confused."

"shhh," you soothe, running a hand through his messy hair. "you don't have to think. just let me take care of it."

you capture his lips in a kiss, swallowing his needy whimper. he kisses back desperately, his hands sliding up your back to pull you closer. he’s clumsy and eager, his teeth knocking against yours, but you don't mind. you like the desperation.

you pull back to look at him. his lips are wet and swollen, his eyes glassy. he looks dazed. "you okay?"

"yeah," he breathes, licking his lips. "just... yeah."

"good." you reach between your bodies, palming him through his jeans. he jolts, his breath catching in his throat.

"oh god," he whines, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "that's... that's really..."

"yeah?" you stroke him firmly through the denim, feeling him twitch and harden under your hand. "you like that?"

"you know i do," he grits out, his hips rocking up into your touch. "you're doing it on purpose."

"doing what?" you squeeze him, just a little too tight, just a little too rough. he gasps, his fingers digging into your shoulders. "making you feel good?"

"teasing me," he corrects, his voice strained. "you're being mean."

"and you love it," you counter, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease. the sound of the zipper lowering in the quiet room is obscene. he freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

you don't pull his jeans down, though. that would be too easy. instead, you slip your hand inside, past the waistband of his boxers, wrapping your hand around his bare cock. he’s hot and hard, leaking pre-cum already.

mike lets out a ragged moan, burying his face in your neck. "jesus, fuck," he swears.

"language, wheeler," you chide gently, but your tone is teasing. you stroke him slowly, torturously, dragging your thumb over the head to smear the wetness there. "look at you. already falling apart."

"i hate you," he gasps, but there’s no heat in it. he sounds wrecked, his voice cracking on the words.

"no, you don't," you murmur, kissing his temple. "you love this. you love that i'm the one touching you. that i'm the one making you feel this way."

"i do," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "i really do."

you speed up your hand slightly, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. he’s panting now, his hips bucking up into your fist. he’s trying to be quiet, you can tell, holding back his noises, but you want to hear him.

"don't hold back," you command, biting down on his earlobe. "i want to hear you."

he lets out a choked sob, his control shattering. "oh god, please... faster. i'm gonna..."

"not yet," you say, releasing him abruptly.

he cries out at the loss of contact, his hips bucking into empty air. "no! why? i was so close!"

you laugh softly, wiping your hand on the inside of his sweater. he looks at you with genuine betrayal, his face flushed a dark red. "because i said so."

"you're the worst," he groans, letting his head fall back against the couch. he looks debauched—sweat-slicked hair, kiss-swollen lips, unbuttoned jeans, cock hard and twitching against his stomach. and you haven't even taken his clothes off yet.

"but you're still hard," you point out, trailing a finger up the length of his cock, teasing the slit with your fingernail. he shudders, his whole body tense. "so you must not hate it that much."

"it's torture," he whines, his hands coming up to cover his face. "absolute torture."

"but you're a glutton for punishment, aren't you, mike?" you lean in close, your breath hot against his ear. "that's why you let me win. that's why you're sitting here letting me do whatever i want to you."

he peeks at you through his fingers, his eyes dark and hungry. "maybe," he mumbles, dropping his hands to grab your waist again. "maybe i just like the way you look when you think you've won."

you grin, feeling a spark of challenge ignite in your chest. "oh, i think i have won."

"we'll see," he murmurs, but he leans in, kissing you again, messy and desperate. he tastes like desperation and want, and you know you've got him exactly where you want him. you pull back just enough to look him in the eye.

"so, what's the verdict?" you ask, your hand drifting back down to tease him through the open fly of his jeans. "you gonna be a good boy and let me keep playing?"

he lets out a ragged breath, his hips stuttering up into your touch. "yes," he breathes. "god, yes. do whatever you want."

"that's what i thought," you purr, squeezing him tight. "good boy."

you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. he’s staring at your hand like it’s a foreign object, like he can’t quite believe you have the audacity to just... stop.

"you're joking," he breathes, his voice cracking. he tries to move his hips, to chase the friction, but you just shift your weight, pinning his legs more effectively to the floor. "you can't just leave me like this."

"watch me," you say, climbing off his lap.

the loss of your body heat makes him shiver. he looks genuinely distressed, his hands reaching out for you instinctively before he catches himself and pulls them back. "where are you going?"

"sit back against the couch," you order, moving to sit on the coffee table directly in front of him. "hands on your knees. don't move them."

mike stares at you for a second, his chest heaving, before he slowly shuffles backward until his spine hits the cushions. he spreads his legs slightly, planting his hands on his knees. he looks like he’s waiting for a sentence to be handed down.

you lean back on the table, resting your weight on your hands, and let your knees fall open. mike’s eyes snap to your legs immediately, his throat bobbing. you’re wearing a skirt, short enough that when you spread your legs, he gets a perfect view of your underwear.

his eyes darken, fixating on the fabric between your thighs. "oh," he whispers.

"like what you see?" you tease, trailing your fingers up the inside of your thigh, pulling the skirt up a little higher.

"you know i do," he says, his voice strangled. "you're killing me."

"good." you slip your hand under the waistband of your panties, moaning softly as your fingers make contact with your clit. it’s wet, slick from the anticipation of teasing him.

mike’s breath hitches audibly. his hands grip his knees tight enough to turn his knuckles white. "are you... are you touching yourself?"

"i am," you murmur, keeping your eyes locked on his. "i got so wet watching you fall apart earlier. i need a little relief."

"fuck," he groans, his head falling back. he looks tortured, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "let me help. please. i'm good at it, i swear."

"i bet you are," you say, circling your clit slowly. "but you lost, mike. losers don't get to touch. they only get to watch."

he watches, mesmerized, as you pull your panties to the side, exposing yourself to him fully. his eyes are glued to your fingers, his mouth slightly open. he’s panting, his chest heaving under that thick sweater.

"does it feel good?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"it feels amazing," you sigh, sliding a finger inside yourself. "but it'd feel better if it was you."

"please," he begs, his hips bucking up slightly. he’s still hard, the outline of his cock visible against his jeans. "i'll do anything. just let me taste you. let me touch you."

"not yet," you say, adding a second finger. you start to move them in and out, curving them just right. "you have to wait."

"i can't wait," he whines. "it's agony. watching you and not being able to do anything... it's worse than you stopping."

"poor baby," you coo, pumping your fingers faster. your breathing is getting heavier, your hips rolling slightly to meet your own hand. "you look so desperate. it’s really cute."

"i am desperate," he admits freely now, his eyes glued to your hand moving between your legs. "i need you so bad. i feel like i'm going to explode if i don't get to touch you soon."

"exploding sounds messy," you tease, though your voice is breathless. "try to hold it together for me."

he lets out a frustrated sound, halfway between a groan and a laugh. "you're impossible."

"and you're loving it," you counter, arching your back as you hit a particularly sensitive spot. a moan slips past your lips, loud and unbidden.

mike reacts like he’s been struck. his whole body jerks, his hands clenching on his knees. "god, hearing you make that noise..."

"what about it?" you ask, gasping slightly as you speed up your thumb on your clit.

"it drives me crazy," he says, his voice low and rough. "i want to be the one making you make that noise. i want to be the one fingering you open until you're screaming."

"maybe if you ask nicely," you say, your walls fluttering around your fingers. you’re getting close, the coil of heat in your belly winding tight.

"please," he says immediately, his eyes wide and pleading. "please let me make you feel good. let me fuck you with my fingers. let me use my mouth. i'll be so good. i'll do whatever you want."

"keep talking," you breathe, your head falling back as the pleasure builds. "tell me what you'd do to me."

"i'd start by kissing your thighs," he rushes out, like he’s been thinking about this for a long time. "slow, wet kisses. i'd mark you up, leave bruises so everyone knows you're mine."

"yeah?" you gasp, your fingers moving frantically now. "then what?"

"then i'd spread you open," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "i'd look at you. really look at you. admire you. and then i'd lean in and i'd lick you. just a flat drag of my tongue to see how you taste."

"mike," you moan, your hips bucking off the table.

"i’d make you cum on my tongue," he continues, relentless now. "i wouldn't stop until you were shaking, until you were pulling my hair and screaming my name. i'd lap up every drop. i wouldn't waste a bit."

it’s too much. the visual of him between your legs, the sound of his wrecked voice describing exactly how he’d wreck you—it pushes you over the edge.

"i'm gonna cum," you warn him, your back arching off the table.

"look at me," he commands, surprisingly authoritative for a guy who’s currently being denied. "look at me when you cum."

you force your eyes open, locking onto his. his face is flushed, his eyes dark and intent, filled with a hunger that makes your stomach flip. you cry out as your orgasm washes over you, your whole body shaking. you keep moving your fingers, drawing it out, riding the waves of pleasure while he watches every second of it.

when you finally come down, slumping back against the wood of the table, you’re panting heavily. you pull your hand out of your skirt, your fingers slick and wet.

mike is staring at your hand, his chest heaving. he looks like he’s in pain, his jaw clenched tight, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

"that was..." he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. "that was the hottest thing i've ever seen."

you bring your fingers up to your mouth, cleaning them off with your tongue, tasting yourself. mike groans, his eyes fluttering shut.

"you're a menace," he says, but there’s awe in his voice. "a complete and total menace."

"and you're still hard," you note, gesturing to the very obvious tent in his jeans.

he lets out a dry laugh, looking down at himself. "yeah. well. looking at you will do that to a guy."

you stand up, your legs slightly wobbly, and step between his spread legs. "want me to help you with that?"

"yes," he says immediately, his hands coming up to grip your hips. "god, yes. please."

"beg for it," you say, hovering just out of his reach.

"i'm begging," he says without hesitation. "i'm on my knees, metaphorically speaking. please touch me. please suck me. please ride me. i don't care. i just need you."

"good boy," you murmur, reaching down to palm him through his jeans again. he gasps, his head falling back against the couch, his hips bucking up into your touch. "since you asked so nicely."

you don't give him the satisfaction of taking his clothes off right away. instead, you drop to your knees between his legs. the change in perspective makes you feel powerful, looking up at him while he stares down at you, all messy hair and desperate eyes.

"lift your hips," you command, hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans.

mike scrambles to obey, lifting his ass off the floor so you can tug his jeans and boxers down in one go. his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach with a dull sound. he hisses at the exposure, the cool air hitting the heated skin.

he looks painful. he’s thick and flushed dark red, the head glistening with pre-cum that’s smeared across his abs. the vein running along the underside is pulsing.

"poor thing," you coo, wrapping a hand around the base. he jumps, a choked-off moan escaping his throat. "you're so swollen. does it hurt?"

"yes," he grits out, his hands tangling in your hair—not pulling, just holding on, anchoring himself. "it hurts so much. please do something."

"i am doing something," you say, leaning forward to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

his hips buck sharply, his grip tightening in your hair. "oh fuck," he breathes.

you stick your tongue out, licking a stripe from the base to the tip, collecting the mess he’s made. he tastes salty and heady. you swirl your tongue around the head, dipping into the slit, and his whole body trembles.

"you're teasing," he accuses, though his voice is wrecked, breathless.

"i know," you smirk, taking just the head into your mouth and sucking hard.

he cries out, his head falling back against the couch cushions. "jesus... that’s... oh my god."

you bob your head slowly, taking him a little deeper with each pass, but keeping it lazy. you want to drive him insane. you want him to feel every inch of your mouth, every drag of your tongue, without giving him the rhythm he needs to get off.

"please," he whines, looking down at you. his glasses are askew, his eyes wet. "faster. take it deeper. i need... i need more."

you pull off with a pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. "what's the magic word?"

"please!" he practically shouts. "please, please, please. i'll do anything. just let me fuck your mouth. let me cum."

"good answer," you murmur, diving back down. this time, you take him as deep as you can, relaxing your throat until he hits the back of it.

mike shouts, his hips snapping up involuntarily. "oh fuck, i'm sorry! i didn't mean to—"

you hum around him, the vibration making his legs shake. you grab his hips, pinning them to the floor so he can't thrust, and start to move your head in earnest. you hollow your cheeks, sucking him hard, using your tongue to massage the underside of his shaft.

he’s a mess above you. he’s chanting your name like a prayer, mixed with curses and broken pleas. "so good... you're so good... feels like heaven... holy shit..."

you can feel him getting closer. his balls are drawing up tight against his body, his cock twitching in your mouth. he’s trying to be still, trying not to thrust into your mouth, but his muscles are jumping with the effort.

"i'm close," he gasps out, warning you. "i'm gonna cum. i can't... i can't hold it."

you pull off immediately.

mike lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-growl, his head falling back. "no! no, no, no. why do you keep doing that?"

you wipe your mouth, grinning up at him. "because it’s fun."

"it’s not fun! it’s torture!" he groans, covering his face with his hands. "you're actually evil. i've decided."

"and yet you're still sitting here with your pants around your ankles," you point out, standing up. "if i'm so evil, you could leave."

he glares at you, though it lacks any real heat. mostly he just looks sexually frustrated and desperate. "i can't leave. you've ruined me. nobody else is going to compare to this."

"damn right," you say, stepping out of your skirt and letting it pool on the floor. "now, are you going to sit there and whine, or are you going to fuck me?"

mike’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you standing there in just your panties and sweater. he stares like he’s forgotten how to blink.

"i... yeah," he breathes. "yeah, i want to fuck you."

"then get up here," you say, climbing onto the couch and straddling his lap again.

this time, there’s no clothing between you except your underwear and his sweater. you grind down against him, the friction of his cock against your wet panties making both of you gasp.

"take these off," he says, tugging at the waistband of your panties. "please."

"since you asked so nicely," you say, lifting your hips slightly so he can pull them down.

he fumbles with the fabric, his hands clumsy and eager, finally managing to get them down your legs. he tosses them aside without looking, his eyes fixed on your exposed center.

"you're so wet," he murmurs, reaching out to touch you. he runs a finger through your folds, gathering the wetness. "is this all for me?"

"all for you," you confirm, grabbing his wrist and guiding his fingers to your clit. "touch me. make me cum again before you fuck me."

"yeah," he breathes, his eyes darkening. "i can do that."

he starts to rub circles on your clit, his touch surprisingly confident for someone who was just begging for mercy. he finds a rhythm that has you gasping, your head falling back.

"just like that," you moan, rocking your hips against his hand. "you learn fast."

"i'm a fast learner," he says, leaning forward to capture one of your nipples through the fabric of your sweater between his teeth. he bites down gently, and you moan louder, your walls fluttering.

he keeps working you with his fingers, his other hand coming up to squeeze your breast. it’s overwhelming, the dual stimulation, and you can feel the pleasure building quickly again.

"mike," you gasp, tugging at his hair. "i'm close."

"cum for me," he commands, his voice vibrating against your chest. "let me feel it."

you tumble over the edge with a cry, your body seizing up as the orgasm washes over you. mike doesn't stop, working you through it until you're shaking and pushing his hand away.

"too much," you pant, collapsing against his chest.

he holds you, his hand stroking your back. "you okay?"

"yeah," you breathe, nuzzling into his neck. "more than okay."

"good," he says, his hand sliding down to grip your ass. "because i really, really need to be inside you now."

you sit up, straddling his hips. his cock is resting against his stomach, hard and ready. "do you have a condom?"

"wallet," he says, gesturing vaguely to his discarded jeans on the floor.

you lean over and grab his wallet, fishing the foil packet out. he watches you with hungry eyes as you rip it open and roll the condom down his length.

"ready?" you ask, positioning him at your entrance.

"ready," he breathes, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise.

you sink down on him slowly, taking him inch by inch. he groans low in his throat, his head falling back against the couch. he stretches you perfectly, the burn mixing with the pleasure until you're full.

"fuck," you breathe, pausing once he’s fully seated. "you feel huge."

he lets out a strained laugh. "you feel... incredible. so tight. so wet."

you start to move, lifting your hips and sliding back down. he meets your thrusts, his hips snapping up to meet yours. the room fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and broken moans.

mike is mesmerizing like this. usually he’s so contained, so thoughtful, but now he’s letting go. he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, fucking up into you with a desperation that matches your own.

"you're doing so good," you murmur, kissing him deeply. "taking me so well."

"i'm trying," he gasps against your lips. "i'm trying so hard not to cum."

"don't hold back," you say, picking up the pace. "let go. i want you to fill me up."

that’s all it takes. with a guttural groan, he buries his face in your neck and cums. his hips stutter, his whole body shaking as he spills into the condom. you follow him a moment later, triggered by the feeling of him pulsing inside you.

you stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the couch, the only sound your ragged breathing. mike presses lazy kisses to your shoulder, his hand tracing patterns on your back.

"wow," he breathes eventually, lifting his head to look at you. "just... wow."

"yeah," you agree, kissing him softly. "you're definitely not the sub i thought you were."

he grins, a lazy, satisfied thing that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "i have my moments," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "besides, you brought it out in me. you're a corrupting influence."

"i'll take that as a compliment," you say, shifting slightly. the movement makes you both gasp; he’s still inside you, softening but still present.

"sensitive," he hisses, his hands tightening on your hips to stop you from moving. "don't... don't move yet. just give me a minute."

you laugh softly, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. he smells like sex and sweat and that distinct woodsy smell of his cologne. it’s intoxicating. "you okay?"

"more than okay," he breathes, stroking your hair. "that was... intense. i feel like i ran a marathon."

you stay there for a while, just holding each other as your breathing returns to normal. the basement is quiet, the hum of the heater the only sound. it’s peaceful in a way you haven't felt in a long time.

eventually, though, reality starts to creep back in. you’re sticky, the condom is becoming uncomfortable, and your legs are starting to cramp from the position.

"we should clean up," you murmur, reluctant to move. "before someone comes home."

mike sighs, but he nods. "yeah. nancy’s out with jonathan, and my parents are away, but... better safe than sorry."

you lift your hips, letting him slide out of you. he groans at the loss, his hands lingering on your waist as you climb off his lap. you tie off the condom and toss it into the small trash can near the tv, feeling oddly domestic.

mike is struggling to pull his jeans back up, his movements sluggish. he looks wrecked—hair standing up in every direction, sweater rumpled, eyes glazed. he looks thoroughly fucked out, and it’s a good look on him.

"need some help?" you tease, grabbing your panties from the floor and stepping into them.

"maybe," he admits, flushing slightly. "my hands aren't working properly."

you laugh, going over to help him button his jeans. "poor baby. did i wear you out?"

"completely," he says, leaning his forehead against yours. "i don't think i can move from this couch for at least an hour. maybe two."

"that’s fine by me," you say, sitting down next to him and curling into his side. he immediately wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

you sit there in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the post-coital haze. but then, you feel him shift, his fingers trailing up and down your arm. it’s a nervous gesture, fidgety.

"what?" you ask, looking up at him.

he looks down at you, his expression unreadable. "nothing. just... thinking."

"about?"

"about how i almost messed this up," he says softly. "with the whole 'just friends' thing. i was so scared to ruin what we had."

you reach up, cupping his cheek. "you didn't mess it up. we just... upgraded."

"yeah," he smiles, leaning into your touch. "definitely an upgrade."

"besides," you tease, poking his chest. "if you hadn't been so chickenshit, i wouldn't have had to take matters into my own hands. and look how well that turned out."

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "true. you were... pretty incredible. scary, but incredible."

"i try," you preen.

"so," he starts, hesitating slightly. "does this mean we're... you know? a couple?"

"if you want to be," you say, trying to sound nonchalant but feeling your heart rate pick up. "i mean, i don't usually do that whole 'friends with benefits' thing. i get attached."

"i want to be," he says quickly, earnestly. "i really want to be. i've wanted to be for a long time."

"good," you say, leaning up to kiss him. "then it's settled. we're dating."

"cool," he breathes, like he can't quite believe it. "cool. i have a girlfriend."

you laugh at his awe. "you're such a dork."

"your dork," he corrects, squeezing your side.

"yeah, yeah," you say, settling back against him. "don't push your luck."

you sit there for a while longer, until the cold starts to seep in through the basement windows. you’re content, but you know you can't stay here forever.

"i should probably get going," you say reluctantly. "it's getting late."

mike frowns. "stay? please? my parents won't be back until sunday. we could order pizza, watch a movie... sleep in my bed."

the offer is tempting. incredibly tempting. the thought of waking up next to him, of having him all to yourself for the whole weekend... it’s enough to make you consider ditching your plans for the next two days.

"i don't have any clothes," you point out weakly.

"wear mine," he says immediately. "you'll look better in them anyway."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "fine. twist my arm. but only if we get pepperoni."

"deal," he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. "pepperoni it is."

you stand up, holding out a hand to pull him up from the couch. he groans as he stands, his knees popping slightly.

"old man," you tease.

"shut up," he grumbles, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in for a hug. "you did this to me."

"and i'd do it again," you murmur, kissing him softly. "in a heartbeat."

he pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes soft. "yeah?

"yeah," you confirm. "now, feed me, wheeler. i'm starving."

"yes ma'am," he says, saluting playfully. "pizza and movie coming right up."

you watch him walk over to the phone in the corner, dialing the number for the pizza place with a familiarity that speaks to how much time he spends down here. he looks happy. really, truly happy. and you realize that you are too.

you curl up on the end of the couch, pulling the blanket draped over the back around your shoulders. mike finishes the order and comes back over, flopping down beside you and immediately pulling you into his lap.

"did you order extra cheese?" you ask, resting your head on his shoulder.

"always," he says, pressing a kiss to your hair.

"good," you mumble, closing your eyes. "because you're going to need your energy for round two."

mike freezes for a second, then lets out a low laugh. "you're trying to kill me."

"maybe a little," you admit. "but what a way to go."

"i love you," he says suddenly, the words slipping out like he didn't mean to say them, but once they were out there, he didn't take them back.

you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. you look up at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. his eyes are wide, a little panicked, but mostly just full of affection.

"what?" you ask softly.

"i said... i love you," he repeats, his voice steadier this time. "i've been wanting to say it for a while. i just... i didn't know how. and then tonight happened, and it just felt right."

you feel a warmth spread through your chest, blooming outward until your fingertips are tingling. it’s not scary anymore. it’s just... right.

"i love you too," you say, meaning it with every fiber of your being. "you nerdy, submissive idiot."

he grins, ducking his head. "i'll take it."

you pull him in for a kiss, slow and sweet, pouring everything you feel into it. when you finally pull away, you’re both breathless again.

"so," he says, resting his forehead against yours. "round two?"

"after pizza," you compromise. "i need sustenance if i'm going to ruin you again."

"deal," he laughs, squeezing you tight. "pizza first. then you can have your way with me."

"i plan to," you murmur, settling back against his chest. "i absolutely plan to."

you might start crying again, and you were determined not to give him the satisfaction.

you heard the soft thud of his keys hitting the bowl by the door, then the shuffle of his feet on the rug. he didn't come closer right away, and you were grateful for the small mercy. you just wanted to disappear, to melt into the couch cushions and pretend the last hour never happened.

but then the couch dipped beside you, his weight a familiar and unwelcome presence. you flinched, pulling your knees tighter to your chest, a silent wall going up.

"hey," he said, his voice quiet, stripped of all the anger from before. it was the soft voice, the one that always came after the storm, and it almost hurt worse. "look at me, please."

you shook your head, burying your face in your knees. you could feel the tears welling up again, hot and stupid.

"i'm sorry," he murmured, and you felt his hand hesitate before it landed gently on your back. his thumb started stroking slow circles over your shirt, a repetitive, soothing motion. "i was an asshole. i know i was. i wasn't mad at you, i was just… mad. and i took it out on you. that's not fair."

you stayed silent, but you could feel your resolve crumbling. the gentle pressure of his hand was chipping away at the wall you'd built.

"i'm so sorry, baby," he continued, leaning closer so his lips were near your hair. "you didn't deserve that. you never do. you're the best thing i have, and i act like a dick sometimes. i hate myself for it."

a small, choked sob escaped your throat before you could stop it. it was embarrassing.

"shh, no, don't cry," he said instantly, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. "come here. let me make it better."

you resisted for a second, but then you gave in, turning and tucking yourself into his chest. his arms came around you immediately, holding you tight, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. you breathed in his scent, the familiar smell of him that usually meant safety, and finally let the tears fall.

"i'm sorry," you whispered into his shirt, even though you hadn't done anything wrong.

"no, don't you dare apologize," he said, his voice firm but gentle. he pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up, wiping at your wet cheeks with his thumbs. his eyes were soft, full of a regret that looked genuine. "i'm the one who's sorry. i'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. i was mean, and i hurt you, and i'm so, so sorry."

he leaned in and kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your lips, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted like salt and apology.

"let me take care of you," he whispered against your mouth. "okay? let me make it up to you."

you just nodded, too tired to do anything else. he shifted, laying you both down on the couch, maneuvering you until you were lying on top of him, your head tucked under his chin. he covered you with the throw blanket, his hands running up and down your back in long, calming strokes.

"i love you," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "you know that, right? even when i'm being a bastard, i love you more than anything."

you sniffled, wrapping your arms around his middle. "i love you too."

he kissed the top of your head, holding you a little tighter. "good," he murmured. "now just rest. i've got you. i'm not going anywhere."

you’re not entirely sure when it started.

maybe it was the way his eyes would linger a second too long on the way your jeans hugged your hips when you’d stand up from his basement couch. or the way he’d get uncharacteristically quiet, chewing on his bottom lip, whenever you leaned over the d&d table to move your miniature, giving him a perfect view down the front of your shirt.

it was mike wheeler. sweet, goofy, nerdy mike wheeler, who still got flustered buying condoms at the pharmacy and thought a romantic gesture was letting you pick the movie. he wasn’t a perv. not really. but there was this… this lowkey, almost desperate curiosity about him that only seemed to come out when you were around.

like tonight.

you were all crammed in his basement, the glow of the screen illuminating your faces. you were stretched out on the floor, propped up on your elbows, wearing one of his old hellfire shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. it was comfortable. it was normal.

but the air felt different.

you could feel his gaze on you from the armchair. it wasn't just a glance; it was a heavy, focused thing. you pretended to be engrossed in the movie, but you could practically hear the gears turning in his head. out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift, adjusting the way he was sitting. a small, barely-there smirk tugged at your lips.

you decided to test a theory.

you stretched your arms over your head, arching your back in a way that you knew made the hem of the shirt ride up, exposing a sliver of your stomach. you heard a sharp, quiet intake of breath from the chair. when you settled back down, you risked a look at him.

his face was flushed, a deep pink creeping up his neck. his eyes were wide, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and they were fixed on the patch of skin you’d just revealed. he snapped his gaze back to the tv so fast you were surprised he didn’t get whiplash.

a few minutes later, you “casually” dropped your hair tie. it rolled just a little out of reach. you sighed dramatically and got onto your hands and knees to crawl for it, making sure to give him a full view as you did.

the basement went silent.

well, the movie was still playing, but the energy shifted. you could feel the weight of his stare on you, burning and intense. you stayed down for a moment longer than necessary, pretending to fumble with the hair tie on the floor. when you finally sat up and pulled your hair into a messy bun, you looked right at him.

he was staring. mouth slightly agape, his knuckles white where he was gripping the armrests of the chair. he looked completely wrecked, and all you’d done was stretch and bend over.

it was then that you realized it wasn't malicious. it wasn't creepy. it was just… mike. he was a teenage boy with a massive crush, and his brain was short-circuiting. he was a perv, but in the most endearing, clueless way possible. like he’d spent so much time thinking about kissing you that the moment you presented him with something more, his entire system crashed.

you gave him a small, knowing smile, and his blush deepened to a dark crimson. he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck, utterly flustered.

later, when everyone else had gone home and it was just the two of you cleaning up, he was still quiet.

“mike?” you said softly, stopping him with a hand on his arm.

“yeah?” he mumbled, not quite meeting your eyes.

“you’re staring again,” you whispered, your voice teasing but gentle.

he finally looked at you, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and something else, something darker and more wanting. he opened his mouth, probably to deny it, but then closed it. he just sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“sorry,” he breathed out, his voice barely audible.

“don’t be,” you said, stepping closer. you leaned in, your lips just barely brushing his ear. “i don’t mind.”

© loserwheelers

you’re freezing.

you knew coming to the wheelers’ cabin for the weekend meant dealing with faulty heating and drafty windows, but you didn’t expect it to be this cold. you’re shivering under two thin blankets, teeth cherring loudly enough to wake the dead. or at least, wake the person sleeping on the mattress right next to you.

mike.

the arrangement was simple. one room, two beds. or so you thought. when you arrived, mrs. wheelersheepishly explained that the hinge on the fold-out couch had snapped, leaving you with one queen-sized mattress and about zero dignity. now, you’re lying there, trying to take up as little space as possible while radiating pure misery.

you hear a heavy sigh from the other side of the bed. the rustling of sheets stops, and then you feel the weight shift as mike rolls over.

“can you stop shivering?” his voice is low, thick with sleep, but there’s that familiar sharp edge to it. the one that makes your stomach twist. “you’re shaking the whole bed.”

“sorry,” you whisper, pulling the covers up to your nose. “it’s just really cold.”

“it’s not that cold,” he grumbles. you can hear the skepticism in his tone. “you’re being dramatic.”

you bite your tongue, resisting the urge to snap back. it’s always like this with him lately. he’s distant, prickly, acting like you’re an inconvenience he’s forced to tolerate rather than someone he used to be close with. it hurts, more than you care to admit, but you’d rather freeze to death than give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

you squeeze your eyes shut, willing your body to just stop trembling. it doesn’t work. a violent shudder racks through your frame, and you let out a pathetic squeak.

mike groans, annoyed. “god, you’re impossible.”

suddenly, the warm weight of the comforter is lifted off you. your eyes snap open just as mike yanks the blanket away from you and bundles it up on his side.

“mike! what the hell?” you hiss, sitting up. the air hits you instantly, and you wrap your arms around yourself. “give it back.”

“come here then,” he says, his voice flat. he’s lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, looking at the ceiling with an expression of bored irritation. “if you’re going to complain about it all night, just get over here.”

you hesitate. you know this is a trap. if you get close, he’ll just say something mean. he’ll make some comment about how clingy you are or how you take up too much space. but the alternative is turning into a human popsicle.

cursing under your breath, you shuffle across the mattress until you’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. he doesn’t move to help you, doesn't lift the blanket to invite you in. he just lays there, stiff as a board.

you reach out and tug the edge of the duvet. he sighs, releasing his grip just enough for you to slide underneath. it’s instantly warmer, engulfed in the scent of him—soap, old laundry, and that distinct smell that is just mike.

you lay there stiffly, staring at the dark wall, waiting for him to say something. to make a joke. to push you away.

“you’re like an icicle,” he mutters after a minute. his arm shifts, and you flinch, expecting him to shove you away. instead, he drapes his arm heavily over your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

your breath hitches. his front is pressed flush against your back, solid and warm. you can feel the steady thump of his heart against your spine. it’s so intimate, so confusingly gentle compared to his words, that your head spins.

“mike?” you breathe out.

“shut up,” he grumbles into your hair. his breath ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a fresh wave of shivers down your spine that have nothing to do with the temperature. “i’m trying to sleep. stop moving.”

you relax against him, despite yourself. his grip tightens slightly, possessive, even though he’s pretending he doesn't care. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his nose cold against your skin but his lips warm.

“you’re annoying,” he mumbles, the words muffled by your hair. “always making everything so difficult.”

you smile into the dark, closing your eyes. “hate you too, mike.”

the heat between you becomes stifling fast. what started as a desperate need for warmth shifts into something heavier, thicker. the air in the room feels charged, electric.

mike’s hand, which had been resting idly on your hip, starts to move. his fingers dig in, pressing bruises into the flesh there, dragging you back harder against him. you can feel him, hot and half-hard, insistent against your ass.

“mike,” you gasp, your heart hammering against your ribs. “what are you doing?”

he ignores you, his breath hot and ragged against the sensitive skin of your neck. he nips at the skin there, sharp enough to make you cry out, then soothes the sting with his tongue. it’s possessive, rough, and entirely unfair.

“you stopped shivering,” he mutters against your ear, his voice dropping an octave. it scrapes against your nerves, sending a jolt of arousal straight to your core. “now you’re just wriggling around. it’s distracting.”

you try to turn over, wanting to see his face, but he holds you in place with an arm banded across your stomach like an iron bar.

“i wasn’t—”

“shut up,” he cuts you off, his hand sliding down from your hip to the hem of your (his) t-shirt. his fingers are cold when they slip underneath, skimming over the bare skin of your stomach. you inhale sharply, your muscles contracting at the shock. “always so fucking difficult. can’t you just lie still?”

his touch is confusing—mean and dismissive, but his hands are exploring you with a single-minded intensity that contradicts his words. he cups your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, thumbing the nipple roughly until it pebbles under his touch. a whine escapes your throat before you can stop it.

“quiet,” he hisses, pinching the sensitive nub hard enough to make tears prick at your eyes. “you’ll wake everyone up. do you want them to hear you acting like a desperate mess?”

you shake your head frantically, biting your lip to stifle the sounds building in your chest.

“good. then be good for once.”

his hand abandons your chest and travels lower, fumbling with the waistband of your shorts. he doesn’t ask for permission; he just shoved them down, along with your underwear, in one impatient, jerky motion. the cool air hits your wet skin, making you shiver, but then his hand is there, covering you.

“god,” he groans, his fingers sliding through your folds. “you’re soaked. you really are a slut, aren’t you? getting off on me being mean to you.”

the insult burns, but it only makes you wetter. you hate how much you like it, how much you crave this version of him that treats you like you’re nothing but a inconvenience he has to deal with.

he circles your clit with practiced ease, applying just enough pressure to have your hips bucking off the mattress. he pulls his hand away immediately, denying you the friction.

“did i say you could move?” he growls. “stay still.”

he’s unbearably hard against you now, grinding his hips into your ass. you hear the rustle of fabric as he pushes his boxers down, and then the blunt head of his cock is nudging against your entrance. he doesn’t prep you further than this. he doesn’t check if you’re ready. he just lines himself up and pushes in, slow and unrelenting.

you gasp, your fingers clutching at the forearm wrapped around your waist. the stretch burns, intense and overwhelming. he pauses once he’s buried to the hilt, his chest heaving against your back.

“fuck,” he breathes, his face buried in your neck. “tight.”

he waits a beat, letting you adjust, but it’s not out of kindness. it’s like he’s savoring the feeling of you clenching around him, proving a point. then he starts to move.

he sets a punishing rhythm, snapping his hips into yours with enough force to make the headboard bang against the wall. you bite down on your hand, trying to muffle your moans, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes at the sheer intensity of it. it feels so good, bordering on too much, the friction dragging against your insides in a way that makes your vision go white.

“you take it so well,” he pants, his mouth moving against your shoulder. he sounds almost surprised, annoyed even. “like you were made for this. just a warm hole for me to use.”

his words are degrading, filthy, but they send you spiraling toward the edge faster than you want to admit. he reaches around again, his fingers finding your clit with terrifying accuracy. he rubs tight, fast circles, matching the pace of his thrusts.

“mike, please,” you choke out, your whole body trembling.

“i know,” he grunts, his rhythm turning erratic. “i know. come on. cum for me. make a mess.”

the command is your undoing. your orgasm crashes over you violently, your back arching as you convulse in his arms. he fucks you through it, chasing his own release, his grip bruising as he holds you down.

a few thrusts later, he buries himself deep inside you with a guttural groan, spilling into the condom. he collapses against you, heavy and panting, his face pressed into your hair.

for a minute, the only sound in the room is your combined breathing, slowing down gradually. the reality of what just happened starts to sink in—the cold room, the mean words, the mind-blowing sex.

slowly, he pulls out, dealing with the condom in the dark. you expect him to move away, to go back to his side of the bed and pretend this never happened. instead, he reaches for the discarded blanket and pulls it back over both of you. he tugs you against his chest again, his chin resting on top of your head.

“go to sleep,” he mumbles, his voice already thick with sleep again. but his arm stays heavy around your waist, holding you close. “don’t make me regret this.”

you close your eyes, exhausted and sated, and let yourself drift off, wondering if tomorrow he’ll go back to pretending he hates you, or if this changes everything.

© loserwheelers

the air in the room is stale, thick with the ghost of yesterday’s cigarette smoke and the sweet, cloying scent of your strawberry lip gloss. it smells like a fight. the record player in the corner is silent, the needle lifted off the vinyl hours ago, but the memory of the song, some angry, thrashing punk track, still seems to hum in the walls. mike is sitting on the floor, his back against the foot of your bed, knees pulled up to his chest. he looks like a statue carved out of regret, his face pale and unreadable in the dim light filtering through your cheap blinds.

you know where he was last night. you don’t need him to say it. beth from your psych class saw him. saw him at a party with his tongue down some blonde girl's throat. she told you as she sat beside you in class this morning, her voice a hushed, excited whisper that felt like a fist to your gut. he didn’t even have the decency to lie about it when you confronted him. he just stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, and said, “it didn’t mean anything.”

so this is your response. not screaming. not crying. not throwing things. this is worse. this is a punishment.

you’re standing by your dresser, running a brush through your hair, watching him in the mirror. he hasn’t moved. he’s just watching you, his eyes dark and hollow. you hate him for what he did. you hate yourself for how much you still want him.

you put the brush down with a soft click and turn to face him. you don’t say a word. you just start to undress. it’s a slow, deliberate performance. you unbutton your faded denim jacket, letting it slide to the floor. then your shirt, a soft cotton thing that you peel over your head. you’re not wearing a bra. you never do when you’re at home. his breath hitches, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound, but you hear it. you see the way his knuckles go white as he grips his own knees.

you take a step towards him, then another, until you’re standing right in front of him. you look down at him, a god looking down at a sinner at your feet. “so,” you say, your voice flat, devoid of all emotion. “was she pretty?”

he flinches as if you’ve struck him. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” you ask, taking another step so your bare toes are almost touching his worn-out converse. “don’t talk about her? or don’t talk at all? because i’m fine with either. in fact, i think i prefer it when you don’t talk. it’s when you talk that you get yourself into trouble.”

you crouch down, bringing yourself to his level. you can see the faint stubble on his chin, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. he looks so young, so broken. it almost makes you feel sorry for him. almost.

“was it like this with her?” you whisper, your hand coming up to trace the line of his jaw. he shudders at your touch, a full-body tremor that he tries to suppress. “did you touch her like this? did she make that little noise in the back of her throat that you like so much?”

he closes his eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “stop it.”

“or what?” you challenge, your fingers sliding down his neck, over his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through his thin t-shirt. “what are you going to do, mike? are you going to lie to me again?”

you’re being cruel, and you know it. but you can’t stop. it’s the only way you know how to bleed out the poison.

his eyes snap open, and they’re blazing with a fire you haven’t seen before. it’s not the usual desperate, pleading look. it’s something darker, more dangerous. in a movement so fast it makes you gasp, he grabs your wrist. his grip is tight, almost painful.

“you want to know what it was like?” he growls, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates through you. “it was nothing. it was empty. it was a cheap substitute. it was like trying to quench a thirst with salt water.”

he pulls you down, and you lose your balance, falling onto your knees in front of him. his other hand comes up to tangle in your hair, his fingers gripping the strands, holding you in place. it’s not gentle. it’s a claim.

“you want to know if i thought about you?” he continues, his face so close to yours you can feel his breath on your lips. “every second. i closed my eyes and i pretended she was you. i pretended her hands were your hands, her mouth was your mouth. but it wasn’t. it’s never going to be anyone but you.”

and then he’s kissing you. it’s not a kiss of forgiveness or apology. it’s a kiss of possession, of punishment. it’s all teeth and tongue and desperate, bruising need. he’s trying to erase her, to erase himself, to brand you so deeply with his touch that no one else will ever exist for you again.

you kiss him back just as hard, your nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. you hate him. you need him. you want to hurt him as much as he’s hurt you. you bite his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he groans, a low, guttural sound of pain and pleasure.

he pulls away, his chest heaving, a thin trickle of blood on his chin. he looks wild, feral. “get on the bed,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument.

you don’t hesitate. you scramble onto your bed, the cheap quilt bunching beneath your knees. you hear the rustle of his clothes as he sheds his shirt, the jangle of his belt buckle being undone. he’s behind you in an instant, his hands on your hips, pulling you back against him.

“hands and knees,” he says, his voice rough. “now.”

you obey, your heart pounding in your chest. this is a side of him you’ve only seen glimpses of, a side that’s a little rougher, a little darker, a little more demanding. and you love it.

he runs his hands over your back, over the curve of your ass, his touch possessive. “you have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice low. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

he yanks your panties down, the fabric tearing at the seam. you gasp, but it’s not from pain. it’s from the sheer, unadulterated thrill of it. he spreads you open, his fingers probing, testing your readiness. you’re already wet, aching for him.

“always so ready for me,” he says, a note of awe in his voice. “even when you hate me, you’re still ready for me.”

“shut up, mike,” you pant, pushing back against his hand. “just do it.”

he chuckles, a low, dark sound. “so demanding.”

he lines himself up and then he’s inside you, one hard, deep thrust that steals your breath. he doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t give you a moment to think. he just starts to move, his hips slamming against yours, setting a punishing rhythm. it’s not about pleasure, not yet. it’s about penance. it’s about fucking the memory of another girl out of his system and the image of him with her out of yours.

he’s rough, his grip on your hips tight enough to leave bruises. you’ll wear them tomorrow, little purple half-moons on your skin, a secret reminder of this night, this battle. you arch your back, meeting him thrust for thrust, taking everything he’s giving you and begging for more.

“tell me you’re mine,” he grunts, his hand wrapping around your hair, pulling your head back. “say it.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, the words torn from your throat. “always.”

he reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, hard circles. the pleasure is sharp, immediate, overwhelming. it clashes with the slight pain of his grip, the brutal force of his thrusts, creating a maelstrom of sensation that threatens to pull you under.

“who do you belong to?” he demands, his voice ragged.

“you,” you cry out, your fingers clutching at the bedsheets. “i belong to you.”

that’s all it takes. the coil in your stomach snaps, and you’re coming, your orgasm tearing through you with the force of a tidal wave. you scream his name, your body convulsing, your vision blurring at the edges. he follows you over the edge a moment later, his own release a deep, guttural roar as he buries himself deep inside you.

he collapses on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his heart hammering against your back. you lie there, a tangled, breathless mess, the room silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing.

he rolls off you, but he doesn’t let you go. he pulls you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin. his arms are wrapped around you, a cage you never want to escape. you can feel the frantic, uneven beat of his heart against your cheek.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “i’m so sorry.”

the silence that follows is different. it’s not the heavy, suffocating silence from before. it’s fragile, like a thin sheet of ice over a deep, dark lake. you’re both tangled in your cheap bedsheets, the fabric twisted around your legs. the air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his skin, a scent that’s both a comfort and a curse. his arm is wrapped around your waist, holding you tight, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

you should feel satisfied. you should feel like you won. you made him beg, you made him apologize, you made him forget her, at least for a little while. but all you feel is a hollow ache in your chest, a void that he filled for a moment but is now empty again.

you shift, trying to create some space, but his grip tightens. “don’t,” he murmurs, his voice a low, sleepy rumble against your hair. “don’t move.”

“i need to get up,” you say, your voice flat.

“no.” he rolls over, pinning you beneath him. he’s not hard again, not yet, but his weight is a deliberate statement. he’s not done with you. he’s not done punishing himself, and he’s not done punishing you.

he looks down at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the curve of your neck, the bite mark he left on your shoulder. he reaches out, his thumb gently stroking the bruised skin. “i’m a mess,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “and i’m making you a mess.”

“we’re a mess,” you correct him, your voice devoid of emotion. “there’s no ‘i’ in this, mike. there’s only ‘we’ and this thing we do that destroys us.”

he leans down, his lips brushing against yours. it’s a soft, gentle kiss, a stark contrast to the brutal ones from before. it’s a kiss that says ‘i know’ and ‘i’m sorry’ and ‘please don’t leave me’.

“let me make it up to you,” he whispers against your mouth. “let me try.”

you don’t answer. you just lie there, letting him kiss you, letting him pour all his regret and desperation into it. his hands start to roam again, not with the frantic urgency from before, but with a slow, deliberate purpose. he’s mapping your body, relearning every curve and dip and hollow as if he’s afraid he’ll forget.

he kisses his way down your body, his lips soft and wet against your skin. he pays special attention to the bruises he left on your hips, his tongue tracing the purple half-moons, a silent apology. he’s worshipping you, and it’s the most intoxicating, infuriating thing you’ve ever experienced.

he settles between your legs, his hands gently spreading your thighs. you’re still sensitive, still swollen from his earlier assault, and you tremble as his breath ghosts over your core. he looks up at you, his eyes dark and questioning, asking for permission. you don’t give it. you don’t deny it. you just close your eyes and surrender.

he starts slow, his tongue tracing delicate patterns on your inner thighs, teasing you, making you wait. you can feel the tension building again, a slow, steady burn that’s different from the sharp, explosive pleasure from before. this is deeper, more intense.

he finally gives you what you want, his tongue finding your clit, circling it slowly, maddeningly. he’s good at this. too good. he knows exactly how to touch you, how to lick you, how to suck you until you’re a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him. he’s using your own body against you, turning your pleasure into a weapon.

your hands find his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him in place. you’re no longer in control. he is. he’s dictating the pace, the intensity, the very air you breathe. he’s taking you apart piece by piece, and you’re letting him.

he slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, finding that spot that makes you see stars. he starts to move them in time with his tongue, a slow, steady rhythm that pushes you higher and higher. the pleasure is overwhelming, a tidal wave that’s about to crash over you, and you’re powerless to stop it.

“look at me,” he commands, his voice a low growl. “open your eyes and look at me.”

you force your eyes open, and the sight of him, his face buried between your legs, his eyes dark with desire and something else, something that looks terrifyingly like love, is what sends you over the edge. you come with a cry, your body arching off the bed, your orgasm tearing through you with a force that leaves you breathless and shaking.

he doesn’t stop. he licks you through your orgasm, drawing out your pleasure until you’re begging him to stop, your body oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire. he finally relents, crawling back up your body and collapsing beside you.

he pulls you into his arms, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. you’re both exhausted, spent, completely and utterly drained. you lie there in the darkness, listening to the sound of his heart, a steady, reassuring rhythm in the chaos of your life.

“i love you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

the words hang in the air between you, fragile and precious. you want to say them back. you want to scream them from the rooftops. but you can’t. because you know that tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, he’ll do it again. he’ll lie, and you’ll forgive him, and you’ll do this all over again.

so you just close your eyes and pretend you’re asleep. because in the morning, he’ll be gone, and you’ll be left alone with the memories and the bruises and the lie that you tell yourself every time he comes back: that this time, it’ll be different. that this time, he’ll stay. that this time, his love will be enough to fix you both. but you know it won't. you know it's just another part of the game. and you'll keep playing, because being his is the most thrilling, dangerous, and addictive thing you've ever known. it's a sickness, and you have no desire to find a cure.

© loserwheelers

the air in your bedroom is thick with the smell of old paper and the faint, sweet scent of the lavender sachet you keep tucked in your dresser drawer. outside, the hawkins night is heavy and still, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you're the only person awake in the world. the only light comes from the soft glow of your bedside lamp, casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.

you’re curled up on your bed, a worn shoebox balanced on your knees. inside, it’s a chaotic archive of your life: ticket stubs from movies you barely remember, a dried-out corsage from a dance you went to with a friend, and, layered at the very bottom, photographs.

your fingers, guided by a muscle memory you didn't know you had, brush past glossy images of your family, of school friends with smiles that feel like they belong to a different person. then, they find it. a slightly faded polaroid, the edges soft from being handled so many times.

it’s him.

it’s jonathan byers, but not the jonathan you see in the hallways at school, the one who walks with his shoulders hunched and his eyes glued to the floor. this jonathan is unguarded. he’s sitting on the hood of his beat-up car, the one that always smells like gasoline and old coffee, and he’s looking at something just out of the frame. the setting sun is caught in his hair, turning the dark strands into threads of gold and copper. there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips, not a real one, but the hint of it, like he’s thinking of something funny or secret. it was the day he taught you how to use his old canon, the way he held your hands to show you how to focus the lens, his touch hesitant and warm.

you remember the click of the shutter, the way he’d flinched, startled.

"hey, no fair," he'd mumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his voice, just a shy sort of embarrassment that made your stomach flip.

looking at the picture now feels like looking through a window into a memory that’s more vivid than the present. the song playing softly on your tape deck seems to fade away, replaced by the imagined sound of his laughter, low and quiet. you can almost feel the rough denim of his jacket, smell the scent of pine trees and cigarette smoke that always clung to him.

it’s been months. things got complicated, as they always do. you went one way, he went another, and the space between you grew until it felt like an ocean you couldn't cross. you tell yourself it’s for the best, that you’re both different now. but nights like this, the truth feels sharp and undeniable.

i've been looking so long at these pictures of you, the lyrics echo in your head, that i almost believe that they're real.

you trace the line of his jaw with your thumb. in this photo, he’s infinite. he’s the boy who saw the world through a lens, who found beauty in broken things, who looked at you like you were one of them. in this photo, he’s yours.

the ache in your chest is a familiar companion. it’s not a sharp pain, but a dull, persistent throb, the kind that comes from missing something so deeply it becomes a part of you. you wonder if he ever thinks about you. if he has a picture of you tucked away somewhere, a ghost of a moment that haunts him, too.

you place the polaroid back in the box, on top of everything else. it feels like a betrayal, putting him away, but you can’t look at it anymore. it hurts too much.

turning off the lamp, you sink into the darkness of your room. the shadows on the wall no longer dance. they just hang there, still and heavy, like memories you can’t quite let go of. and in the quiet, you can almost hear his voice, whispering your name, a picture of him burned onto the back of your eyelids.

you close the shoebox and push it under your bed, the cardboard scraping softly against the floorboards. it feels like sealing a time capsule, burying a part of yourself you're not ready to look at again. the room feels colder without the soft light, the darkness amplifying the silence until it's a physical presence, pressing in on you.

you lie back, staring at the ceiling you can't see. your mind is a projector, and the polaroid is still glowing on the inside of your eyelids. you see the way the light hit his face, the specific shade of his eyes in that moment—more hazel than brown, flecked with gold. you remember the conversation, something stupid and meaningless about a bad horror movie you'd both seen, but the memory isn't about the words. it's about the way his voice sounded, low and close, the way he'd lean in just a little when he was making a point, like he was sharing a secret.

it's crazy how a person can become a ghost. he's not dead, he's just… not here. he's somewhere in this same small town, probably in his room with the door closed, listening to some band you've never heard of. maybe he's looking out his window at the same moon you're looking at. or maybe, and this is the thought that really stings, he's not thinking of you at all. maybe that day, that afternoon, was just an afternoon to him. a pleasant moment that faded into the background noise of his life, while for you, it's become a landmark. a before and after.

you pull your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. the fabric of your t-shirt is thin and you shiver, though the room isn't really that cold. it's a different kind of chill, one that starts deep inside and spreads outwards, a chill that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with absence.

you wonder what he's doing right now. if he's developing film in that makeshift darkroom in his basement, the smell of chemicals filling the small space. you wonder if he's taken any pictures of anyone else. if he's looked through the lens and seen someone else the way you hope, so desperately, he once saw you.

the thought is a knife twist. you squeeze your eyes shut tighter, trying to force the image away, but it's no use. it's etched there. him on the car hood. the sun in his hair. the beginning of a smile that was just for you.

you turn over, burying your face in your pillow. it smells faintly of your shampoo, of sleep, of you. it doesn't smell like him. it doesn't smell like pine trees or gasoline or the worn-out leather of his camera strap. and somehow, that's the loneliest thought of all. you're here, in your own bed, in your own room, but you feel like you're a million miles away, lost in a photograph of a boy who was once almost yours.

the night stretches on, thin and sharp. you can hear the house settling, the groan of old wood, the hum of the refrigerator downstairs. every small sound is a reminder that you're alone. you try to force yourself to sleep, to sink into the blankness of unconsciousness, but your brain won't turn off. it just keeps replaying it, that single, perfect afternoon, over and over like a film loop stuck in a projector.

you give up. throwing the covers off, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and your feet hit the cold floor. you pad silently to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer out. the streetlight at the end of the block casts a sickly yellow glow on the pavement. the world is asleep. everyone's lights are off.

well, almost everyone.

a single light is on in the byers' house. it's the small window on the ground floor, the one that looks into the living room. you know it's his room, even though it's technically will's old room. you know the shape of that light, the way it bleeds into the night.

your heart does a stupid, painful lurch. you shouldn't look. you should turn away, crawl back into bed, and force yourself to forget. but you can't. your feet are rooted to the spot, your eyes glued to that distant square of light. it feels like a beacon, a signal just for you, though you know it's not. it's just a light. he's probably just awake, reading, listening to music. it means nothing.

but what if it does?

the thought takes root and grows, wild and reckless. what if he's thinking about it too? what if he's lying awake, staring at the ceiling, remembering the way you laughed at one of his stupid jokes? the idea is so painful and so wonderful that it makes your chest ache.

before you can talk yourself out of it, you're moving. you pull on the first pair of jeans you can find, a hoodie that's seen better days, and you slip your feet into your worn-out sneakers. you move through the house like a phantom, not making a sound. the back door creaks, and you freeze, holding your breath, but the house stays silent.

the night air is colder than you expected, biting at your exposed cheeks. the street is empty. you start walking, not running, just a steady, determined pace. each step feels like a decision. each step takes you closer to that light, closer to him, and closer to whatever happens next. you don't have a plan. you don't know what you'll even say. 'hi'? 'i was awake and saw your light and i couldn't stop thinking about you'?

it sounds insane. it is insane.

but you keep walking. because the thought of turning around and going back to your empty room, to your box of memories, feels more impossible than anything else. the distance between your house and his shrinks with every step, the light growing brighter, pulling you in. you're just a few houses away now. you can see the outline of his beat-up car in the driveway.

you stop at the edge of his yard, hidden by the shadows of a large oak tree. you can see into his window. the curtain is partially open. and you can see him.

he's not reading. he's not listening to music. he's sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to you, looking at something in his hands. and even from this distance, even in the dim light, you know what it is.

it's a photograph.

you stand there, frozen behind the tree, your breath caught in your throat. the world has shrunk to this one small scene playing out in a square of light. he's just looking at it, his shoulders still, his head bowed. he's not moving, just staring, and the stillness of it is more heartbreaking than any action could be. he looks smaller like this, not in a sad way, but in a concentrated way, like all his energy is funneled into that single rectangle of paper.

a part of you, the rational part, is screaming at you to leave. this is private. you're trespassing, not just on his lawn, but on his grief, his memory. this is a moment you were never meant to see. but you can't move. your feet are cemented to the cold ground, your eyes locked on him.

after what feels like an eternity, he moves. he lifts his free hand and runs it through his hair, a gesture you know so well it's like a physical touch. he sighs, a puff of air you can't hear but can feel, a deep, weary exhalation that seems to carry the weight of the world. then he carefully places the photograph face down on his nightstand, next to a lamp and a stack of books.

he stands up and paces the small space of his room, running his hands over his face. he looks restless, caged. you've seen him like this before, when words fail him and all he has is nervous energy. he walks to the window, and for a heart-stopping second, you think he's seen you. you shrink back, pressing yourself flat against the rough bark of the tree, your own heart hammering against your ribs.

but he's not looking out. he's just looking through the glass, his gaze unfocused, lost somewhere in the darkness of his own front yard. he's not looking for anything. he's just… looking.

and then he does something that makes your own breath hitch. he rests his forehead against the cool glass of the pane, his eyes closing. he just stands there, a silhouette against the faint light, a lonely figure pressed against the boundary between his world and the outside one. it's such a vulnerable, unguarded pose. it's the boy from the photograph, stripped of the sunlight and the half-smile, leaving only the raw, quiet core of him.

the impulse is overwhelming. not to run, not to hide, but to walk out from behind this tree, up to his window, and knock on the glass. to let him know he's not alone in the dark.

your muscles tense, ready to move, to break the spell of the night. but then he pushes himself away from the window. he turns his back to the glass, walks to his bed, and lies down, pulling the covers up over his shoulders. the lamp on his nightstand is still on, casting its lonely glow, but he's done. the moment is over.

the fight goes out of you all at once. the reckless energy that propelled you out of your house and down the street evaporates, leaving you cold and empty. you can't knock now. it would be wrong. it would be an intrusion. you saw what you needed to see. maybe. or maybe you just saw enough to make the ache even worse.

you turn and start walking back the way you came, each step heavier than the last. you don't look back. you don't need to. you can feel that light on your back, a small, lonely star in the vast hawkins night, until you turn the corner and it's gone.

the walk back to your house feels longer than the walk there. the adrenaline has completely worn off, leaving a hollow, shivering space behind. each step is a question you can't answer. what did you think you were doing? what would you have even said? the cold night air feels like a punishment, seeping into your bones, a constant reminder of your own foolishness.

you're almost at your own driveway when you hear it. the low, familiar rumble of an engine. you freeze, your hand on the latch of your back gate. it's a sound you know as well as your own heartbeat, the sound of jonathan's car. your first instinct is to run, to dive into the shadows of your yard and hide, but your feet are leaden.

headlights cut through the darkness, sweeping across your lawn before the car pulls to a slow stop at the curb. the engine dies, plunging the street back into silence, a silence that's now deafening. a door opens, then closes softly. you don't move. you can't. you're trapped in the open, a deer caught in the glow of headlights you can't even see anymore.

you hear the crunch of his sneakers on the gravel of your driveway. slow, hesitant steps. he's not walking with purpose. he's approaching the way you did, like he's not sure he should even be here.

"hey."

his voice is quiet, almost lost in the night. it's not a question. it's just a sound, a single word hanging in the air between you.

you finally force yourself to turn around. he's standing a few feet away, half-hidden in the shadow of the old oak tree, the streetlight just catching the side of his face. he looks exactly like you feel: tired, uncertain, and completely out of his depth. his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

"hey," you manage to say, your own voice barely a whisper.

neither of you speaks for a long moment. the silence stretches, thick with everything you want to say and everything you can't. you're both just standing there in the dark, two ghosts haunting the same memory.

"i saw you," he says finally, breaking the silence. he doesn't say it accusingly. he says it like a confession.

your heart stops. "what?"

"at my window," he clarifies, his gaze dropping to the ground. "i… i wasn't asleep. i saw you standing by the tree."

you feel a wave of hot shame wash over you. you open your mouth to apologize, to make some excuse, but he keeps talking, cutting you off before you can start.

"don't," he says, his voice soft but firm. "don't say you're sorry." he takes a breath. "i was just… i couldn't sleep. i was thinking about that day. the one with the camera."

your shame is replaced by something else, something warm and dizzying. he wasn't just looking at a picture. he was thinking about the same moment as you.

"i couldn't sleep either," you admit, your voice trembling slightly. "i was looking at the picture. the one i took of you."

he looks up, and his eyes meet yours in the gloom. "you keep it?"

"of course i do," you say, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

a small, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. it's the ghost of the one from the photograph. "i have the one you took of me, too," he says, and the words are so simple, so honest, they break something loose inside you. he takes a small step closer. "i was looking at it before i saw you."

the realization hits you then, a powerful, overwhelming wave. you weren't the only one lost in a memory. you were both in it, together, separated only by a few houses and a darkness that suddenly felt like nothing at all.

"i miss this," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "i miss you."

"i miss you too, jonathan."

he closes the remaining distance between you. his hand comes up, not to hold yours, but to gently cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. it's a touch so full of unspoken things it makes your eyes burn. you lean into it, your own hand coming up to rest on his wrist, feeling the frantic, steady beat of his pulse against your fingertips.

he leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don't. you meet him halfway. his lips are cold from the night air, but the kiss itself is warm, tentative at first, then deeper, full of all the lonely months and the words you never said. it's not a perfect kiss. it's a real one. it's messy and desperate and full of relief.

when you finally pull apart, you're both breathing heavily. he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"stay with me tonight," he murmurs, the words a plea, not a demand. "we don't have to… just… stay. please."

you nod, your throat too tight to speak. you let him take your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, and he leads you not to his car, but towards your back door. you're not running away anymore. you're going home, and for the first time in months, it feels like you're not going alone.

© loserwheelers